"And you will receive it."
They turned their horses back and disappeared like specters from the cliff's edge. Valdemar's words carried over to Marcellus' ears as he rode away. "Enjoy your victory, knight. Though it may be short lived. The wilds of Bruallia are not kind to strangers, and there are worse things in the dark passes than even Valdemar Basilis."
Marcellus was left alone hanging from the rock face. Soon nothing was audible save the howling of dark winds.
He gritted his teeth and pulled. Dragons coursed in his veins and fed his muscles with fire. He hauled himself up with his arms until his feet finally dug into the rocky bluff. He dared not stop for fear of collapsing, but continued up until he found a fissure in the rock deep enough to climb inside. He squeezed in and finally allowed himself to collapse. It was as if all the pain and fatigue of the last few hours crashed upon him at once.
Just a moment. Rest for a moment, and then I'll be on my way.
He hugged himself for warmth and sat with his back against the rock. Despite himself, he nodded until the darkness snatched him away.
HE AWOKE TO THE FLUTTER of wings, cracking his head against the stone ceiling as he leaped up. Ignoring the pain, he searched for any weapon he could use…then saw the startled pigeon flying out the hollow. With a grimace, he squinted out at the grainy morning light. Fog enshrouded the canyon, a misty serpent winding between the passes.
With a jolt of determination, he threw himself out the hollow onto the rock face and began a hurried clamber upward. In daylight the climb was not as difficult as he had thought, and soon he reached the summit.
Ahead of him were the peaks of mist-shrouded mountains, jagged like their namesake. Sparse brush and small trees stripped by autumn were all that passed for foliage. Reddish rays crept from the eastern horizon; rays that stretched westward, the direction they would travel for the day. Westward, where home and family waited. The thought compelled his feet to move; new energy surged as he strode determinedly forward.
It only took a few hours to realize again what misery was. The wind that constantly whistled from the mountains was icy cold and razor sharp. It cut through his rags with ease and left him shivering from its unsympathetic touch. His knee throbbed, making every step agony. His stomach had long ceased growling; it simply whimpered from time to time to remind him that he could not remember the last time he ate.
Another day passed before he reached the foothills. He had trusted in Valdemar's word and avoided the walls of the Komuran city Ashoth and the villages nearby. Valdemar's reputation for ruthlessness would impel even the kindest person to turn Marcellus in on sight, and he didn't dare risk anyone's life even were they to offer him aid. Valdemar was known to slay entire families for the sins of an individual. Marcellus did not want that blood on his hands.
He had been forced to break into a farmer's storehouse for a few loaves, dried meat, and eggs that he stored in an old leather bag. Despite his ravenous hunger, he tried to ration the meager fare. There was no telling where he would find food again aside from hunting in the mountains. In his condition, that would prove nearly impossible.
It was shortly after entering the mountains that he encountered the first hunting party. The sound of their guttural voices warned him in time. He was just able to clamber atop a shelf of dusty stone as the band passed directly beneath him.
They were nearly animals themselves, hide-covered tribesmen with painted faces that normally robbed travelers who risked the mountain passes. Marcellus waited until he could no longer hear them before hurriedly scrambling up the other direction.
It was toward the end of the day that he came to a faltering stop. Human voices were audible from the other side of the ridge. His heart pounded in his ears as he crouched low and peered over the side, expecting to see black-armored Bruallians waiting for him.
It was not as he feared, but something to take in nonetheless. A slender, sandy-haired young woman ran haphazardly, staggering and leaning against a glassy staff. Her long braid was in wild disarray, nearly undone as her hair flailed behind her. She was obviously at the end of her strength, barely able to place one foot ahead of the other.
Two figures pursued her with wild yells. The Gutoth raiders were tall, lean, and looked as though they had no clue what it meant to bathe. He smelled their stench from his hiding place. Both had bows and full quivers, as well as a few swords and daggers strapped to harnesses. Gutoths always were armed to the teeth, even when they slept.
Marcellus considered the situation. He was unarmed, injured, half-starved, and trailed by murderous and vengeful Bruallians. Despite that, he knew he could not walk away and leave the woman to the horrors sure to occur if the Gutoths caught her.
There was no choice. He would have to turn the hunters into prey.
Chapter 15: Nyori
Nyori's legs betrayed her and she stumbled, going to one knee. Once down, her strength failed, having long since been driven only by desperation and fear.
"The witch falters, Charak." Rohn spoke through a mouth hidden by a monster beard. The Bruallians had trailed her as the wolf did its prey; steadily, just keeping her in sight once they caught her trail again. They did not seem near as fatigued as she was.
"No tricks this time, girl." Rohn drew his sword and beckoned with his free hand. "Throw us the staff, and I'll take your head right quick."
"No, you fool," Charak said. "You'll scare the little witch-child." He exposed his yellowed teeth in a grin. "No need for fear, girly. Witches sell for a high price, and a pretty one like you will make me and Rohn live like kings." He chuckled roughly. "For a week or two anyway. Come along now, hand over the staff." He took a hesitant step toward her.
Nyori swung Eymunder, making him jump back. "Stay away!"
She saw the expression in his eyes change. Where at first they just held a passively cruel tint, they now gleamed with murderous rage. She sensed the feral intent, the smoldering of animal hate, and knew what would be next.
His snarling breath was foul, tainted with the stench of rotted teeth. "Looks like you're out of tricks, witch. And Rohn was right. It's just your head that we need. Between it and that staff, we'll score at least fifty amber tokes. Eh, Rohn?"
He turned slightly and unsheathed his sword with a curse.
Nyori followed his gaze and gasped. Rohn could not answer because he was dead. Another man in bloodstained and tattered clothes pulled Rohn's sword out of his chest. The stranger was lean as a hungry wolf. His dark hair was dirty and unkempt, his eyes feral as an animal. A bloody lash was raw across his cheek, giving him a rather sinister appearance.
Charak roared. His sword flashed as his long legs quickly closed the distance. The stranger struck a stance with his sword held high in both hands. As Charak closed in, the stranger dropped smoothly to one knee, his sword a blur. Nyori winced and closed her eyes, but still heard the sound of steel cutting through flesh and bone. Charak's roar changed to a scream of agony.
When she opened her eyes, blood jetted from the severed stumps of Charak's legs as he clawed the ground, still shrieking. The stranger's downward stab cut his scream off with a sickening gurgle.
The silence that followed seemed unnatural.
The newcomer staggered, favoring his right leg. He stabbed the sword in the ground to keep from falling.
Nyori took that moment to swing Eymunder, catching him directly in the chest with the orb. He stumbled and fell flat on his back with a startled yelp.