Chapter 11 Mystics & Sentinels

"Ready!! Aim! Fire!" Sentinel Remeros shouted, as he watched a volley of arrows head for a pair of boulders fifty feet away. It was an almost perfect day to teach the small group of children to shoot far, the strong winds were a bonus as it would teach them to shoot against resistance. Even with the thirty to forty mile per hour winds, the Sentinel was surprised to see that half the class's arrows made it a little over thirty feet. Two of the eight students made it the entire distance; their arrows bouncing off the large rocks as they made contact. He would not give them any praise though, they both were old enough to have these skills down; if anything this should have been a warm up class for them.

He walked between them, keeping an eye on their posture and aim. Content, he nodded at them, as he continued to move forward to the next two. One, he noted wasn't doing considerably bad considering he was 10 years younger than most of the class and still new to archery.

"Watch those hooves, Emerys," he warned as a teenage centaur tripped over his own footing, bumping into the boy next to him, causing them both to miss their shot.

"One slip up like that could cause severe accidents out in the fields."

The boy nodded at him as Rameros walked to the outside of the group and continued to watch from the sidelines. He sighed as quietly as he could under his breath. Some of these kids were not meant for the fighting life. No matter how much you taught them, and trained them, centaurs like Emerys were not meant for life outside Coteign Woods. They were preparing for war though, and not just some small city war with another race. Sentinel Rameros looked to the north, beyond the thick evergreen trees that protected his village. The mist above the peaks of Dragonrend Mountain had been getting darker. Every day he could feel more and more that the Mystics were right; something dangerous was going on in those mountains. He returned his black eyes back on his class, who were still continuing to fire arrows at the boulders. A couple hundred feet to his right, Captain Razney trained a larger class wielding swords and shields. Both caught each other's gaze for a split second, and Razney bowed quickly before returning to shouting commands. At first, he wasn't on board with Rameros becoming Sentinel, in fact most of the Poulian Tribe didn't like it. To hold Sentinel rank, a centaur had to be at least three hundred years of age, Rameros was still in his early nineties. It took some time for some of the tribe, like Razney to come around, but many still did not respect Rameros. While most were civil to his face, and respected his commands, there were some who talked behind his back and spread rumours that the only reason he became Sentinel, was because of his great grandmother, Mystic Iniza. One centaur in particular, was the one to his left, Tibs, who was more than half Rameros' age and was still only a Soldier rank. Rameros tried to give him a half-smile, but Tibs just scowled, gave him a rude gesture, and then returned to showing his class how to create flames with their hands.

"Hold!" The three officers yelled as two female centaurs walked graciously towards them. The children placed their weapons on the ground.

"Salut," they chorused in unison, cupping their hands together over their chest as the two girls approached.

"Salut." The women responded together, returning the tribe's greeting, and a small bow.

"Sentinel, a few words with you please," the one with green hair wrapped in vines softly spoke. Everyone's eyes were on them, listening in to get every word.

"Mystic Iniza, my class," he gestured to his students. She nodded, adjusting a belt just above her waist. The leather satchel blended in with her bottom half. Vines lightly coiled around her arms and wrists. She wore no armor, and the human half of her body was covered in sigils and warding tattoos.

"Guard Tamri," Iniza replied, motioning to the other girl on her right. The red-haired centaur stepped closer to Rameros, reaching for the short bow from her back. Her green eyes glistened as she smiled at him. Her red hair was pulled back with a piece of leather, small strands ran wild as they stuck to her neck and chest. Hides from different animals wrapped around her wrists and arms for protection. Her lower half was as white as snow, showing no traces of dirt. Tamri took good care of her coat, keeping it cleaned the best she could. It was rare for any of the Poulian tribe centaurs to have their horse half be white. Most were different shades of brown, to tan, and occasionally, a sleek black. She never would have been accepted into the tribe if it weren't for the fact that there were no other known centaurs in Brine, or if most of the tribe hadn't been around to watch her grow up. She had recently graduated from her training in archery and sword fighting.

Rameros returned her smile, and his face turned a brighter shade. She continued to walk towards him, and whispered in his ear when she approached him,

"Come see me later, before you leave." As she walked away, she gently brushed her fingers against his bare torso.

"All right, back to your training," Iniza said, a smile on her face. The other centaurs had been watching quietly the whole time. Usually, anywhere Rameros was, everyone around him would watch his every move.

"I will later," he whispered back to her with one last smile, walking away with an even brighter shade on his face. After he got over the initial shock of his wife's public affection, her words "Come see me before you leave" confused him. Of course, knowing his four times great grandmother, she probably had an errand for him that required leaving the woods.

Walking next to Iniza, no one paid any attention to them, except for small glances or greetings from others.

"I'll keep watch on her." She suddenly spoke.

"It's not her I'm worried about. I don't trust the other males."

"Yes. I'll keep an eye on her." She repeated again. It took Rameros a few moments to pick up on what she meant.

"Oh," he finally said.

"So, the Mystics want you to travel beyond the borders." Rameros nodded, he had a feeling it was going to be that sort of favor.

"To where?" He asked, slowing his pace so she could keep up.

"I don't know. We don't know exactly."

"Then, what is it you want me to do?" He barely managed to get out as two young centaurs galloped past them giggling, one chasing the other.

"Slow down, children!" Someone yelled from across the field.

"My apologies, Mystic Iniza. Sentinel." A third, older child came to an abrupt stop in front of them, trying to catch her breath. She did a quick bow before she took off after the two children.

"Reys! Orkhan!" She yelled after them.

Rameros looked at his grandmother, a smile could be seen in her yellow eyes.

"There's nothing like the energy of a child," she said. They both watched the children run around the field a few more moments before they continued on their walk.

"Things will be changing again. I hope it's not as soon as Mother has been telling us." She continued talking, a sort of withdrawal could be heard in her voice.

"The signs are all there again. Birds from near and far have shared with us what is happening in their homes. Whispers from the winds. The stars are aligned the same as it was two hundred years ago. I lived through it then. I fought for our safety, our race. We fought with others to protect our lands, our bloodlines." There was sorrow in her words. Rameros had heard some of her stories over the years, but this was the first time he had heard any sort of shakiness as she spoke. He let her continue talking, she was well into her four hundreds, and while most of their race could live to be over six hundred; lately she'd just keep talking about what was on her mind like she'd forgotten anyone else was around.

"Do you find it odd that not long ago, the bow revealed itself to you?" Rameros laughed in his head, apparently not long ago to her was a few decades to everyone else.

"It was two hundred years ago, just before the Cursed War began, that that same bow came into my husbands, your great grandfather's, hands." He remembered these stories as well. Poulians relic, a legendary bow, that not only did the God use, but crafted it himself and was imbued with magic by his wife. His great grandfather, Kiel, fought in the war alongside Iniza, with the relic. It took fifty years for the war to end in their favor, but there was so much grief from all the loss, Kiel included. Poulian's bow had not revealed itself to anyone until Rameros, thirty years ago. He had just finished his training in archery, and within fifteen years jumped from guard to sentinel rank.

They had come to a stop at a small encampment. A few female centaurs gathered around a cooking pot, throwing different herbs and spices into it. Iniza reached into her satchel, and pulled out a yew wand. It was worn, but the inscriptions on it still held its power.

"My first focus," she said, placing it in Rameros' hand. It was small and light, but he could feel the magic of it, her energy coursing through him from the wand.

"You will need this," she smiled, looking into his eyes.

"It will help make all those spells that I taught you stronger." She grabbed a small fruit from a clay bowl on one of the tables.

"I don't exactly know where you need to go, but I know you need to head towards Deney River. There's a forest beyond it, I believe it's called Cronemoor Forest. That is where you need to be. You'll know what you're looking for when you see it." Rameros nodded with a heavy sigh.

"Are you sure it's me that needs to go? Not Azbeth, or Vaenor?" He threw in the names of the two other Sentinels. They had much more experience, and respect from the tribe.

"They have more experiences outside. They worked for Sentinel. They didn't jump ranks because they were related to one of the strongest Mystics."

"Rameros." She cut him off, her tone sharp.

"We will not have this conversation again. You were not given the rank. A weapon that was once used by our God himself, does not just give itself to anyone. Otherwise Soldier Tibs would be Sentinel." A slight smile spread across his face.

"Child," she said, squeezing his hand. "The bow picked you for a reason. The qualities it seeks in a centaur is in you. You just have to search within yourself."

"Mamms." He used the ancient centaur word for grandmother.

"You need to get packing. I think it's best if you set out before the sun sets." He began to walk away, when she gently grabbed his arm.

"I'll let you in on a little secret," she whispered.

"When the bow first came into your grandfather's possession, he too struggled with if he deserved it. Before he died," she paused, swallowing.

"He had found himself. Through the guidance of the Mystics and our God, Poulian. You will too."

"Commander! Captain!" She shouted before he could get a word in. She patted his shoulder and walked towards the two males. She always found a way to make him feel a little better. He began walking back to the training fields, he wanted to speak with Tamri before he packed.

"Place him right over there. Strip him of his armor." Aramil pointed to one of the large cots in the corner of the room. He walked to the only table in the room that was on the opposite end of the cots.

"Where's Bran? Where's my priest?" He yelled to no one in particular, as he sorted through the various colored vials and tubes on the table. A few vials filled with red liquid fell and crashed to the floor, their contents bleeding onto the stone floor.

"Shit," he cried.

"Hold on, Vorahel." The man on the cot cried in pain.

"Hold him down Pank," he commanded the young boy who had placed the man on the cot.

"I'm trying, Sir. He's still pretty strong." A young boy with thin black hair, who looked no older than twenty, struggled with the half elf, Vorahel. Vorahel continued to fight against the boy, thrashing his arms and legs about. Pank tried not to cuss as he was kicked in the shins.

"Sir," he pleaded, wishing the elf would hurry up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Aramil tossing the vials around. Another two vials, of a bluish color, joined the other three on the floor.

"Sir!" He pleaded again, a bit louder, trying to avoid Vorahel who began to snap at him.

"Alright! This is all I can do for now," he said, carrying over a few red vials and one a bluish yellow.

"Where in the hell is my damn healer?"

He began pouring the red liquid on Vorahels body, where he had received deep and long cuts. The half elf winced in pain as the liquid touched his skin.

"It burns," Vorahel screamed. He continued to fight, but with Aramil helping, it was easier to hold him down. A few seconds passed, and he had stopped fighting. They watched him, his eyes looked calmer. He seemed at peace.

"Did it work?" The young boy asked. Vorahel gave something close to a nod, his eyes began to close and he relaxed his head to the side. They both watched his chest rise and fall, worrying he was passing. Aramil was skeptical though, he knew Vorahel had been poisoned, but it was a poison he'd never seen before.

"Sir?" Pank whispered, looking at Aramil.

"Hmm." Aramil grunted, not turning away from Vorahel. He had already seen this before, to several of the other soldiers. He knew what was coming, it was why he brought the vial filled with blue and yellow liquid. He didn't know what good it would do, he feared the half elf wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, Vorahel started convulsing. Aramil quickly reached out and turned him on his side.

"Go find Bran! He's the only one who can help now." He yelled to the young boy, who was out the door before he finished. After a few minutes, Vorahel stopped convulsing. He didn't seem to be in any pain, but he mumbled words incoherently. His breathing was heavy, and sweat covered his body. His coughing was wheezy and raspy.

Pneumonia, Aramil wondered. But it wasn't the usual. He wasn't sure what was going on now, the other men had died during their convulsions. Vorahel was somehow surviving; he was a fighter, it was why he was Aramil's commander. Could he survive whatever poison was coursing through his body, Aramil thought to himself as he added another feather pillow under his neck. Vorahel had begun another coughing fit, when someone came rushing through the doorway.

"Aramil, what happened?" A woman's sultry voice asked, rushing over to him.

Aramil sighed at the voice, he was hoping it'd be Bran.

"Ambush," he said, picking up the unused vial and walking back over to the table.

"The hunters of Terreja Woods were right. The seas' curse is spreading inland." He slammed the table, causing a few vials to fall. He stepped on them, making a crunching noise beneath his tough leather boots.

"Everyone who went, died. It's just me, him," he pointed to Vorahel, who was having another coughing fit.

"And Pank."

"Is there something I can do?" She asked, tending to Vorahel. His coughing had started to spit up blood. The woman gently rubbed his back as she held a white handkerchief for him to cough in.

"No, Delara," he grumbled. "This is a man's job, you'll be of no help."

She ignored the mispronunciation of her name, and walked over to the table where he was.

"Surely, there's something I can do," she said, grabbing another white handkerchief from her pocket. She poured water from a jug onto the cloth, dampening it.

"No!" He bellowed.

"Leave now!" His fingers pointed to the only entrance in the one floor stone keep. It was meant as a hideout for his army, but sometimes the hunters of the Terreja Woods used it. He watched her wring the excess water from the cloth, and then threw it on the table.

"Fine," she said, holding back her tears the best she could.

"Apply this wet cloth to his forehead and neck. He's catching a fever," she told him before leaving the room.

He heard voices outside the door, and let out a sigh of relief when a short, bald man in robes entered, with Pank close behind, a bag over his shoulder.

"Finally," he exclaimed, picking up the wet cloth from the table, and walking back over to Vorahel. He was still coughing blood, but the handkerchief was no longer white.

"Put the bag on the table, soldier," Bran squeaked to Pank.

The small man limped over to Vorahel, and placed his hand on his forehead. He gestured for the wet cloth, and began wiping the sweat off of Vorahel's face and chest.

"Is it the curse, Bran?"

"Yes," he answered, replacing the blood soaked cloth with a fresh one.

"So it's true?" He turned to face Aramil.

"Yeah. The curse has spread. Only us three survived."

"Good thing we have quite the army."

"We could get help from Sparray's men."

Bran shook his head, and said,

"They're busy keeping the curse's undead from invading their city. I don't think they have the numbers."

"Damn," Aramil sighed. "Is he going to make it? All the others died during their convulsions. Vorahel's the only one I've seen make it through."

"Depends what you mean by make it," the priest said solemnly. Aramil gave him a confused look.

"This curse, whatever it is, does one of two things. It'll either kill you, completely shutting down all your organs. Or," he paused.

"You live. But not the way you and I live. He will live to fight for one thing, and one thing only, the taste of another being."

"Zombies?" Pank turned away from the table, a look in his eyes like he had seen a ghost. Bran nodded, holding his holy symbol above Vorahel's body.

"That makes sense. Some of the undead we ran into wore armor like those from the Chaucey Stronghold." Pank nodded in agreement at Aramil's words.

"You saw zombies?" Bran asked, curiosity in his tone.

"One of the things we encountered. But they didn't show up until after though. We were camped a couple hundred feet from the sea. We had already investigated it, but we wanted to get some samples. We were caught off guard in the middle of the night. The trees came to life, we were cornered.

"Blights," Bran said.

"Then the ghosts came. Apparitions of Terreja hunters, and men in armor. Then the men, who really weren't men, came. The zombies. Their skin wasn't right. Their bodies reeked of open wounds. We had already lost twenty men, we had no way around them all. We were pushed back towards the sea. Hand-like tentacles reached out of the water and pulled my men in. I've never seen anything like it." Aramil's face was that of horror as he told what happened.

"Only when dawn came, did they leave. They just evaporated into the air. Ninety-Seven of my men were killed."

"Ninety-Eight," Bran corrected him, he had returned his symbol to his pocket.

"As I said, he isn't going to make it. Pank set up those leaves and flowers for me."

"Already done, Sir," Pank said, gesturing to the mortar and pestle with crushed up chamomile flowers and echinacea leaves.

"Good, Son." Bran walked over to the table.

"You got a damn good soldier there, Sentinel," he said as he grabbed the same bluish vial Aramil had had before.

"It should have been me," Pank muttered, watching blood drip from Vorahel's nose.

"No, Soldier. You fought well out there."

"I need to find the King," Aramil continued. "He needs to know what happened. We'll need to share our situation with Sparray's Army as well. Hopefully, he'll let me arrange some troops to head far west. I think it's time we reach out to Barad's men."

He picked up the damp cloth and wiped the half elfs forehead one last time. Vorahel's skin had already begun to lose its color, a water-logged grey in its place. He had lost the brown to his eyes, only the whites remained.

"Aramil," he mumbled, reaching for the elf.

"Yes. The King will be very upset to know his only son has been taken by the curse." Bran had turned around at the sound of Vorahels raspy voice. "He's holding onto his life."

"It's not right that a father gets to outlive his child," Aramil said, backing away from Vorahel's outstretched hands.

"Of course the King was going to outlive his son." Bran had been measuring the crushed up condiments in the stone bowl. He reached for a good sized cup, and placed the contents into it.

"He impregnated a human, what else did you think was going to happen," Bran scoffed as he poured the blue-yellow liquid over the crushed up leaves and flowers. Aramil and Pank looked at him in shock as he walked over to Vorahel with the cup in his hand.

"You know. Sometimes you can be quite insensitive," Aramil said before he left. Bran thought for a moment, standing in the middle of the room with the cup, but then he shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to the half elf, or what was left of him.

"Don't you care?" Pank asked. He was the type to sit back and watch. He never meddled, nor spoke on things, but he figured after the battle he just survived, what the hell.

"Care?" Bran asked.

"There's no time to care." He dabbed the liquid from the cup onto Vorahel's face and ears with his fingers.

"You don't care what others think of you? Not even your Sentinel, or your King?"

"Nope. I spent my entire childhood seeking the approval of my father. I did everything he asked me to, but it was never right. I found happiness in studies and research of monsters, and unknown things. He highly disapproved, and as punishment he forced me hard to learn how to fight. It was only right that a warrior's son was also a warrior. When he saw that I had the power to heal things, he cast me out. So, no. I don't seek others approval no more. I don't care for opinions either, no matter who they are." He gave Pank a hard look.

Pank nodded, he knew what that kind of childhood was like. He had wanted to be a fighter himself, he liked the feel of swords and shields. His family, however, wanted him to help on the farm. It wasn't until when a giant inhabited his village, and ate his people, was he able to escape to live the way he wanted.

"What's that stuff for?" He asked, changing the subject.

"The chamomile flowers and echinacea leaves are for his fever. It's also an aphrodisiac, to help him with the pain," he said, pouring the rest of the contents of the cup into Vorahel's mouth.

"The stuff in the vial, is something I made years ago. It helps whoever drinks it to pass on easier. But it's never been used on someone with whatever kind of poison he has. I don't know if this will speed up his transformation to undead, or if he'll actually pass."

"Experiment," Pank whispered, walking closer to Bran and the half elf. His skin was now completely grey, it looked to Pank like stone armor.

"Yes. Trial and error even in a moment such as this, could be beneficial. I'm glad you stayed behind with me."

"Company?"

"No. I can't fight, not even for all the fighters in my bloodline's life of me. You can."

"Not really," Pank said.

"You just survived a horrendous battle. Surely, you have fighting skills."

Pank nodded, he didn't want to say he felt it was just dumb luck that had gotten him by.

"Sit tight, boy. We're in for an evening," Bran said, sitting on the floor. Pank sat down next to him, his hand on one of his weapons.

They sat and watched, waiting to see Vorahel's end result.