Returning North (1)

Julia stood amidst the clouds of dust kicked up by the horses as Markus and her nephew Quinn rode out of the camps to the north. A grinding noise made her unclench her teeth, though her fists remained balled tightly. 'Let's not bring back that bad habit.'

As the horses grew increasingly distant, her eyes became further conflicted. She… could not go with them. It was one thing for one of her Lieutenants and his Squire to leave, given the circumstances, but if she or a great number of others left before their contract ended, things could get dangerous.

Duke Terrath would be well within his right to point spears at her men for the crime of desertion, so long as the contract was in place.

'Go Quinn, find your father alive and get him out of there.'

If Ron died, she didn't know if the boy could handle it. For that matter, she didn't know how 'she' would handle it. 'And Mark… if Liane and Eve don't make it back…' she felt a tightness in her chest at the thought. She had never gotten along with Liane, even when they travelled together, but she hoped for the safety of her and Eve.

'Bring them back quickly you two. Delay, and I'll have a thousand men there before you get a chance to play hero.'

Turning, she strode back to Duke Terrath's tent, eyes burning in determination, but her fists still clenched.

"That's ludicrous!" She heard shouted from within. "Now is not the time to turn on our fellow humans, we need to put the dead back in their graves! You saw those things Garr, you should know this as well as I!"

Just as she entered, Duke Garr Terrath slammed a heavy fist on the unbalanced table, interrupting Marquis Laverin's complaints. "Will you shut up and listen?!" Straightening from his hunched posture, his hands left the table to clasp behind his back as he looked down at the Marquis.

"Our walls will not keep the fallen out if we become their target. A minor fortune was spent just to have the Dav'rea conjure that wall of stone, do you think we had the finances to ward it against the supernatural? To prepare for monsters out of a bard's tale? The wall will do little in the face of the Dae'lith, so rather than fighting, we need them to leave. The best way to do that is to attack the Hasshan!

"If we make our neighbour's prospects for taking the Dragon Gate too daunting, they will have no choice but to brave the risk of a prolonged retreat to the nearest Hasshan City that holds. It is my hope, that if they retreat, the Dae'lith will lead the fallen in pursuit."

A few of the leaders gathered began to speak at once, but Julia raised her hand and was acknowledged over the rest. In her experience, the power of manners rarely failed.

"What do you plan to do if the Fallen don't pursue the Hasshan? Or if only some of the dead pursue while the rest assault the wall?"

The White Keeper by Duke Terrath's side, Sarenthie Deladohr, leaned forward to speak, her lips miming words, but no sound emitting, yet the Duke nodded on, frowning for a moment, before waving her away impatiently.

"Unlike the Ghouls, Dae'lith are incredibly intelligent. Rather than letting their numbers dwindle in a battle against us, they will pursue the vulnerable Hasshan to increase the size of their army with fresh dead. While they do so, I will send for Speaker's from Loril. You of all people, Lady Faucon, should understand the worth of the Speakers. If they can exert influence over the Fallen, or chant a law to defend the walls, we can buy time enough for more suitable reinforcements."

A few among the crowd muttered agreements and nodded at that, while some others actually appeared excited despite their circumstances. It was not every day one got to see a Speaker in action.

Of the Six Paths left to humanity, Knighthood had become commonplace, needing no teaching by another, and no secret for initiation, yet it was also the most straightforward of the six, turning a man into a weapon.

The First Path, that of Speakers, originated from the mortal daughter of Netarr, the God of Order. It was a secretive path, needing direct tutelage to be learned, and its inheritance passed only through the lines of select families.

'A line of Speakers within Loril… It has to be them.'

Nodding, she lowered her hand and considered the matter for a moment, before leaving the tent alongside those others with nothing more to discuss and men to order outside.

It was still dark out and the chilling winds brought the sounds of battle beyond the wall. The Hasshan were desperate to take any defensible locations they could get their hands on and wait out the night.

If legends held true, the fallen grew weak under the Eye of Netarr--the bright sun above.

'If Speakers from Loril are coming, perhaps it's best Markus isn't here. Then again… I don't really want to meet them either.'

With a sigh, she returned to her men, most simply stationed nearby as archers took to the walls. It was time to give the command. They would not shoot at the abominable monsters feasting on human flesh, but at those living men and women below who fought for their lives.

This day, like any other, she did what needed to be done.

****

Markus continued kicking his horse onwards, alternating its speed to draw out as much energy as he could from the beast without killing it. The fiery warhorse was tense and wrathful, twice it had tried to throw him from the saddle, but he held fast and forced Strider onwards.

He cared deeply for his steed, having partnered with it for years, enduring one messy battlefield after another, but at the moment, his mind was occupied with nothing but stress and worry.

They had travelled for days already, stopping only when doing otherwise really would have left them horseless, but his tension had not waned at all. The few times they had stopped, he and Quinn exchanged no words, eating quarter portions of whatever food was left on their saddles, having neglected to stock more before they left.

At this rate, the horses would die of exhaustion, or they would fall from hunger, but if he was keeping track of their location well enough, the fortress town of Caldenya would be no more than a day's ride ahead.

'We just need to reach Caldenya, then we can restock, sleep a night, and be on our way immediately.'

That was the idea, yet when they crested a steep hill, horses panting and irritable, the squat stone walls of Caldenya came into view, alongside a huge crowd of people camped outside it.

"What the?" Came Quinn's tired, dry voice.

"Refugees?" Markus guessed in an unreadable tone.

"But… no, why? We were so close." Quinn's words bled with a defeated tone as he rested against the mane of his horse. "So many, it will take days to get past the walls if they're letting any in at all. And supplies, how do we get our hands on a week's supplies in a town overrun with refugees?"

As Quinn deflated, Markus sat straight, the corner of his mouth tugging into a curve.

"Chin up, Quinn. This is good news."

"What?" Quinn turned an irritable glare in his direction, but paused at sight of Markus, smiling for the first time in days. "Refugees. So many refugees." His smile only grew as tears threatened to fall from eyelids.

"O-old man?"

"Don't you see it Quinn? So many villagers and townspeople fleeing their homes for the safety of Caldenya."

"Yeah? Of course I see it?"

He turned to regard his squire with a heated gaze.

"If so many escaped danger here, should the same not be true in Falrum?! Liane, Eve, and Ron of course, they may have fled to Lenios by now! Ron has horses, and Liane is no push over, she'll crack a few skulls if it means escaping with Eve."

The tears did fall as his chest jumped uncontrollably, chuckles that caught even Markus himself off guard. "They'll be fine, they'll be just fine."

Heeling Strider once more, he shouted, "Come on Quinn! We don't need Caldenya, we'll go around!"

"O-oi, what about food?"

"We'll figure it out!"

And so they rode on.

****

Days passed as the two forced their steeds onward, hunting for themselves, and letting the horses graze as often as possible. The village of Mindel proved inhabited still, and there were no signs of the Fallen along their journey.

Markus had begun to suspect there hadn't actually been any attacks this far south, that those refugees near Caldenya had evacuated early from just warnings rather than actual attacks.

He thought that, until they reached the town of Goldharte.

Here too, refugees were numerous, but rather than camped outside, the much larger town of Goldharte opened its borders to the men and women who'd lost their homes.

Walking the busy streets, Markus eyed the injured clutching at bandaged wounds as they huddled in small groups of three and four. They were not injuries caused by sword and spear, but of fang and claw.

The air was heavy and depressing, and the small fire of hope in his heart felt suffocated.

"Let's not stay the night." He mumbled to Quinn.

"Right."

Getting their hands on as much supplies as they could, which was not a lot considering the exorbitant fees they paid, the two left Goldharte without a second's hesitation, hurrying on towards their home.

The next town wasn't any better off. There was so much gloom and depression in the air that it was hard to stay positive. These towns had been so vibrant and full of life when they ventured through on their way south, but in such a short time everything had changed.

Depressing air or not, they had to surrender to a night in town. The past few days had been rough, and if the horses didn't break a leg in their fatigued state, then he or Quinn were sure to fall asleep in the saddle and injure themselves.

The horses were left to an elderly groom at a nearby stable, who waved away their warnings that the steeds were dangerously irritable, claiming he'd dealt with worse. Meanwhile, Markus bought an occupied room from one of the many booked out inns, giving its previous occupant an entire three Gold Thrones in exchange.

When the sun rose and Markus left his accommodation to collect the horses there was a crowd surrounding the stable.

Peeking over and between the heads of others, Markus sighed at what he'd seen. The old groom lay trampled and bitten on the ground, unmoving. Nearby, strong men, likely soldiers, restrained Strider, his mouth and hooves messy with gore as he struggled and neighed.

His favored steed saw him, locked eyes with him, and as something chipped away in his heart, Markus turned to leave without anyone noticing.

He needed to get home, to protect his family, regardless of the cost.

'I'm sorry.'

"What happened?" Quinn asked as he approached.

"There's been an issue. Wait until nightfall, we'll need new horses."

He was right, both Strider and the horse Quinn had stolen from the camp were taken elsewhere, likely to prevent their owners from fleeing before they could be caught and made responsible for the death.

Late that night, they broke into the stable and stole two horses, leaving an adequate amount of coin in return, before heading to the furthest town gate from the stable. There, he and Quinn waited for dawn before leaving as soon as it was opened to the public.

He did not know what would become of Strider. A destrier was a symbol of status, so he'd likely be sold off to a noble, some of the proceeds going to the old groom's family in compensation.

Markus hoped the steed would be let out to run often. He hoped it was not killed by a foolish soldier unable to care for his mount in battle.

Most of all, he hoped his old companion did not feel used and abandoned.