2: Perils of the High Road

Tal clenched his jaw as he considered their predicament. 

How many can I kill?

The troupers were no fighters. The only weapons they possessed had blunted edges, suitable for the stage rather than combat. And what training they had was for showmanship, not killing. Among them, only Aelyn, Wren, and Garin would put up a stout resistance.

It had been a blessedly long time since he’d killed those of the Bloodlines. But now, he had to remember when his blade had been regularly red with their blood. He had to become that man again, to save all those he’d brought into this danger.

Tal smiled into the darkness and felt again upon his lips the wild, mad grin of the Red Reaver.

He remembered climbing hand over hand onto the ships. Dodging, slicing, chopping limbs. The frantic caper of death, always balancing on its edge, and the barest slip could have sent him falling. But he’d always kept the advantage with a weapon none of his opponents possessed.

Moving the bow and arrow to one hand, he reached forward, and his hand met the cold, dried bark of a tree. Running up it until he reached the branches, he concentrated on them and imagined them burning, orange flames rippling along their silhouetted form.

“Kald,” he whispered, then threw himself away.

Almost as soon as the flames had risen from the branches, he heard the snap of a crossbow, then the hiss of the bolt falling into the woods. As he stumbled to his feet and moved deeper into the forest, he glanced back at the tree to see fire quickly engulfing it. By the flickering light, he could see many silhouettes rushing away from it, down toward the caravan.

“Not yet, you bastards,” he muttered. 

Tal ran, finding another tree and setting it ablaze, then several strides further he ignited another. With each burning tree, his adversaries were revealed, their silhouettes more apparent to the caravan below. Not only would it warn them of the danger, but they’d be able to more clearly see their enemies.

But with each tree, he also became more visible. 

More bolts whistled toward him from the darkness, but the flickering shadows must have confused their vision, for all of them missed. For now. Breath hissing through his teeth, Tal ran further into the murk, trying to get around where he’d last seen his quarry. He heard them distinctly now, shouts breaking out among their ranks. They were angry and scared—no soldier enjoyed facing a sorcerer, and there was no doubt what Tal was now.

Positioning himself to silhouette them against the fires, he tried counting the assailants. A dozen at least—probably more. He didn’t doubt they were hardened soldiers, well beyond the experience and capabilities of Wren and Garin.

Wren and Garin. Falcon and Aelyn. He alone stood between them and the Easterners. He couldn’t fail them.

Behind the partial cover of a trunk, Tal lifted his bow and drew back the string in one smooth motion. The wood tensed under his hand, and his body quivered for a moment with the strain of holding it. As he sighted a silhouette, the point of his arrow slowly dropped to the appropriate angle, close to parallel to the ground in the windless forest.

He let loose.

The arrow whistled out of sight, and a moment later, a screech of agony came from one of the Easterners. Tal pivoted back behind the trunk as he notched another arrow, then drew back as he turned around the other side. A bolt nearly found him, whistling a hand’s length away from his face. He didn’t flinch back, but sighted another target, aimed, and fired. A second scream joined the first.

They were coming for him now, dark shapes racing in front of the flames toward him. Tal dropped his bow and drew Velori, keeping the sword’s glowing runes hidden beneath his cloak. 

The enemies were closing in on his tree. One slipped and nearly fell flat on the icy ground while the other two continued. In the darkness and snow, there was no room for fancy footwork and fine swordplay. Only timing, luck, and savagery remained.

The first two came into view around the trunk, and Tal bared his blade and swung with all his strength.

The blue runes along Velori’s steel went dark, and the shadowed Easterner howled as the blade cut clean through. Seeing him fall, Tal spun away to hack at the second silhouette.

The World reeled.

Pain burst through his jaw from an unseen fist, and his vision, already limited to begin with, specked with black dots. But he saw enough to duck the wild swing that whisked overhead. Tal jabbed forward into the black form before him and was rewarded by a sickening squelch and a man’s whimper. Tal pulled Velori free and, stepping away, looked around for the last assailant.

The axe swung so close he heard it whistle by his ear as he jerked out of the way. Tal grinned with fear as he staggered, his balance lost on the frozen ground, then again found his footing. The Easterner readied another swing even as their own footing shifted beneath them. Tal waited for the inevitable blow.

The axe was little more than a glint in the darkness, fire catching on the blade. Luck as much as a keen eye guided Tal as he pivoted, caught his footing again, and retaliated. The assailant, whether from the icy snow or inexperience, had continued forward within reach, and he slid onto Tal’s jabbing blade. By the firelight, Tal saw Velori projecting from his throat before he yanked the blade loose.

Seeing no others advancing, Tal retreated behind the nearest tree and breathed hard as a smile found his swollen lips. He wiped a trail of blood from his chin. The fighting continued a moment longer as the invaders fought among themselves, not realizing who their assailant was. A second after, a harsh command called out, and the melee ceased. A torch lit among the Easterners, then two, and Tal took the full measure of the company.

Two dozen. Even with five men down, they still outnumbered the troupers. And all of them knew how to wield a weapon.

Instead of chasing after him, the enemy company raced toward the caravan. Cursing under his breath, Tal slipped and slid through the forest in pursuit.

* * *

As soon as the first fire ignited among the trees, Garin raced back to his bedroll.

“Wren!”

Her eyes flew open. Before he could say another word, she’d thrown off her blankets and was standing, sheathed rapier in hand. Her hair was a mess and her eyes still swollen from sleep, but she already looked readier than he as she studied the camp and surrounding forest.

“We’re under attack?” she asked, bending to pull on her boots.

“I think so.” He quickly explained the little that he knew.

She nodded, taking it matter-of-factly. When she’d secured her boots, she motioned to his bedroll. “Shouldn’t you be armed, then?”

Cursing himself for a fool, Garin scrambled to grab his sword and shield, forgotten in his shock. As he hefted the shield, the muscles in his left arm felt tight with the scar he’d earned at the Ruins of Erlodan. He shivered at the memory of that day, and at the prospect that similar horrors awaited them.

Even as he stood, Wren dashed away, and he had to sprint to keep her in sight.

Wren turned a corner, and Garin followed, only to skid to a halt. A broad figure, silhouetted by the fires from the forest, charged toward them. He looked as if he wore a horned helmet, and steel glinted above his head.

Garin’s brief training came to the rescue. As the assailant struck, Garin raised his shield while his sword dove toward the attacker’s knees. “High-Low” it was called by Master Krador, the Master-at-Arms of the Coral Castle, who had drilled them endlessly over it in the castle’s courtyard.

But their training had been against youths, and this attacker possessed far more than a boy’s strength. Garin’s shoulder exploded with the impact of the blow, and bright spots appeared in his eyes. Yet he managed to cut into his opponent’s leg, and his blade jarred against bone. His assailant roared as he collapsed, a sound almost inhuman, then cut off abruptly as Wren leaped forward and stabbed her rapier through his neck.

Rolling his smarting shoulder, Garin stared down at the man they’d killed—if he could be called a man. His body had the shape of a human, but instead of wearing a helmet, he found the horns were part of its head. He closely resembled a bull, down to an iron ring through its nose.

“What is it?” His voice shook as the realization of what they’d just survived sunk in.

“Minotaur.” Wren spat on the corpse and looked around. “Damned Easterners. Come on—we have to find Falcon and the others.”

Though a large part of him wanted to flee the other way, he followed Wren around the caravan toward the sounds of fighting. Coming around the edge of a wagon, he gained a view of the middle campfire and stared, trying to make sense of what he saw.

Tal stood with his back to the fire, his runic sword raised before him, while four shadows flanked him. The attackers’ faces were strange and horrific in the flickering light, their features coming in flashes—the slitted, yellow eyes of a serpent; the horned countenance of another bull-man; the glowing eyes of a devil set in a face lost in darkness; and the white, shimmering tattoos inked over human features.

“We have to help!” Wren hissed.

For a moment, Garin debated if he should. What did he owe Tal Harrenfel? But then his gaze fell on someone he hadn’t seen at first glance, who cowered next to the wagon behind Tal. Falcon Sunstring. 

He’d already made his choice.

“We need to get behind them,” he told Wren, pulling her back around the wagons.

“But they’re closing in!”

“They’ll hold out for a second. Trust me.”

To his surprise, she relented, and they set into a stealthy run.

* * *

“I don’t like the look of this,” Falcon said at his back, a whine sneaking into his voice.

“You think I do?” 

Tal gritted his teeth against the pains announcing themselves along his body and eyed the Easterners penning them in. A Nightelf, a medusal, a minotaur, and a human, they were the last of their attackers. Those whom Tal hadn’t hunted down had fallen prey to Aelyn’s sorcery, for the Nightelves in the enemy company posed no match for the mage’s prodigious skill. But Aelyn was busy protecting the rest of the troupers—there’d be no help forthcoming from him.

“I only have one hand, you know,” Falcon called to their assailants. “You wouldn’t kill a man with one hand, would you?”

The minotaur snorted, its dark eyes unreadable in the scant firelight. The medusal’s tongue flitted out to lick one yellow eye, the slitted pupils dilated. The serpentine Easterner and the Nightelf were nocturnal and could see Tal and Falcon much better than they could see them. He had to take them out before the Easterner human and the bull-man.

If they’d only give him the opportunity.

For the moment, they all waited, sizing each other up, edging around so they surrounded Tal and Falcon. Tal’s breath hissed in his throat. His eyes were dry from the flames’ heat and the smoke and staring unblinking into the darkness. Yet he couldn’t allow himself a moment’s respite.

Then he saw it—little more than a hand flexing—and his four enemies charged.

Blood burning through his veins, Tal thundered, “Mord!” and dove to one side.

Inky blackness, impenetrable even for Nightborn eyes, fell over the camp. Though the campfire still cast off light, it was muted, barely reaching beyond the burning wood. Tal, blind as the rest of them, tried to recall the layout of the camp as he stumbled around obstacles. His assailants did the same—with much less success, from their hissed Darktongue curses.

A foreign word sounded from the darkness, then a ball of werelight appeared, revealing the Nightelf’s hunting pink eyes. Tal ghosted out his line of vision, but heard other prey closer at hand, the heavy breathing of a minotaur mere feet to his right.

“Fuln!” 

In the blinding flash of light that followed, Tal lunged at the silhouetted enemy and felt Velori shudder with impact as the blade ground against bones. In his sparking vision, Tal saw the counter-swing and tried to dodge, but still felt the strange, familiar splitting of flesh over his left shoulder. Gasping at the fire spreading down his arm, Tal fought the fog in his mind as he jerked his sword free and, with a parting slash, extinguished his light to retreat into the darkness.

But the Nightelf, still wreathed in phantom light, was closing in. Likely, the other two Easterners neared as well. Tal tried to quiet his breathing, but the pain from his shoulder undermined his efforts. He could only hope the pain-filled grunts of the injured minotaur nearby masked any sound he made.

As a trembling shout came from further away, the Nightelf turned, its attention drawn. Tal almost cursed aloud. Falcon, you thrice-damned fool, he thought, then lunged.

Velori’s point sought the artery in his enemy’s leg as he gashed it open. Crying in pain, the Nightelf tried to spin around and slash at him with his sword, but his leg collapsed beneath him, pitching him to the ground.

Tal was already withdrawing. At the edge of the Nightelf’s werelight, he saw the last two of his enemies stalking forward. The black, slitted pupils of the medusal were wide in its yellow eyes, staring at exactly where Tal moved.

“Yuldor’s prick,” he muttered, then lifted the darkness.

In a moment, he took in the surrounding scene. The minotaur, a dozen paces to his right, clutched his side in one massive hand and leaned against a wagon. The Nightelf, both hands to his thigh, crawled away more sluggishly with each moment. The last two Easterners, the medusal and Imperial woman, stalked toward him, the medusal carrying a single, curved scimitar, while the human bore both spear and shield.

Behind them, Garin and Wren crept forward, blades bared.

His heart leaped into his throat. The two youths might have faced undead soldiers without fear, but these were no mindless draugars—they were trained killers, some of the best the East had to offer, if his suspicions were correct. Should Wren and Garin attempt to fight them, they’d be killed.

“Kald!” Tal shouted, and flames licked up Velori as he charged.

Neither the medusal nor human flinched before his sudden assault, but instead fanned out to either side. Cutting his dash short, Tal lunged at the medusal, hoping to strike and retreat before his companion could get within range. But the medusal slipped his sword around to turn Tal’s aside, disregarding the flames running down the steel and forcing him to retreat.

Sidestepping, Tal spun away from the woman warrior’s lunging spear and felt his legs nearly give way. In addition to his shoulder, a dozen wounds bled across his body. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs. He had to end this, and quickly.

Sensing weakness, the Easterners attacked, the human leading with her spear and the medusal following. Tal extinguished Velori’s flames as he turned the spear aside and backed away, then brought his blade around for the medusal’s assault. Their blades met, and the medusal drove against him until their crossguards met, then punched a scaled fist into his side.

He bore no open injury there. But deep in his flesh, an old wound remained, a scar that had never fully healed. 

As the medusal’s fist found it, he crumpled.

Next that he knew, he was down on his knees. His vision blurred. All the strength went out of his limbs. A last thought flickered through his mind. 

Once more, Tal Harrenfel had failed to live up to his legend.

* * *

Garin and Wren charged toward where Tal knelt before his two assailants.

As Wren lunged at the spearwoman, Garin darted toward the lizard-man, the colorful mane of feathers running down its back making it stand out even in the scant light. Before he could reach it, the Easterner batted aside Tal’s half-hearted retaliation and kicked him in the chest with a wickedly clawed foot, hitting him in the side again and leaving bloody marks in its wake. The side with his old wound, Garin remembered, and understood now what had felled his old mentor.

As the lizard-man drew back its sword for a strike, Garin raised his shield and threw all of his weight into it. As the blow connected, they were both sent staggering, his tortured shoulder screaming once more. Ignoring it, he used “Fort-Strike-Fort,” another of Krador’s techniques, his sword darting around his shield to stab at the warrior. It had looked like an easy strike, but somehow, Garin’s sword skittered down the Easterner’s scales. He barely raised his shield to accept the return blow, stumbling under the force of it.

He backed away, the lizard-man darting in strikes that he barely blocked. His breath came quicker, his reactions slower. Fear weighed down his limbs as much as exhaustion.

Let me assist! the Singer suddenly roared through his mind, his voice a blistering gale. Cede me control!

“No!” Garin cried his defiance with both his mind and mouth. 

The tip of the curved sword darted over the top of his shield before he pushed it back. But the sudden movement threw him off balance, and as he stepped backward, his heel caught on something solid. Garin went sprawling, his shield and sword thrown wide as he tried to stop his fall.

The lizard-man stood over him. Its sword fell toward him.

Without thinking, Garin threw up his shield to block while his sword darted around. The lizard-man’s yellow eyes widened, and a surprised hiss escaped its lips. The Easterner stumbled backward, Garin’s sword sliding from its gut.

Movement flashed in the corner of his eye, then Wren was there, cutting the legs out from under the Easterner. The lizard-man’s tail lashed the air as it fell, screaming its pain, and Wren darted back, her rapier held up warily before her as she watched it die.

Garin rose to his knees and stared at the dying creature. The stench of blood and piss and smoke were thick in his nostrils.

He looked away, and his gaze fell on Tal.

The man was still curled around his wound. His eyelids flickered, but his former mentor seemed unconscious. His sword lay by him, the runes glowing a faint cerulean amid a lattice of blood.

Kill him. Kill him, as he killed your father.

He didn’t know if the voice was his or the devil’s. He didn’t much care. They had the right of it, didn’t they? He could pay Tal back the debt he owed him and be done with it.

All he needed to do was let his blade fall.

From a distance, he heard Wren speaking, but he ignored her. This was his decision. Only he could make it.

He took a step toward him, his sword rising.

A flicker of motion caught his attention, and Garin raised his gaze to the burning trees ringed around them—and like a hammer-blow, the dream came back to him.

The burning forest. His double, spinning amid it, glorifying in it, his face contorted with wild pleasure. The power promised to him.

Garin lowered his sword and turned away as Wren seized his arm.

“Garin!” The urgency in her voice made him meet her eyes, and the fear in them brought him fully back to himself. “Are you hurt?”

He heard the unspoken question in her words: Did the devil take you again?

“I’m still me.” His words came out harsh, his throat tortured from the smoke and fighting, and he pulled roughly away.

Wren didn’t follow as he shuffled through the ashes of their camp.