ARC 2 - VIRTUE

CHAPTER 7 - WHITE WOLVES

The great hall in the White Wolves’ stronghold was the hull of an old ship flipped upside-down to act as the roof and supported by walls of thick logs. How they’d managed to move the thing that far inland was a mystery. Perhaps they might’ve hauled it, but it seemed more likely that it would have to be disassembled into smaller pieces and put back together.

There had been other small huts around the central building, but those were probably for storage or select members. The rows of hammocks and beds along the walls and the rank smell of the place indicated that most of the bandit clan lived out of this one giant room. Caelan and his companions stood at the far end of the hall, surrounded by a half dozen guards. Triple that amount milled about behind them or drank from large tankards lining the tables that ran down the center of the great hall.

“You’re either brave or very stupid, but I suppose I can see the benefit in it for you.” The man that spoke was the size of Ulrich, but built of rolls of flesh rather than muscle. He lounged in a crude wooden throne carved from a thick tree trunk and lined with bones and animal horns. Fat fingers dipped into the small chest of coins that rested on his thigh—the payment for the two women.

“Thank you, uncle,” Farvald said with a slight bow of the head.

“Bring them!” the large man bellowed.

Caelan’s shoulders tensed and his eyes fixated on the guards nearest him. The bandits were ogling on the chest of coins, but their axes and dull swords were held plainly for him to see. It was a rather obvious show of force, but given the unpredictable nature of bandits and the fact that their party had willingly come unarmed it was more than enough to dissuade the thought of fighting.

The doors at the front of the hall swung open and Joyce and the other woman were hauled in. The two were silent as they were hauled through the room, feet barely scraping the ground from the hands under each of their arms. The other bandits hollered and whooped at their prize when the women passed by to be dropped at the side of the negotiations.

“I trust they are unharmed?” Farvald asked.

“Of course, nephew, though had you been any slower I might not be able to say the same.”

Caelan clenched his fists. Joyce’s cheeks were red and bruising and the other woman’s eyes were red from tears, but at least they were alive. It was some small miracle that these brutes were more interested in coin than carnal desire.

“Very well, then. I only have one other matter to discuss with you, uncle.”

The leader of the White Wolves opened his fat jowls the same moment that Caelan noticed a flick of Farvald’s wrist. It was odd, the way the man on the throne coughed; like there was almost enough air making it around the hilt in his neck for him to speak. It was as if he hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that he was dead.

Farvald, however, was well aware. Two small knives were drawn and found blood in the necks of two guards in one smooth motion. Caelan ducked the slash of the guard nearest him and shoved the lout back into the other. Dozens of shouts rang through the great hall and the bandits scrambled towards the front of the room to avenge their leader.

Caelan froze for a moment, unable to discern if this was reality or some sick daydream. What was Farvald thinking? They came unarmed, for fuck’s sake! Or everyone else had, at least. The ransom was paid, they could’ve walked free, and now Farvald would see them all killed in some familial grudge! Damn the man and his blood ties to bandits!

“Untie them, you idiot!” Farvald yelled and brought a brigand down with successive stabs to the kidneys. Kukani had tackled another, pulling on an axe embedded in the fallen man’s clavicle.

Caelan won the scuffle for the sword off the nearest guard as the bandit rose, quickly allowing the previous wielder to be reacquainted with the blade—this time with the wrong end. The other charged, but stumbled over his fallen comrade and all but fell chest first into the rusty blade. The immediate threat handled, Caelan sliced the ropes binding the arms and legs of both women. Joyce looked at him with sunken eyes, their edges pink and puffy.

“Now get us out of here!” Farvald called, his blade deep in the eye socket of a bandit that dared approach the throne area.

“How?!” Caelan yelled.

“Blow the fucking wall out like the farmhouse!”

Adrenaline turned to anger and Caelan’s blood boiled. It didn’t work like that. What sort of half-baked plan had the bastard hidden from them? That shockwave had been small and the structure already weakened from fire. The bandits used trees as walls for Light’s sake, not thin timber and thatch! Taking out a stack of the logs would bring the ship-of-a-roof down on top of them. With a grunt Caelan kicked a man off his blade and spun, desperately looking for a way out.

“Now, you useless sh—!” Farvald was cut short by an elbow to his face. He recovered quickly, striking back with his fist like a hammer. The blade he held disappeared into the top of his attacker’s shoulder half a dozen times before the bandit was permitted to fall to the ground.

Fine. Caelan opened himself to the aether. There was nothing but endless black until he envisioned the glowing embers. The warmth filled his chest as he willed the flames to rise. When he opened his eyes the great hall was crisp, every detail of the bandit’s filth visible in the poor lighting. He turned towards the nearest wall. Three beams was all it would take. No more than a usual training set.

The first made his skin crawl as though it were dipped in the near-boiling waters of a hot spring. The second thickened the water and it clung to him like tar. The burning in his limb drowned out the sting he felt in the rest of his body. He tried to summon the third, but his arm trembled and the orb refused to form. Caelan growled through the pain and swapped his hold on the sword to lift the other limb. Unable to use one arm to support the other he instead rotated his hips, straining his shoulder but pushing the beam across the top of the other two cuts. A sloppily cut square fell away from the wall and the single log that was still intact above his crude doorway cracked in the middle. The ceiling, or ship, groaned and listed toward the weakened side.

“We leave!” Farvald yelled.

Kukani dashed forward, pushing bandits out of the way with a large poleaxe he had acquired somewhere in the chaos. Caelan helped Joyce and the other woman to their feet with his good arm and pushed them towards the makeshift exit. He noticed Farvald close the small chest on his dead uncle’s lap and hoist it under a single arm before following Kukani through the hole in the wall.

Outside a fire blazed atop several of the thatchwork huts. The beams must have lit them after passing through the wall. Unfortunate, but a good distraction as the bandits outside scurried to quell the flames. Caelan urged the women forward in the direction that Kukani and Farvald had run. The group scampered across the camp, camouflaged in plain sight amongst the disorganized enemy who fought the fires or swarmed the front of the Great Hall. He lost sight of Kukani and Farvald in the disarray, but if there was to be an escape, there was only one place they could’ve gone. He forced the women to round the corner of another building and they came upon the three horses loose in a stable. Further down Kukani pulled on the door of another stall while Farvald swung himself atop a fifth mount.

Joyce hoisted herself atop one horse and Caelan helped the other woman atop another. He watched her feet find the stirrups smoothly enough that she must have at least some experience. It was a blessing that she knew how to ride alone for they might not be fast enough if he had to ride with her. He grabbed the top of the saddle of the last horse and jumped to assist his arm in pulling his weight upward. The five rode out through the chaos, Kukani’s mount trampling the only bandit brave enough to stand in their way.

They pressed on until the sun dipped below the trees and the inside of Caelan’s thighs felt like they had been pummeled with hammers. When they were more than half a day from the bandit camp Farvald and Kukani circled back around the way they had come to ensure they’d lost their pursuers. Caelan was left with Joyce and the other woman to rest their horses at a walking pace. The woman from the farmhouse sat atop her stallion, eyes glazed over as they had been for the past ten days or more. She had not spoken a word since Caelan had rescued her and he was certain this latest encounter wouldn’t bring her any encouragement. Joyce guided her mare near Caelan’s as the creature lolled along the road.

“Thank you,” she said.

He grunted softly. “Don’t thank me. We failed. We let them take you.”

“We?” She flashed a smile. “Already feeling like part of the family?”

Caelan smiled, but it was brief as a memory filled his mind. Family. He sniffed and looked to the last of the sunlight on the horizon. His father’s worn face appeared before his eyes, filling out and growing a beard until it was entirely replaced with brown eyes and gruff features so akin to a lumbering bear. Ulrich. In Caelan’s attempt to look away he found the mute woman’s head replaced my Raelle’s short silver hair and sly smirk. He forced himself to stare at his own hands, the knuckles white with dry skin and dirt caked under the nails. He hadn’t had much of a family to begin with, but that only deepened the cut that loss had left him.

Joyce had been good to him, though. And so had Rue. Even Kukani was pleasant and had a laugh that cracked like a whip. Not family, but perhaps friends. There had been small comfort in the hope for kinship with another farling, but the bastard had seen fit to dash that feeling quickly. Was that bloodthirst the same that others had seen in him? What Ulrich had wanted to temper?

“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with Farvald.” Joyce’s voice brought him out of his ruminations. He looked to her, but she faced forward, solemn and contemplative. “He’s abrasive and I could tell his plan was not well…communicated. I know he may lack any sort of morality or virtues, but he’s been good in a pinch. I’ve trusted him to defend the caravan for years now. It lets me focus on the management of funds and contracts.”

“You must be at least half-decent at it if all these people follow you,” Caelan noted.

“Oh, I’m the best,” Joyce boasted with a smile. “I have more contacts throughout the Realm than probably any other caravan. But after this, I think I’ll be taking a break from traveling for a time. Maybe set up a shop in Elysium until I feel...comfortable again.”

“And what does that mean for me?”

Joyce gave a small laugh, little more than a sharp exhale. “You’re free to go the moment we cross the gate in the capital. I can’t possibly hold you in debt after saving me. Although, if you want to stay with us I won’t argue it. I’d be more likely to travel again if you were there given your…” she waved her hand idly, “abilities. I wonder, though. Even in the face of grave danger, you didn’t use it against them. Would you not save your own life, despite the law?”

He glanced at her out the corner of his eye. It was a question nearly everyone without affinity had asked at some point. “Some people might be willing to break Heaven’s Law for far less than saving themselves. It always turns out the same for them.”

“Oh? And how’s that?” Joyce asked.

“The Church finds them.” It wasn’t that he was entirely sure of the fact—he’d only seen two men in masks drag away an accused once in Bastion—but the sheer number of stories about the Church’s endless reach and relentless hunt for those who broke Heaven’s Law were a legend themselves.

“I had come to think of you as a man of honor,” Joyce mused. “It’s good to know you can live up to the expectation.”

Caelan smiled, taking it more as a jest than a true compliment, but caught her eyeing his arm and hand that limply rested on the pommel of his saddle.

“Well, as you can see, I don’t know much about the Light and the Church always struck me as a bunch of fanatics, but I can tell our rescue was not pleasant for you.” She nodded toward his discomfort and Caelan rubbed his arm from the shoulder down to the wrist. “Will it heal?”

“In time.”

“I’m sorry.” Joyce placed a gentle hand on top of his own. “But again, thank you.”