ARC 2 - VIRTUE

CHAPTER 5 - DAMSEL

“What is it?” Rue asked while she unwrapped the bandage around his left arm.

“A story,” Caelan replied.

She ran her fingers across the curved lines and scores of Divine characters up his arm. “What does it tell?”

“It tells the story of my home. Of our charge from the Heavens to defend the realm from the Void and of my trips as a Sentinel to scout the Scarred Lands.”

Rue narrowed her eyes and traced a few of the characters. “Why go out in search of the Void? Why not just let them come to the pass?” she asked.

Caelan sighed. He had learned Rue’s voice was meek like the evening breeze, but when something interested her all shyness vanished behind persistent questioning. For some reason, his past was of great curiosity to her. “To determine how many will arrive,” he explained. “Their numbers vary, so we have to prepare appropriately. Bastion lives—lived in a constant state of war. If we sent all our warriors into the pass every time the Void came we would never rest.”

Rue’s fingers lingered on the large crest where his arm met his shoulder. “What about this?”

“It’s a symbol.”

She frowned. “They’re all symbols. I meant what does it mean? How is it a part of the story?”

He pulled at his skin so he could see more of the ink as he spoke. “It’s the emblem of the ancient Far East kingdom, from before the Void War. In the stories, they were the first to encounter the Void and fought them for many years, but lost. What remained of their people built Bastion and Bulwark to protect the rest of the realm from their fate. They became what the farlings are today”

The response seemed to placate her questioning and she returned her attention to tending his healing wounds. Over the past few days, everyone had a different curiosity about his life now that they were permitted to speak with him. Joyce still hadn’t officially decided what to do with him, but she also didn’t show any concern at his presence. She had, however, been explicit when introducing him at the campfire. The caravan came to know him as Caelan, the son of some low-level lord in Bastion and now a refugee. He would accompany them back to the capital until Joyce made her determination on his future.

Caelan had considered heading back to Bulwark once he was freed, but the fear of a traitor’s reception quickly drove the idea from his mind. Sindri would undoubtedly convince the other survivors of a twisted version of events. He might as well have the caravan cut off his head to save everyone the time.

For now, he was forced to be content with the relative safety of the caravan despite the frequent questions. Each brought back memories all too recent and painful, so he answered through a diluted truth before quickly finding some other task that needed doing. He had hoped that the sorrow and shame would fade as the distance from his home grew but was sorely disappointed.

Raegn stood in the pass, surrounded by voidlings. He cut down dozens, his spear flicking out a snake, each time drawing black blood, but there were too many. One got a solid bite into his leg and drug him to the ground. He was swarmed by claws tearing at his chest and teeth piercing his neck. He screamed and found himself charging forward with his company, a cry of war on his lips. Something felt off as he dashed ahead—the dull thump of footsteps behind him had faded. He turned and saw his men surrounding him, eyes dripping blood beneath their helms. Spears rose and though he tried to defend himself he was run through half a dozen times. He lay crumpled on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Landon strode toward him, the missing half of his face still oozing a mixture of blood and melted flesh. His friend leaned over him and opened a mouth that grew into the jaws of a voidling that dripped hot saliva on his cheek.

“Wake up,” a voice hissed.

Caelan snapped into consciousness and grabbed the arm. Matted black hair and a rigid jaw filled his view. Sunken eyes, a stern blue surrounded by sleep-deprived rings, stared at him.

“You must’ve been a shit Sentinel if you sleep that deeply,” Farvald said while prying his hand away. “It’s our turn to scout.”

The man set off to ready the horses, leaving Caelan to take a few deep breaths and let the nightmares fade against the dawn. He rose and pulled on his boots before rolling his bed mat and blankets and placing them in one of the wagons. The thicker overshirt Joyce had given him helped brace against the brisk morning air, but he grabbed a cloak to throw across his shoulders. Farvald waited atop his mount and set off the moment Caelan swung his stiff leg over his own horse. He caught Farvald stealing several glances in his direction as they rode out of the camp.

“You seem to be moving around fine. Wounds healed?” Farvald questioned.

Caelan rolled his shoulders to test their motion and gave his thigh a scratch. The puncture and lacerations had closed, little more than stiff scars covered by scabs. “Yes. Rue is a bit of a wonder,” he said. “To be talented in both medicine and the Light, especially at her age. Any cleric I’ve known with her touch has seen dozens of years.”

Farvald grunted. “She’s far better than the healers you’re used to. We’re lucky Joyce convinced her to join us.”

“Care to tell the story?” Caelan asked. It would be better if he could keep the conversation focused on someone else. Joyce had told him Farvald was born in the Far East, but that was as much as he knew. If the man had left only recently there was a chance he might catch him in even the smallest lie.

“Not much of one,” Farvald grunted. “Rue hates fighting and didn’t want to join a group that mostly lives off of bounty contracts. Joyce convinced her we were mostly in the business of trade and that she was better off with us than without.”

“Aren’t you? Just traders, I mean.”

Farvald made a pitiful attempt at a chuckle. “Depends on who you ask.”

They rode on, but somehow the silence was worse than talking. In the few short days and long nights since joining the caravan, Caelan had found Farvald the hardest to read. The man was gruff, clearly, and never shied away from a fight, verbal or otherwise. It made sense that Joyce would put Farvald in charge of the caravan’s protection but, despite Caelan’s offer to scout help scout, he hadn’t earned any goodwill with the hard-set man. Perhaps if he tried a bit of praise…

“I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you find me at the lake?” he asked.

“I was looking for my old swimming spots,” Farvald answered offhandedly.

“You knew the area well then, I take it?” Caelan took another look at the man. Blue eyes and black hair, just like his own, were certainly good indicators of farling blood. So too, was the man’s straight-bridged nose and strong brow.

There was a side-glance and a pregnant pause, but Farvald entertained the question. “Better than anyone else. You and I make the only two farlings in the caravan.”

“Odd to call us farlings when we’re in our own lands,” Caelan replied.

“Careful, Sentinel. Don’t let your ignorance show.”

Caelan pursed his lips. It was true that he’d never left the Far East, but Ulrich had forced him to read and learn about the other territories and cultures in the Realm. He wasn’t nearly as knowledgeable as those who traveled, but he was far more aware of the world than Farvald would probably give him credit for. Still, sticking up for himself might become a slippery slope.

It was a small mercy when Farvald continued rather than let the ride fall into silence again. “Coldcreek was my home when I was a boy. I moved to live with my uncle before I was a decade old.”

“With the rest of your family?” Caelan tried to seem easy-going but had to consciously stop himself from grinding his teeth. Talking to someone shouldn’t be so stressful, but maybe family was the man’s weakness.

“My mother died giving birth to me,” Farvald replied. “My father when I was three to a bandit raid. My two brothers were both older and moved to Bulwark when they reached fighting age. I’m told they were killed by a voidborne on a scouting trip.”

Caelan cursed himself silently for seemingly picking the worst topic out of dozens. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure they fought with honor.”

“I don’t give a shit about how they fought,” Farvald snapped. “I’d rather them be alive.”

There didn’t seem to be a way to recover the conversation from its somber path and the two rode in silence as the remnants of the morning haze faded against the rising sun. They passed rolling hills lush with thick grasses and small pockets of bright flowers. Caelan knew the seasons stayed warmer in the western portion of the highlands and offered a decent growing period. Even so, he was pleasantly surprised by the plant variety compared to what he was used to around the mountains. If what he read was true, things would only become more green and diverse as they approached the capital. The Cradle, as it was called. The large area that made up most of the Elysian Kingdom. It was shielded from the worst of the cold and frost by the mountains to the north and warmed by the sea to the east.

“I know who you are, Reaper.” Caelan froze on his horse and his body bounced oddly, no longer absorbing the mare’s trot. He slowly pulled his eyes from the flowers on the hills. Farvald didn’t look in his direction as he continued, “You can try to hide the ring under a glove, but there’s no one else you can be.”

Caelan swallowed hard. “And what do you intend to do with this information?”

Fiendish teeth split Farvald’s grin. “Absolutely nothing.”

What a relief, he told himself. The only other farling in the caravan knew his identity and the man just happened to be the shifty type. Farvald could spread the knowledge like wildfire or wait for a specific moment to use it to his advantage. Hopefully, the fact that Joyce ran the caravan and had already helped hide his identity would prevent the former. If he was lucky he might be free before Farvald enacted whatever scheme he might be crafting. Regardless, the only topic worse than Farvald’s family had been brought to light.

“This is the furthest west or south I’ve ever been,” Caelan offered in an attempt to change the subject.

Farvald grunted. “Should only be four days or so from the capital now.”

At least there didn’t seem to be any desire to talk about it further. Perhaps the other farling had been truthful and was just shit at expressing it, though that seemed unlikely. The man bore the stench of blood and death. The long daggers in the small of Farvald’s back did nothing to sway the impression in Caelan’s mind. The only other person he knew of his heritage had turned out to be a strict opportunist—and one with a taste for taking life, at that.

Caelan sighed and renewed his focus on their patrol. They followed the road as it turned around a small grove of trees to reveal taller grasses and flatter hills. A steady plume of black smoke reached upward, partially masked behind the rolling ground. It rose in an attempt to join the clouds but failed to hold its shape against the wind.

“A fire?” he asked.

“An astute observation, Sentinel,” Farvald said dryly. “Come on.”

Caelan rolled his eyes and nudged his horse into a canter to keep up. They reached the top of the hill and looked down on a lone farmhouse, small, but made up of several rooms judging by the exterior shape. Tall fields of wheat stretched outward from the structure, various plows and hand tools left in the spaces between. One of the fields next to the house was ablaze, the flames fed by the wind and spreading rapidly across the dry grain.

“The wind will take the fire right into the house,” Caelan noted. He spurred his horse forward, but Farvald stayed atop the hill, hands crossed on the pommel of his saddle. Caelan brought his mare back around to his scouting partner.

“If anyone is inside, they will flee,” Farvald said.

Embers carried by the wind reached the side of the house and lingered on the thatchwork roof. It took only a moment for flames to rise as tall as a man and lick their way upward along the thin wooden walls. Caelan waited, expecting someone to run from the door, but the plankwood entry remained closed.

“This isn’t natural,” he said. “Where is the farmer? Shouldn’t he have fieldhands?” Farvald’s continued silence and lack of interest had begun to agitate him. It was as if this was some sort of test. “I’m going to take a look.”

Caelan prodded his horse forward with his heels, down the hill and along a path between the fields that led up to the house. As he approached, the horse stopped, dancing in place at the sight of the fire. Caelan tried to urge the beast forward to no avail. He dismounted, letting the horse retreat from danger as he jogged up to a window. Over a dozen paces away and on the opposite side of the house the heat still began to press its weight against his skin. He approached and rubbed his fist against the window, clearing away the dirt that had accumulated on the thick glass panes. A quick glance through the smudged circle was all it took for him to recoil and search for Farvald. The man had ridden forward and held the reins of Caelan’s horse while gently compelling both creatures closer to the house.

“There are corpses inside!” Caelan called out.

Just as Caelan finished the words, or perhaps triggered by them, a woman’s scream rang out from inside the house. He ran to the front of the building where the flames were closing in on the door and already covering half the roof. The amount of heat pouring off the structure was immense and he was forced to take several steps back.

He drew a deep breath before opening himself to the aether. Over the past few days he had toyed with small amounts of Light and each time found his soul still burned, but the pain of it lessened with each cautious attempt. He visualized the face of a rock warmed by the sun for fear that even small embers might overwhelm him and break his hold. The Light found its way to him through the aether and pinpricks spread across every inch of his body, but the small stings quickly faded to a dull ache. He hesitated, a moment’s concern for his identity bringing him pause, but if Farvald already knew who he was there was no reason to hide. Not here, anyway. He flicked his wrist and created a shockwave, small, but enough to knock down the door. The planks broke apart, but the sudden influx of fresh air into the enclosed space fueled the fire and the rapid combustion blew Caelan backward.

Another scream spurred him to rise and make his way into the house. Bodies littered the floor, covered in stab wounds and with mangled limbs sprawled in awkward directions. He forced himself to step through the dead and deeper into the structure. Every moment he held the Light the itch on the surface of his skin deepened. He stepped through an open door and crouched slightly to keep his head below the smoke. There. A rounded head of black hair was visible over the top of the bed on the far side of the room.

Caelan approached and knelt down in front of a woman maybe a decade his senior. She sat on the floor against the far wall with her arms bound behind her back to a bedpost. Tears streamed down a face blackened with soot while he knelt and drew a small knife from his belt—another of Joyce’s gifts. The woman sobbed into his shoulder as he leaned forward to look over her back, not wanting to add blood to her already rope-burned wrists. The binding split and the woman collapsed against his chest.

“Can you stand?” he asked, but was met with only weeping between gasps for air.

Caelan crouched under the woman before lifting her over his shoulder. His leg wobbled and the scar on his chest was pulled constantly as he kept his arm wrapped around the woman’s waist. He called out to the aether with a vision of a flickering candle that brought the taste of ash and blew out the nearby wall. Flaming thatch and debris fell all around, but several empowered strides brought them to the base of the grassy hill, far enough away that the heat was no longer a threat. He set the woman down and scanned the area, but Farvald was nowhere to be found. The moment Caelan released the Light the effort caught up to him and his leg seized. Pulled to the ground by his own weight and panting, he and the woman sat and watched the flames eat away at the house.

She resumed her sobs, knees held to her chest and head atop. Caelan placed an arm across her shoulders and squeezed as they shook. He knew her pain all too well. A lost home and, if those inside had been family, a loss of everything else. The dull sound of hooves on dirt caused him to turn and see Farvald cresting the hill behind them. The farling rode quickly, Caelan’s horse lashed to his saddle.

“There are tracks away from the field on the far side,” Farvald stated. “They led over the hill and there are still fresh hoofprints in the road, likely five to six of them.”

The saboteurs, no doubt. “What should we do?” Caelan asked.

“I’d like to go on a bit of a hunt,” Farvald said with a snake-like grin, but then sighed while eyeing the woman. “Rue should see to her. And you don’t look up for a fight.” Farvald turned back to look in the direction he had just come. “At least the next pair to scout will have something to look for.”

Farvald dismounted and helped hoist the woman onto the front of Caelan’s horse. Caelan watched his scouting partner remount and could see the tension in the man’s hands. It must have been no small effort for Farvald to deny himself the chase, but at least the other farling had demonstrated some amount of restraint. A ray of hope, perhaps, that his identity might be little more than a leash that Farvald could pull on rather than a hidden blade.

The three rode at a hard pace to rejoin the caravan, a faint orange glow bleeding into the sky from the hill behind them.