Chapter 21: The Pass of Duwoèm

Never had Brandyé seen such a mass of twisted and dark creatures. Men there were, and fierundé, but moving between them, darting here and there, were creatures no higher than a child, and the sight of them chilled Brandyé’s blood. They moved on two feet but could hardly be called men, for their hands ended in great claws, and their eyes were sunken into skulls barely covered by dark skin. Brandyé had no doubt these were the skøltär, and despair took his heart. He stood alone between the fleeing villagers and a true army of Darkness, and he could not hope to survive.

Standing, he turned to face them fully, and as they began to descend the hill he saw several of their number begin to run forward and toward him. Onward they came, and he drew Fahnat-om, determined that he would destroy at least some creature of Darkness before they in turn took him. Bracing himself, he saw that one of the skøltär was only moments from him when suddenly the advancing creatures drew up short, and stopped only paces from him.

Heart pounding, Brandyé could not understand their pause until, ringing clear over the moor land, a great horn answered his question. Risking a glance over his shoulder, to his astonishment there was a wall of riders, each standing tall and proud, and he knew that it was the remaining forces of Erârün, come from Rythe’s Helm to engage the enemy away from the defenseless. How they could be here, though, was beyond his reckoning – their advance riders ought to have still been a day from Rythe’s Helm, and it would have been a further three days before the soldiers of Erârün could have traveled this far.

The horn sounded again, and Brandyé saw at the front of the legion of soldiers was Tharom Hulòn, surrounded now by six other fellow knights, all clad in their black dragonstone armor. They made a most impressive phalanx, and at the second sounding of the horn the soldiers began to advance as one unit, slowly gathering speed and closing the distance between they and Brandyé.

This was clearly a development the army of Darkness in its disarray had not been prepared for, and Brandyé could see the fear on the faces of the men closest to him. Turning swiftly, the creatures that had begun to approach him retreated to the safety of their larger numbers, where they rejoined the ranks and began their equal advance on the army of Erârün. Brandyé stood still, now uncertain what to do – he was still caught, but now in the middle of two forces that were about to engage at speed almost exactly where he stood.

Taking a few steps back, he began to turn toward the soldiers of Erârün, hoping that he might be able to retreat behind the mounted soldiers, but he found that in their speed the first of their number was nearly upon him, spear raised and pointed forward. With a cry of panic Brandyé threw himself to the side, his arm on fire as he landed upon the ground. The soldier plowed on past him, and only moments later Brandyé could hear, above the deafening galloping of hoofs, the first clashes of steel: the battle of the Rein had begun.

Wave upon wave of horses rushed past Brandyé as he lay in the grass, and by some miracle he was not crushed underfoot. When they had passed – some hundred at least, by his estimation – he painfully regained his feet, and looked on upon a scene of desperate horror.

As many as the soldiers of Erârün were, Brandyé could see almost at once that they were hopelessly outnumbered by the forces of Darkness. Riders on horses stood in the midst of a swirling maelstrom of creatures and men, hacking and slashing at will about them in an effort to keep from falling to the ground. Many had already done so, and fought valiantly against their opponents as they rose from the earth. Many did not rise at all, hewn down by the blades and fangs and claws of their enemies.

This, beyond anything, was the true horror of the battle: against the men of Darkness, the soldiers of Erârün fought well – defending themselves with blade and fist, slaying them easily for their lack of armor. Blood ran thick, and the sounds of steel crushing flesh and bone was sickening. But against the creatures, they had no experience: Brandyé watched in terror as fierundé, tall as the soldiers themselves, threw men to the ground in great swipes, their claws tearing through armor like paper. And everywhere darted the skøltär, and Brandyé felt bile rise in his throat when he saw them fall upon the soldiers and tear open their throats with their teeth.

In the middle of it all, still standing tall and proud, were the seven knights of Erârün, their black stone armor glistening with the blood of their enemies. Brandyé saw Tharom cry and lash out again and again, and with each blow, another enemy fell to his sword. Equally keen were his fellows, and before long a circle had widened around them as the enemy came to realize they were a foe of particular reckoning. But they did not rest, and urged their horses back into the fray with fervor. When their horses fell to blades and claws, they pursued the fight without pause, and Brandyé now saw what made these men knights, and not mere soldiers.

But even seven knights of the first order of the dragon were not enough to turn away and entire legion of Darkness, and slowly but surely, the battle advanced upon Brandyé, until there came a point when he could not but join. Only yards away he saw a skøltar tearing at the neck of a fallen soldier, and as he looked closer he saw with a churning stomach that it appeared to be actually drinking the blood that was spilling forth so plentifully. There was no doubt that the poor man was dead, but the sight fueled a sudden rage in Brandyé, and almost without thought he kicked himself forward and raced upon the skøltar, falling on it before it even knew he was there. In a single stroke of Fahnat-om he cleaved the creature’s head from its body, and thick black blood flowed forth and coated the blade.

Shaking with fury and with terror, Brandyé looked around to see that his action had not gone unnoticed; several other skøltär had looked up from the fray to see their fallen kin, and were approaching Brandyé stealthily. With a cry of rage, tears in his eyes, Brandyé ran upon the nearest one, driving Fahnat-om bodily through it before it had a chance even to raise its terrible claws. Swiftly, he let the creature’s body fall and turned to face the others, only to find that they had been supplanted by a fierund, huge and terrible, snarling at him and already set to lunge.

Throwing himself to the ground, Brandyé barely evaded the beast’s claws as it leapt upon him, landing precisely where he had been standing only moments before. Unable even to regain his feet in time, Brandyé did the only thing he could think of: he hurled Fahnat-om at the fierund, disbelieving relief flooding through him as the blade sunk deep under the creature’s eye before falling to the ground. Blinded, the creature flailed wildly, pawing at its wound and writhing on the ground.

Then, even as Brandyé was trying to stand, a black-clad soldier stood over him, and Brandyé saw that it was Tharom. Sword in hand, Tharom approached the fierund and drove his blade clean through its neck, at which the beast dropped still and silent to the earth. Without a word Tharom stooped and retrieved Fahnat-om, and passed it to Brandyé.

Brandyé looked at him without a word, and in that moment saw the despair on Tharom’s face: he knew they were doomed. “We must flee!” Brandyé panted.

But Tharom shook his head. “No! Our duty’s to fight, and fight we will. Abandonment’s treason, soldier!”

But suddenly all Brandyé could think about was Elven, and how he knew he had to see his friend again, that his place was not to die on this battlefield. “Sir – I must go!” he called.

“You will fight!” shouted Tharom, and there was not time for another word for one of the enemy soldiers had flung himself upon Tharom, who deftly threw him to the ground. And then, before Brandyé’s eyes, Tharom ran the now defenseless man through, and the awful sight settled him: he could not kill another man, even a man twisted by Darkness.

As he started to turn from Tharom and his killing, Brandyé heard over the cries of battle a new sound – that of cheering, of triumph and of power. Looking over the heads of his enemies, Brandyé saw bearing down on them a new force of mounted soldiers, this from the north – the patrolmen they had abandoned had come to their aid.

And then Brandyé began to run, sheathing Fahnat-om as he did. He heard Tharom’s cry of rage after him: “I’ll find ye, coward!” He paid him no heed, driven now by desperation to escape the battle, and to find Elven. Ahead was a horse whose rider had abandoned it – by choice or by death, he knew not – and at a run he flung himself on its back and urged it to a gallop. By his ear he heard a whisper, and an arrow plunged into the ground beside him. He did not look back to see its provenance; he had half a mind it was Tharom himself who had loosed it after him.

And so Brandyé left the battle of the Rein, not in victory or in organized retreat but in a dreadful panic, driven by the horror of death and the burning need to save his friend. There was no time for thought, no room to consider the voice in his mind that suggested this was a rash course, that he should pause and consider. Onward he rode, and as he did he felt the Darkness of the battle begin to leave him, and he began to breathe easy again. Only after he had ridden a mile and the sights and sounds of the battle were behind him did he finally stop and dismount from his horse. There, he fell to his knees and vomited, and then wept: wept for death, wept for Darkness, and for his inability to do his duty. Despair took him, and he cried aloud to the dark skies. How was he to defeat Darkness, when they could muster such twisted and hateful creatures? How could he, a single person of no consequence, possibly hope to succeed where the armies of an entire kingdom could not?

Eventually he brought himself to his feet once more, feeling weak and pathetic, and with an effort remounted his horse. He set off once again, southward at a slower pace, for he knew the horse could not sustain a gallop for long. Before long he began to come up behind the convoy of villagers, who had continued on their journey even as the soldiers of Erârün died to defend them. He found he could meet their eyes, and ignored their cries and calls after him, and soon he was past the them and on the south road alone.

He worried that he would meet further soldiers on his ride, ones who had perhaps not been able to leave with the first draft, but in the two days it took him to reach Rythe’s Helm he met no other folk whatsoever. The road was ever long and desolate, and he kept throwing glances behind him to reassure himself that the enemy was not coming upon him. He did not sleep during the night, but paced back and forth in the dark while his horse rested. His thoughts were torn between between the soldiers dying in the fields, the villagers who now ran defenseless, and the fate that awaited Elven, Talya and himself. He did not know if Sonora had passed his message on to his friends, although he had never known her fail to deliver a message in her life. Had they received it, would they have fled already? Perhaps he would arrive in Rythe’s Helm only to find they had long since abandoned the place, leaving only a battalion of soldiers to arrest him for desertion.

As he rode, the clouds above him began to grow ever darker, and he could not help but take this as a sickening omen that the battle to the north had gone ill. Despite the hundred soldiers from the south, and the fifty or so patrolmen from the north, they had nonetheless been vastly outnumbered by the forces of Darkness, and as well-trained as their soldiers were, the creatures of Darkness fought with a rage and fury that was terrifying and overwhelming. Soon it began to rain, and so it was that Brandyé arrived, drenched and cold, to find Rythe’s Helm deserted.

At first he thought perhaps the townsfolk were simple indoors because of the weather, but he soon began to realize that there were no lights in the windows, no smoke from the chimneys, and no sounds through closed doors and curtained windows. Panic beginning to rise once more within him, he dismounted from his horse and began walking from door to door, pounding and crying out: “Is anyone here? Please – answer me!”

But no answer was forthcoming, and Brandyé could feel himself beginning to succumb to fear. There was no sign of the enemy, no sign of violence, but nor was there any sign that a single person lived here still. Becoming desperate, he ran to the inn where he had stayed with Elven and Talya while she was yet recovering. When he arrived he bid his horse stay, and pushed upon the door. To his surprise, it opened easily, and he stepped inside, and out of the rain.

Inside, everything was still and silent. The patter of rain outside and his own breathing were the only sounds, and the place was cold. Tables lay out bare and empty, chairs arranged around them as though waiting to be filled. In thoughts, he saw the ghosts of soldiers and townsfolk sitting in those same chairs, laughing, drinking and talking, and a chill passed through him. What had happened here?

He stepped further into the inn, and went up the stairs to the bedrooms where he and Elven had slept. Again here all was empty and quiet; some beds were neatly made, while others appeared to have been only just recently vacated. Not a one was occupied. He entered the room he, Elven and several others had shared, hoping for some clue, some idea of what had happened, but he could find nothing but dust and pillow feathers. Only the window, open and letting in the rain, struck him as odd. He moved to close it, and it was only then that with a soft cry and a flutter of feathers Sonora dropped through the window into the room, a note tied to her leg.

“Sonora!” Brandyé said softly. The bird returned his greeting with a caw, and hopped forward toward him. He knelt down, and untied the note bound to her. Unfolding it, he was at first confused – it was the same note he had sent to Elven, still stained with his own blood. Yet he had not tied it to Sonora, and so he flipped it over to find, in Elven’s neat and small handwriting, a further message:

Dearest Brandyé,

I can only hope this note finds you well. You cannot imagine my fear when I received your message, for I know well what ink you used to write it. My heart tells me you are still alive, though where and how I do not know.

I would have you know that I did not act idly on your warning; the moment Sonora landed by my side, I alerted the knights here in Rythe’s Helm to your warning. As the word of a soldier of Erârün, they took your message to heart and acted swiftly. The knights marshaled every soldier they could muster, and rode out to your aid this very morning.

At the same time, Yslvan Lorié, the commanding knight here in Rythe’s Helm, ordered the evacuation of the town. There is an ancient fortress in the mountains three days east of here, built into caves and hidden from view. There is no road there, but it is under the Pass of Duwoèm. If you face due east from this town, it is after the third peak to the left of Fiertan, the tallest peak straight before you.

Talya and I have left with the townsfolk, but I have bid Sonora stay for some days in the chance that you might arrive. If you are able to, we will see you there.

I wish you all the luck I have, and I am certain we will meet soon.

Ever your friend,

Elven

For many moments Brandyé considered the note, at a loss for what to do. He had hoped to find Elven still here, though what he would have done next he was unsure. He did not think he could remain in the kingdom of Erârün, however – Tharom knew him now as a deserter, and in his understanding the punishment for such treason was severe. If Tharom survived the battle, Brandyé would become hunted throughout Erârün.

This left him with a choice, but even then he was fearful and uncertain. He could travel south and to the west, and try his luck in the kingdom of Kiriün, who might even welcome him as an exile from Erârün, for whom he understood they held little love. But in the back of his mind, the burning of Darkness was overwhelming, and threatening. Everywhere he had gone, he had brought Darkness with him: to Consolation, to the Cosari, and now even to the great kingdoms of men. What right did he have to bring Darkness upon yet another unsuspecting population?

And so the only option left to him was to continue his flight to the north, past Erârün and Kiriün and into the unknown mountains of the Reinkrag. This was a wild and dangerous plan, for there was little known about what dwelt in those lands, and the further north he progressed, the further into territories of Darkness he was likely to become. He realized this was a danger he feared beyond all else, beyond even death: that were he to venture into the realms of Darkness, he might find strength there. He recalled his fevered dreams and visions during his enslavement to Abula Kharta, and how the burning of his scar became a source of power, how it gave to him the strength to slay all that opposed him: including his own friends.

And so this presented to him a final dilemma: what was he to do about Elven? He desperately wished to see his friend again, but he feared that if he did, Elven would insist on going with him. If he was indeed going to travel into the unknown lands of the north, he knew he must do it alone; he would not put any other person in such danger. Elven would probably insist on bringing Talya, and that was yet another life Brandyé could not bear to have on his hands.

He resolved finally that he would write a note back to Elven, warning him of his intentions; whether Elven would try and seek him out he could not say, but he would not – despite the pain in his heart the thought caused – seek to find Elven again, and would pass by the fortress without stopping.

He took the paper, and after much seeking for a pen he wrote over his own dried blood:

Dearest Elven,

I would have you know I am well, and I am gladdened to know you are also. I hope that you and Talya will be safe with the folk of Rythe’s Helm, and I must return your wish of luck, for I will not see you in person.

Please understand, I do this out of love for you, and the desire for your safety: I am to pass into the north, and I will do so alone. I have brought too much Death and Darkness upon too many folk, and if I remain in Erârün I will be hunted as a traitor.

Please take care of Talya, and I will continue to hope that one day, if this Darkness should pass, we can be together again.

Your friend,

Brandyé

Tears were in his eyes by the time he had finished the note, and he spoke softly to Sonora as he tied it to her leg. “I will likely not see you again either. You are a wonderful bird, but you are getting old. I wish you all the best in your age.” He stroked her head for a moment, and Sonora closed her green eyes in relaxation. Then he released her, and said, “Take this note to Elven, and make him understand – do not seek me out!”

With a flutter Sonora rose from the floor, and after pausing briefly on the windowsill, she set out at speed, and within moment was lost to sight. For a while after, Brandyé sat on the end of the bed in the room and considered what he was to do next. Most of the food would have been taken by the villagers, he expected, but he might find some remnants of bread or dried meats to carry him into the hills. He would need shelter, too, if possible – and water containers.

One thing he would not need, he decided, was his armor, and so he stripped himself of it there in the bedroom, letting the metal lie where it fell. He then set about finding what provisions he could, and wrapping them all tight in several blankets. Finally he found an old cloak in a trunk in the innkeeper’s closet, and with the hood up to repel what rain it could, he mounted his horse once more, his crossbow and Fahnat-om at his side and his pack well fastened to the horse.

Elven had not been wrong in his letter: there was no visible road to the Pass of Duwoèm, bar the wheel ruts left by the villagers’ passing carts. The land was thus treacherous, and in the rain swiftly turned to bogs in many places. Brandyé’s progression was slow, and by the time full dark had come he had traveled less than five miles. He was then forced to stop, for to continue in the dark would certainly mean his horse falling into a hole, and he would not have the beast’s leg broken.

So began the first of three miserable, lonely and dark nights on the road to the mountain pass, during which time the rain refused to relent and he developed a dreadful cold, and was shivering and coughing all the time. The year was turning and the air was cold, and there was no shelter to be found on the wide open plains that lay before and rose up to the mountains.

During all this time he saw sign of neither pursuit nor quarry, and on the morning of the fourth day he came to a place where high rocks began to rise quite suddenly from the earth, and the mountains seemed almost to spring up from nothing, towering massively above his head. Even these low mountains on the fringes of the Reinkrag, he could see, were capped with snow, though the valleys remained drenched in rain. Onward he rode into the valley that lay stretched before him, until the path became steep and rocky, and unmanageable for the horse.

Here Brandyé dismounted for the final time, and bid farewell to his steed. “I wish I had known your name,” he said to him, “for you bore me well.” He patted the horse’s muzzle. “Take care of yourself, and if you know what’s best, ride south – there, you might be safe!”

The horse snorted, its breath steaming in the cold, wet air, and with a final pat on his hindquarters Brandyé sent the beast back down the valley, away from him, and away from harm. Then he turned back to the mountain, and began to climb.

The valley rose steeply, a stream coursing violently through its depths, but Brandyé could see, at least two thousand feet above him, a great col between two high peaks. This col was lower than the clouds, and apparently lower than the snow line, for Brandyé saw no white on its ridge. He had, in fact, no particular desire to pass over the col and so bring himself near to the secret fortress of the Reinsfolk, but were he to venture northward into the mountains, it was the most sensible place through which to pass.

So he set his sights on reaching the top of the col before nightfall, which with a pack at his back and a cold in his head was no easy task. Many times he slipped on the wet rock, and many times he found his way impassable, and had to retrace his steps back down the gorge and find another route. Once, around midday, he came across an abandoned cart, lodged firmly between two large boulders, and wondered at how it could have come to be there; certainly a horse could not have climbed this far, never mind pulling an entire carriage!

He rested a moment here, huddled under the cart and grateful for the brief respite from the rain. He had begun to feel quite feverish, and was beginning to wonder if he ought not to find the hidden fortress anyway, if only to get out of the rain once and for all. The cloak he had stolen was pitifully leaky, and he was soaked to the bone.

As he sat and looked back down the valley, it struck him how far he had climbed; he could no longer identify the spot where he had left his horse, and the valley floor looked to be miles away. The features of the land far down and away were tiny and indiscernible, and so it was some moments before he became aware of the tiny flares of fire that were slowly beginning to dot the land. It was not until smoke began to rise that he realized that there were folk down there, moving here and there and setting fires in the rain as though the falling water did not affect them.

And as he looked closer, he began to realize that among the folk there walked also larger animals, larger than horses and darker in hue. Dread began to fill his chest as he realized what he was looking upon: the army of Darkness, now moved past whatever resistance Erârün had to offer and bent on the destruction of the villagers in their secret forest. It did not occur to Brandyé that it might have been him they were seeking.

Fear gripped him, but for just a moment reason held sway: if he could barely make out the enemy so far below, surely they would be unable to see him, especially if he were to stay close to the rock and move in the shadows. He was wearing nothing bright, and with luck would be indistinguishable from the mountainside. With great trepidation he moved slowly out from under the cart and back into the rain, keeping one eye on the gathering army in the valley as though he might be able to tell from their movements whether they had seen him or not.

Eventually, of course, he had to turn his back on the valley floor to continue climbing, and he then moved slowly and carefully, measuring every step and handhold carefully before leaning his weight upon it lest a rock should loosen and tumble down the mountainside. A headache began to creep upon him, however, and his vision soon became clouded, and he knew he would not make the pass that night, and that he he must find shelter before long or he would fall off the mountain himself.

He began looking for caves or overhangs where he might stay dry for the evening. Before long he came upon a hollow where a great boulder had fallen upon another boulder, and with utmost relief he collapsed into the dry shelter, unwrapping his pack and withdrawing the blankets therein, digging through them to the center to try and find the driest one. He removed his cloak and drew this tight around him, and felt slightly better, if not exactly warm.

For a while then he dozed, and by the time he awoke the sky was dark, and the distant valley was nearly impenetrable to sight. In the darkness he groped in his sack, and withdrew a small pouch of nuts, and ate them. The dry rest had done him some good, and he felt, despite the blackness all around him, that his eyes were clearer than they had been before.

But it was not long before a thing happened that made him doubt his thought: slowly but surely, he became aware of a tiny dancing light before his face. At first he thought it was merely one of the many colors that flash behind closed lids and in absolute darkness, but it persisted, moving only slightly from side to side.

He reached out a hand to touch the source of the light, but oddly found that, reach though he might, it remained just outside of his grasp. The most he could do was blot it out, if he raised a hand between it and his face.

As time went on, the light began to grow steadily brighter, until Brandyé started to quite worry about what it was. Suddenly it disappeared, and in the dark Brandyé thought he could hear a sound – the soft crunch of feet on rocks. The light then reappeared as suddenly as it had disappeared, and it struck Brandyé finally that the light was not in front of him, but moving toward him across the valley – it was a person carrying a torch. Then Brandyé’s courage faltered, for if he could see the light, then surely the army in the valley was now more than aware of it as well.

The sounds of footsteps grew ever closer, and then he began to hear a voice, calling out softly – calling out his own name. A chill went through him, and he shrunk further back into the cove where he was nestled. But it was of no use; the person seemed to know exactly where he was, and in only a few moments, the footsteps were directly above him. “Brandyé?” the voice called.

And finally, Brandyé recognized it, and called out in a whisper, “I’m here – directly below you!”

He heard the person tumble down the rocks to the side of the great boulder, and suddenly the torch hove into view, full sized now and illuminating a familiar face, and Brandyé despaired. “Oh, Elven – you have doomed us all!”

And so chapter 20 is complete, finishing the fourth part of five for The Redemption of Erâth: Exile. I’m so excited – this was an exciting chapter to write!

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Chapter 20: The Grim Watch

By that evening they had a count of their losses, and in a stroke of luck only two of their number lay dead, including the man who had first fallen. However, three more were wounded beyond Elven’s ability to heal in the field, and were to be returned to Farthing’s Bar for treatment. A great number more had cuts and bruises and sprains, however, and Elven’s work was busy that night.

By some provenance, Kayla had not died from her wound, and Brandyé could see the agony in his friend as he wrestled his desire to be with her against his sworn duty as a healer to tend to the wounded men. Brandyé stayed by her side instead, holding her hand as she remained weak and faint, sweating and cold. The arrow had pierced her leather and her flesh, but had lodged between her ribs and so had not punctured her lung, or her heart. She had lost a significant amount of blood, however, due in part to Brandyé’s own rash actions when he found her. While Elven himself had mistaken her for dead (a thing he could not forgive himself), he had nonetheless nearly strangled Brandyé when he found he had removed the arrow and was suddenly and desperately trying to stem a great flow of blood.

“Never, ever remove the arrow!” he had cried as he leapt forward, kissing Talya’s forehead even as he knocked Brandyé out of the way to put pressure on the wound. In the end her bleeding had stopped, and after some time Elven was reluctantly forced to admit that she would live, and left her to tend to the others.

There was no mirth or laughter in the camp that night; rather, the men were somber and subdued, some weeping outright for the death of their companions. There was no stream nearby and they had precious little water with them, so Brandyé was forced to allow the blood to dry on his hands, staining them dark for the next few days until they arrived in the tiny village of Rythe’s Helm, which fortunately they did without further incident.

They had lost more horses than men, however – both through the actions of their enemy and those that had to be put down due to their wounds, much to Brandyé’s dismay – and so they made their way slowly, those with the worst injuries riding and those whose health remained with them walking. They would not have been caught off-guard again, though – to a one, every person in the company was ever vigilant of their surroundings, at times even calling out dangers that were not in fact there.

When the first homes of Rythe’s Helm appeared there was a general cry of relief, and soon they had the wounded in beds in the village’s only inn, the others crowding the downstairs. It seemed the village people were used to a somewhat rowdier crowd, for as the barman brought to Brandyé and Elven he said to him, “Ye’re a quiet lot, ye are.”

“What do you expect, after such an attack?” Elven protested.

But the barman was unimpressed. “Ye call that an attack? Most of ye’re still walking! Oh, lad – ye’re in for a treat up here.” And he grunted, and moved on.

“Old bastard,” Elven muttered after him, but Brandyé was all the more worried, if even the village folk perceived their skirmish as a minor incident.

Talya was sitting with them, though she was drinking nothing but water for her injury. Elven had wrapped tight a great bandage around her body so that she had a stripe of white above her dark clothing. It had seeped slightly, but Elven was less concerned now that she was starting to regain the color in her cheeks again. “This is somewhat more than I bargained for,” she said, and laughed a small laugh.

But Elven did not share her mirth. “I am sorry, Talya, I am – I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have let you come at all, in fact.”

She raised a hand to touch his cheek. “That wasn’t your choice to make.”

Brandyé watched the two for a moment, and curiously his thoughts turned to Elỳn. He wondered where she was at that moment, and what she was doing. His own mortality was weighing on his mind since the battle – when he had removed his armor he saw the great dent his opponent’s mace had left in it, and imagined if it had been his head instead. It was beginning to dawn on him that he might very well die here in the north of Erârün, though Schaera’s words still lingered in his ears. He did not want to die without seeing Elỳn again.

Over the following days Brandyé learned from the village folk that Rythe’s Helm was the southernmost village in the Rein, part of an area known as the Helmsfeld. Two other villages were in this area, before a great expanse of wild land and plain led to the foot of the Reinkrag Mountains’ western protrusion, where the villages of Farthen and Deepend lay. The area was vast, and he guessed from their descriptions that the Rein was at least as large as Consolation had been, if not larger.

He also learned disturbing tales of attacks by fierundé, men, and other creatures. Rythe’s Helm was too far south to suffer the brunt of these, and it was surprising even to the local folk that their company had suffered an attack in the lands south of them. This news was disturbing, for it meant that the enemy was sneaking past their guard, and while there were yet no villages for a hundred miles south of them it marked a failing in the defense of the Grim Watch.

The Grim Watch were another thing Brandyé learned more of as they rested and recuperated in Rythe’s Helm. On the second day of their stay a caravan of wounded men came into town, and as Elven set out to help the village healers treat their injuries, Brandyé watched the grim face of the caravan’s driver, and knew that some were not to live.

These wounded men were just a few of some two hundred that patrolled the borders of the northernmost villages and beyond, traveling here and there by foot and by horse, rotating so that at least half that number were in the fields at any given moment. Their orders were simple: kill any man or beast that attempted to pass them by. They did not advance on the enemy, but rather held their ground, and for the most part little happened, though tensions were always high: one never knew when an organized attack was to occur.

Once enough of their company were healed (nineteen of the twenty-four that had set out there were in the end), they were to set out for the northern villages, and there they would join the patrolling of Erârün’s borders. Brandyé was not looking forward to that day, which Tharom thought would be the following week, and spent his time brooding alone, or with Elven.

“I vowed that I would not take the life of another person,” he said to Elven one night, wary of broaching the subject of his sister’s death, “even these dark men that would take my own. But I can’t see how I can stay true to myself and still carry out my duty.”

“Perhaps nothing will happen,” Elven replied. “I’ve heard tell that some men spend all their while here and never see a single soul.”

“It’s too late for that, though, isn’t it?” Brandyé muttered. “Two of my fellows died back there, Elven – two men who had families and people who cared for them.”

“The people we care for sometimes die,” Elven said softly, and it was the first time he had heard his friend refer to Sonora’s death without resentment in his voice. “The forces that say when and where are beyond any of us.”

But Brandyé knew this was not true. He knew that Schaera and her kind would not have let those two soldiers die, that it was not Death’s doing – but Darkness.

“I must find a way to stop this enemy,” Brandyé said, “but I must do it without slaughter.”

These thoughts consumed him until the day of their departure, when another thing arose to trouble him: Elven would not be traveling with him. He protested to Tharom, but the knight insisted that a healer’s place was in a village removed from the fighting, where the wounded could be tended to in peace. “They will be well enough to ride back, or they will not be well enough to live,” he said.

Elven protested as well, though somewhat half-heartedly, Brandyé thought: Talya was still not well enough to ride, and Elven seemed relieved to be away from yet further death. “Ride well, and stay alive,” he said to Brandyé. “I will be here when you return.” His friend’s words did not stop the tears that came unbidden as they began the long ride north, and haunted him for days after.

For some weeks thereafter, into the turning of the season and the drawing shorter of days, Brandyé fell into a routine with his fellow soldiers that provided a dull, uneasy and strenuous existence. For stretches of three to four days they would ride through the mists and moorlands, five to a party. They knew well that there were other things among the heather and the trees, but seldom was anything visible; at most, a fleeting shadow in the distance, gone in the blink of an eye.

After their patrol, each party would return to either Farthen or Deepend for a rest of two days, before returning to the fields once more. These villages were small, rank and poor, and there was little comfort to be had in the hard beds and weak ale of their inns. They were crowded, also, for there had been two other villages there in the north before the forces of Darkness had taken them, and the surviving folk had had little choice but to find lodging and work – what little work there was – with those whose towns were yet unassailed.

Fear was predominant in these villages, and Brandyé found that he and his soldier kin provided little comfort to the townsfolk. In fact, the unruly conduct of some of his ilk left such a poor taste in his mouth that he could not help but sympathize with the villagers, and wonder what help they were providing at all. The general view held by most was that the soldiers were there to eat their food and drink their ale, and do little else – after all, they had allowed two other villages to fall, and it would only be a matter of time before their own fell also.

Brandyé knew enough, however, to know that their numbers were simply too few to stand against a sustained assault, and he wondered greatly at the king and his councilors’ decisions to send such a paltry force here. In the atmosphere, the gloom of the villagers and the black of the clouds he could sense Darkness here, as strong as anywhere he had ever sensed it; surely it would behoove them to send as many of their soldiers as possible here to defend their kingdom at its borders, and not waste efforts and resources sending good captains such as Tharom Hulòn to the south where there was little to do or see.

As far as that matter, Tharom would answer few of Brandyé’s questions. He was open to discussion on other matters, however, and Brandyé found that Tharom had much insight into the patterns and workings of the creatures of Darkness.

“Ye know much of the fierundé,” he said to Brandyé one day.

It was the second of Brandyé’s rest days, and he and Tharom were sitting on a bench outside the inn. It was yet early, and mists rolled tranquilly across the road before them, obscuring the buildings opposite.

“I’ve encountered them more often than I’d like,” he replied.

“Ye know they weren’t always in the south,” Tharom said.

“My grandfather spoke of how they were moving, becoming bolder. My home land, Consolation, has never known such creatures in all its history.”

“Yet ye saw them there, did ye not?”

Memory flooded Brandyé’s thoughts for a moment. “Several times. My land is no longer safe.”

Tharom looked at him long. “Ye know the fierundé won’t approach a place of light unless driven there by some mad force. What drove them to your land, d’ye think?”

Brandyé thought of how the fierundé had appeared outside of Daevàr’s Hut in the wake of Sonora’s death, and given chase to him. He thought of how entire ranks of the beasts had appeared as he had left Consolation forever, borne on the waters of the Tuiraeth. And more than anything, he recalled the first time he had ever set eyes on one of the beasts, in the snows of the moors behind his home, and how the beast had seemed to recognize him, had seemed to know him.

And all of a sudden, it dawned on him that his very presence could be putting every single one of them in danger. A thrill went through his stomach, for a moment he thought he felt his scar burn. “It was no accident I was banished from Consolation,” he said, and found he could not meet Tharom’s eyes.

Tharom looked at him curiously. “There are no accidents in life, son. All things serve a purpose.”

And at this, Brandyé could not help smiling. “You’re the second person to have told me that.”

Tharom shrugged. “Had you not been banished, I’d not have met you, and I’d not be commanding a company of soldiers again.”

Brandyé frowned. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned such a thing. What has my coming to do with your fortune?”

For a moment, Tharom looked about him, as though ensuring no one else was near. “What I say to ye now, breathe not a word. Swear to me.”

“I swear,” said Brandyé.

“Ye’re not the only one to be exiled from your home. A long time ago, the council that governs the armies of Erârün found me unfit to lead soldiers. They sent me as far from their presence as they could, never to return.”

“Why?”

But Tharom shook his head. “I don’t know ye well enough for that tale, son. But when you appeared with your Illuèn friend, I knew I had a chance to be redeemed.”

“And have you?”

Tharom looked around again, this time as though to indicate the futility of their surroundings. “For what it’s worth; I’m still about as far from Lord Dukhat and his aides as can be, but at least I have men under my command again.”

“Is that so important to you?”

“Have ye ever felt ye’d a calling, son? A thing, that ye had to do above all others?”

And Brandyé knew what he meant. “Elỳn said you had an awareness above that of most men, that you knew of Darkness. Have you ever thought your calling might be something more?”

Tharom gazed upon Brandyé for a long time before saying, “Aye – but if so, it’s a path that’s hidden from me.”

“If all things do indeed have a purpose, then it’s no accident that you and I should have met. One of us is meant to do something for the other that they could not achieve on their own.”

At this, Tharom smiled. “And ye think ye’re the one?”

Brandyé raised his eyebrows. “You said it – you regained your command.”

Tharom laughed. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve told ye that! Your head’ll get so big it’ll drop clean off your shoulders!”

But Brandyé’s mind was whirling with thoughts; Schaera’s prophecy of survival, Elỳn’s words about Tharom, and Ermèn’s thoughts on his purpose – to defeat Darkness. A dreadful feeling was building in his chest, a thought that he needed to leave this place, that he needed to draw Darkness away from these people who did not deserve to suffer under them. Yet at the same time, this was the true front, he knew – this was the one place where the forces of Darkness were to clash with the forces of the men of Erârün, and a man was needed to lead men into such a battle. And he knew it was not himself.

Tharom, on the other hand…

Even as these thoughts were circling in his mind, he heard Tharom’s laughter trail off, and he looked up. Tharom was looking into the distance down the road, where a dim shape could suddenly be seen approaching them, slowly. It was too large to be a man on foot, yet Brandyé did not see the glowing red eyes or the impending Darkness that would indicate the coming of a fierund.

“There are no patrols due back until the morrow,” Tharom said slowly.

“It isn’t a creature of Darkness, I’m certain,” Brandyé said.

“Then let’s wait and see,” said Tharom, and he stood, drawing his sword as he did. Brandyé followed, though he did not draw Fahnat-om but rather kept his hand on the hilt.

The shadowed shape moved slowly, with an odd, lurching movement that Brandyé found difficult to follow. Mist swirled around his feet, and he found he could hear nothing outside of his own breath, and that of Tharom’s. For an age it seemed they waited, until finally, cloaked by the fog, the sound of uneven steps reached his ears. It sounded like a horse, but something was wrong.

As the horse finally became defined, Brandyé saw a large lump on its back that he did not immediately recognize as its rider. What he did recognize was the large arrow protruding from the beast’s hind leg, and in an instant he was rushing forward, forgetting all danger in thoughts of soothing the animal’s obvious suffering. He grasped the horse by the muzzle, and felt it shivering. “Shh,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

Tharom had reached his side, and turned his attention to the man who was lying prostrate across the horse’s back. With a great heave he pulled the prone form off the horse, and when the body fell to the earth with a heavy thud, Brandyé felt sick. A second arrow was buried deep in the man’s chest, and Brandyé was certain he was dead – the arrow had pierced clear through his breastplate.

But Tharom knelt beside the soldier and touched a hand to his neck. After a moment he stood swiftly and said to Brandyé, “He still has breath, but not for long. Quickly, fetch salts from the inn – if we can rouse him, he may speak before he dies.”

Brandyé gave the horse one final reassuring pat – the horse had stopped shivering in the few moments Brandyé had been with him – and ran into the inn to find the innkeeper. He was disturbed by Tharom’s language, and thought that Elven would not be quite so fatalistic. Yes, the soldier was wounded, but how could Tharom know he was destined to die?

It was still early and most of the soldiers were still in bed, but the innkeeper was scrubbing pots in the kitchen when Brandyé found him and told him what they needed. Swiftly, he retrieved smelling salts from a cabinet, and filled a bucket with cold water. “Come – show me,” he commanded, and Brandyé led him back out into the road.

Tharom had removed the man’s helmet, and Brandyé saw it was one of the men with whom he had trained, though his name escaped him. Blood had dried on his lips, and his skin was dreadfully white. Brandyé knelt beside him with Tharom, and passed to him the salts. Tharom uncorked the bottle and held it under the soldier’s face, occasionally waving a hand to help the scent penetrate the unconscious man’s senses.

“Hand me a wet cloth,” he instructed after a moment, and the innkeeper passed to him a rag soaked in the bucket of water he had brought with him. Tharom wiped the man’s cheeks and forehead, and Brandyé was struck by the tenderness he seemed to show. Then, as if to directly contradict this thought, Tharom drew back and slapped the man hard across the face so that his head rocked from side to side.

Despite his misgivings, however, Brandyé could not deny Tharom’s effectiveness; within a few moments, the man’s eyes began to move behind his closed lids, and a moan escaped his lips. “Come, soldier,” whispered Tharom. “Wake for me, one last time!”

Brandyé thought Tharom would slap the man again, but a moment later his eyes fluttered open, though his gaze seemed lost and unfocused. Brandyé once more looked upon the arrow that protruded from the man’s breast, and saw that it was at least twice the size of the one that had struck Talya. He recalled the giant crossbows he had helped the Cosari build, and shuddered, and felt sick.

“Can ye hear me?” Tharom asked.

For a moment Brandyé was certain the soldier would be unable to answer, but he coughed, spluttered, and said, “Yes – who are ye?”

Tharom cupped the man’s face in his hand and leaned in close. “It is I – Tharom, your captain.”

The man let out a great moan, and said, “Sir…it hurts.”

Tharom nodded. “I know, son. Can ye tell me what happened?”

“An…an army, sir – they’ve an army.”

Tharom’s jaw stiffened. “How many, soldier? A raid?”

Ever so weakly, the soldier shook his head. “Hundreds, sir…hundreds.”

“How far?”

Brandyé looked in horror as the man coughed again, fresh blood flecking his lips.

“How far?” repeated Tharom, more intense this time.

“A…a day.”

“Are there skøltär with them?”

“I don’t know, sir. They were man and beast, together.”

Tharom cursed, then, and looked to Brandyé. “Rouse the men,” he commanded him, “and send a rider south. We need ever able soldier, and we need them now!”

Brandyé heard him, but was frozen, still staring at this wrecked and wounded man.

“Sir…” the soldier whispered.

As Brandyé watched, Tharom turned back to him.

“Am I dying, sir?”

And Brandyé squeezed his eyes shut at Tharom’s answer: “Yes.”

“Please, help me…”

“I will, soldier. You will not suffer.”

“Sir?” Brandyé asked, incredulous.

“Rouse the men!” Tharom shouted at him. “Go, now – this doesn’t concern ye!”

And so Brandyé turned and walked away, followed by the innkeeper, and by the time the soldiers in the inn had donned their armor and descended to the dirt road outside, the soldier had passed away, and Tharom had already wiped clean his blade.

Tharom surveyed the men that now stood before him. Fourteen they were, including Brandyé, and Brandyé heard the dead soldier’s words echo in his mind: Hundreds, sir…hundreds. “I thank ye for your swiftness,” Tharom began. “Ye may’ve heard, or maybe not – there’s a battle ahead of us. One of our patrols was attacked yesterday, by what I understand to be a true army: perhaps more than a hundred of the enemy together as one.

“Here is what ye’re to do, immediately: rouse the village, and prepare them to leave. We’ve no way of contacting the patrols that’re still out there, and we’re supposing them lost already. Ye’re brave men, every one of ye, but ye’ll not hold down the village alone. We’re to escort the villagers down the south road as fast as possible, except one of ye who’ll ride ahead to muster what troops we’ve got in Rythe’s Helm. We’ve got a day’s start, at best – so move!”

And so the soldiers dispersed, and Brandyé aided in going from door to door, hammering and calling and turning out every last man, woman and child in the village. As he saw them all emerge onto the road and paths, a great fear grew in his chest; some hundred there were, many too old or too young to wield a blade, and he knew that were the army of the enemy to fall upon them, they would die to a one. Even a day’s start might prove too little, if fierundé were prowling among the forces of Darkness.

But there was nothing for it but to try, and within hours – Brandyé was impressed by the villagers’ resilience – a line of folk was already making its way out of the village and down the long road south. Some had horses to ride, but most were on foot, carrying with them what little Brandyé and the soldiers would allow them: food, mainly, and scare amounts at that.

And then, as the last of the village folk were following in the wake of the soldiers who led them, Brandyé’s thoughts turned to Elven, and to Talya. He hoped that Talya was well on her way to being mended, and he was certain Elven had found occupation, but neither of them were true fighters. This thought unsettled him – odd, that he should consider himself a fighter.

Desperately, he found himself wishing for a way to warn them of what was to come, to urge them to flee even the town of Rythe’s Helm, for he was certain that this time, the forces of Darkness would not stop at a single village; not if they were so mustered that they numbered in the hundreds.

And then, just as he was passing the inn with such thoughts on his mind, a cry came from high above him, one so familiar that his heart nearly skipped a beat. Looking up and searching the skies, he muttered, “Sonora?”

It was impossible that it could be her, that Elven’s bird would appear just as he was thinking of his friend, but that cry was unmistakable, and sure enough, there high above him and circling was a falcon, and it was coming lower and lower. Within moments it had settled on the earth before him as he stood by his horse, her green eyes peering at him with startling intelligence. How could she have known?

He looked close at her leg to see if there was perhaps some note from Elven, but she bore nothing. No matter, he thought – she would bear one back. “Wait here!” he called to her, and momentarily dashed into the inn.

For a moment he could not find what he was looking for – parchment and ink. In the end he found a scrap of paper crumpled in a corner of the bar, and when he had smoothed it out it lay bare enough to write on. Yet he had no ink, no quill – not even charcoal with which to write.

Thinking desperately, he came to the realization that there was one place he had a plentiful source of ink, if only he could get at it – himself. Shaking, he withdrew Fahnat-om from its scabbard, and gently drew the tip across his finger. He winced, but a drop of blood formed, and he pressed his finger to the paper. He could not write much in this way, he knew, but he could at least give them some warning:

Darkness coming – flee!

When he was done, he waved the paper to dry for a moment, then carefully folded it so that the blood did not smear. Then he went back outside, to where Sonora was still waiting for him. He knelt beside her and proffered the folded paper. “I have no string to tie this to your leg,” he said, “so you will have to carry it in your beak. Can you do this for me?”

The bird tilted her head at him and let out a soft squawk, and then leapt forward and nipped the paper from him. Brandyé bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. “Fly now, swiftly!”

And so Sonora flapped her wings and took to the air, and within moments was gone from sight. Brandyé sighed a deep sigh, and then mounted his horse. The last of the villagers had already passed from the town, and he was late.

It was at best a five-day ride to Rythe’s Helm, and with so many on foot it would at least double that. They best hope was that over the following two weeks that managed to at least maintain their one-day lead over the advancing armies behind them, and so arrive with some degree of safety at the larger town of Rythe’s Helm. Tharom’s advance riders would have arrived long before, and it was their hope that the remaining soldiers there would come out to meet them, and so the villagers could carry on while they provided a rear defense.

Equally, riders were to leave from Rythe’s Helm south for Vira Weitor, and send the warning there that a great force was being marshaled. If they fell defending Rythe’s Helm, at the very least another, greater force could arrive within a week to repel the attackers.

These were dim and gloomy thoughts that occupied Brandyé’s mind over the following two days, during which time they saw no sign of their enemy. He felt a great sympathy for these folk who were being driven from their home, and in his heart knew that they deserved a great defense; yet at the same time, he had no desire to die defending a town so far from his own home, in a place he had not wanted to be to begin with. So this conflict grew inside him, until he was at great odds to stay and defend the folk of the Rein, or to find Elven and flee for their lives, leaving such terrible death and destruction behind them. He found himself unable to tell which path was the right one, though a small voice continued to tell him that his place was more than that of a simple soldier.

His indecision remained with him through the second day of their march south, but on the third, he could no longer afford to wait. Only shortly before noon, as he was riding near the head of the procession, he heard great screams and shouts begin to rise from behind him. His pulse suddenly pounding, he brought his horse about to see the cause of the commotion, and to his horror saw, approaching over a distant hill, a party of no less than five fierundé, galloping toward them at great speed.

“Tharom!” he cried. “Sir – to the rear!” But Tharom was far ahead of him and did not hear – in fact, seemed not to have heard the screams of the villagers themselves. His instinct and his training told him to ride forward, to tell his commander the news, but he knew that in the few moments it would take to do so, people would start to die.

And so he did the only thing he could think of: crying for folk to move out of his way, he set his horse to a gallop in the direction of the fierundé, calling out to every soldier he passed to turn and follow him. As the horse ran he withdrew his crossbow from his belt and loaded it, careful not to drop the quarrel with the motion of the steed. Soon he was well to the rear with only a few straggling villagers desperately running to escape the coming doom, and brought his horse up short. Around him were now several other soldiers who had heeded him, and he called to them: “Arrows, now! Aim for the throat, and you might yet bring them down!”

About him bows were drawn, and taking the lead Brandyé sighted the foremost fierund and loosed his quarrel. A moment later a veritable rain of arrows followed, and in the shower many found their mark. Yet even Brandyé’s mark, which had clearly been struck below the jaw, did not fall, and the howl of fury that rose from the wolves’ throats was terrifying.

“Again!” Brandyé cried, and again arrows were flung, and then the beasts were upon them and there was no further time to rearm a bow. Nearly as one the beasts leapt, and two of the soldiers nearest Brandyé were swept from the horses, tumbling to the ground with a mass of black bristling fur and fangs atop them.

Without pause, without thinking even for his own safety, Brandyé drew Fahnat-om and bore down upon the fierundé and his fallen companions. Sighting the nearest one he brought his blade up high and drove it deep into the beast’s neck. A startled and furious shriek came from the beast’s mouth, but it forgot the soldier beneath it, who at a glance Brandyé saw was wounded but still alive.

The fierund turned, clearly shaking from its wound, and with a sudden great swipe of its paw sent Brandyé and his horse tumbling. Brandyé could hear the crack of the horse’s neck breaking, and before he could throw himself free he found himself suddenly pinned beneath its bulk, unable to move. Around the horse’s body came the fierund, and in a panic Brandyé wildly swung Fahnat-om again, this time catching the beast clear across the face. It howled again and pawed at its own wound, before opening wide its jaws and snarling terribly. It approached once more, and in a final move of desperation Brandyé thrust his sword forward, deep into the beast’s maw, and clear through its head.

Almost without a further sound, the fierund dropped heavily to the ground, wrenching Brandyé’s arm with its force. Brandyé cried out in pain, and pulled hard at Fahnat-om to free it from the fierund’s corpse.

Around him and in the distance he could hear further cries and screams, but could see little but for the body of his horse as it held him fast to the ground. Struggling madly, he managed to free one of his legs, and with a great heave against the fallen saddle he was finally free to stand.

Beside him lay the soldier who he had rescued, still alive but clutching at a shoulder wound that was bleeding profusely. A few yards further away lay the second fallen soldier, clearly and awfully dead. Brandyé knelt beside the soldier for a moment, for the fierundé had passed them by and they two were alone. By force he removed the man’s hands from his wound, only to see a dreadfully deep claw mark that had pierced to the bone. Swiftly he replaced the man’s hands, pressing as hard as he could with his own, but the blood continued to seep through his fingers, and as Brandyé began to weep, he saw the light and the life begin to fade from the man’s eyes.

Desperately wishing for Elven, for help of any kind, Brandyé looked around him, and saw only the tails of four further fierundé as they hunted down the remaining soldiers that he had mustered, though at least one of them, he saw, was limping.

“Help!” he cried futility, not even knowing why he uttered the word – there was no help to be had. “Help!”

He looked down again at the man, and terribly, felt his hands go limp beneath his own. “Please,” Brandyé begged through tears, but it was too late, and the man died quietly even as he tried to save his life.

Blood and tears staining his face, Brandyé finally stood, his arm aching and his legs sore. He had no horse, and his fellow soldiers had fled; he could not join them, and in terror he watched as the fierundé drew ever further away from him, and ever closer to the undefended villagers.

And then, in the distance from behind him, he heard raised voices – shouts, calls, cries and jeers – and swinging around he terror multiplied tenfold as he saw, rising over the hills in the distance, a great line of men and beasts, seemingly endless in length: the army of Darkness had come.