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  Kedrick fell dead to the floor near the locked door. Brant released the flames from his sword and ran to the door. For the first time Brant could hear the pounding on the door as guards fought to break through. Brant lifted the bar and jerked the door open.

  “We are under attack!” Secure the rooms!” he shouted as frantic guards raced by him carrying swords and lanterns. Two guards ran into Jarak’s room, while two more ran past the door and stopped at their queen’s side, who was now sitting on the ground leaning against the wall. More guards ran from the hallway to check on the other guests and inspect the rooms.

  Brant ran to Tearial who looked up at him as he stood above her. A guard had taken off his cloak and draped it around her. She was holding the cloth tightly against her stomach and it didn’t take long before her blood had soaked through. The scene in the hallway was chaotic as guards rushed about, searching for intruders and calling for healers.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Brant asked, his voice filled with concern. Tearial smiled up at him but did not respond to his question. “What is so funny he asked?”

  She chuckled softly. “You’re naked.”

  Brant looked down at his body. He could hardly believe he had forgotten that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. The attack had caught them totally by surprise, the battle so intense that he hadn’t even had a moment to ponder his nakedness. He smiled back. “Is your wound serious?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, waving him off. “Get some clothes on.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said as he ran off to do as he was bid.

  Chapter 8

  It had been seven days since the attack and Jarak was still in a lot of pain. King Elwyn’s healers had done a marvelous job in stitching and cleaning his wounds, but they were unable to prevent the pain. The assassin’s knife had completely penetrated the fleshy part of his forearm, and when he had jerked it from her hands the knife had opened the wound further. It was a miracle the blade had not found an artery. He could deal with the throbbing pain in his arm, but the cuts on his feet were another story. They weren’t deep, but he soon realized that even a superficial cut on the bottom of your foot made walking nearly impossible. For that reason he had been bed ridden or confined to a chair for most of the week.

  Jarak was sitting in his room next to a roaring fire, reading one of several books that King Elwyn had provided for him from his library. Cat was out training with the two Gyths. Although Cat was exceptionally skilled with the sword, she wanted to learn how to use the bow, a weapon with which the Gyths were experts. Jarak sighed and turned the page of the book, wishing he wasn’t cooped up inside. Luckily, King Elwyn had been able to find a few books written in Newain; one, a detailed account of the animal life in the northern regions of Corvell, and another on the history of Enoreth, a kingdom in the southern regions of Belorth. He was reading the former and was actually finding it quite entertaining. A knock at his door diverted his attention from the chapter describing the lorrinar, a large predatory sea bird that hunted the shores north of the Lorian Forest. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Brant.”

  “Come in,” Jarak said, eager for a change in his daily monotony.

  Brant entered the room and walked over to where Jarak sat. He wore a white long sleeved shirt of thick brushed cotton under a fur lined blue tunic. His gray leather leggings were tucked into fur lined boots that matched. They were splendid clothes, all courtesy of King Elwyn. “How are you feeling?” Brant asked as Jarak motioned towards the chair in front of him.

  “Please, sit. The wounds are painful, but they seem to be healing nicely.”

  “How long before we can leave?”

  “King Elwyn says the troops will be ready soon. But unfortunately the healers said I will need an extra week before I should travel.” Brant nodded and leaned closer to the fire, holding his hands out to warm them. “Thank you again for what you did that night. I owe you my life, several times over now.”

  Brant shrugged. “It was Tearial really,” Brant responded. “If she had not left my room that night I’m afraid the assassins would have succeeded. Besides, she was the one who stabbed the Soother at your door.”

  After the chaos that night Aldgar had explained to them who these Saricon Soothers were and what their power could do. Had they not interrupted them when they did, Jarak and Cat would likely be dead.

  “I’ve thanked her already. How is she doing?” Jarak was smiling mischievously.

  Brant ignored Jarak's amusement. “She is doing well. Her wound is healing nicely.”

  “She is quite the fighter,” Jarak said. “Did you see what she did to that Gyth? Armed only in a night gown and carrying no weapon.”

  “I did. She is very skilled.”

  Jarak smiled again. “I bet she is.” Brant smiled awkwardly but said nothing. “Come on, Brant, fill me in.” Jarak’s smile was contagious and Brant found himself grinning. It was a nice change for Jarak to joke and smile. It had been a sobering year with the stresses of his station and the tenuous predicament of his realm. It had turned him into a serious man, even sour at times. But now he seemed to be the young carefree man that he was before, teasing a friend about his amorous exploits.

  “Let’s just say that her skill as a warrior carries over elsewhere.”

  “I knew it! I will be honest with you and say that I could not take my eyes off her the night she fought you.”

  This time Brant chuckled. “I know. I saw Cat’s expression.”

  “And the king is aware of your late night rendezvous?”

  “He is…it’s something almost expected in the Marastian culture,” Brant explained.

  Jarak shook his head in disbelief. “Maybe I should move here.”

  Brant smiled as he stood. “I’m going to go visit the kitchen. Can I get you anything?”

  Jarak smiled slyly. “Grab a bottle of Sil from the study. I’m bored out of my mind. Will you come back and drink with me?”

  Brant felt sorry for him, stuck inside with nothing to do but wait for his painful wounds to heal. “Sure,” Brant said, smiling back.

  ***

  Ten days later and they could finally leave Elwyn. Jarak had been declared fit enough to travel and their mercenary army had been mobilized. Thousands of Marastians lined the roads, cheering as they watched nine thousand Marastian warriors marching in unison and led by a thousand cavalry. The long lances they carried gave the army the appearance of a marching forest of steel, their scale mail clinking rhythmically in unison to their steps. Behind them were hundreds of wagons and carts filled with enough provisions and supplies to last six months. King Elwyn’s brother had been left in charge, along with five thousand of his regular infantry. He would not leave his lands unprotected.

  Jarak and his companions rode in the front with the king and queen. Jarak’s feet were not completely healed, but he could wait no longer. Fortunately he would not be marching, so his feet would likely be healed by the time they completed the long journey back into Dy’ain.

  Serix was riding next to Jarak and he looked at him with a genuine smile. “Well done, my King.”

  Jarak smiled back. “I didn’t do it by myself.” He pursed his lips in thought. “If it hadn’t been for everyone in the group, this,” he said, glancing back, “would not have been possible. We sacrificed a lot to make this happen. I can’t keep my mind from thinking of Kay’il, Dayd, Horst, Banrigar, and the others.”

  Serix nodded somberly in understanding. “You need to look at the big picture. Thousands have already died in this struggle…and thousands more will likely perish. And remember, you did not bring the Saricons to our borders. You are not to blame.”

  Jarak sighed. “I know what you say is the truth. But I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible.”

  Serix smiled. “That is good. Your father always said that one who does not feel the weight of his subjects on his shoulders, is not fit to rule. He would be proud of you.”

  Jarak paused for a momen
t, picturing his father. “Thank you, my friend, for everything.”

  Serix nodded. They rode on silently, marveling at the wondrous reality of the ten thousand warriors, marching in perfect unison, following them across the Red Bridge.

  Four days later they had made it to the road that led deep into the Heyrith Forest. It wasn’t really a road, more like a path, the entrance marked with tall spears stuck into the ground, each shaft twice as big around as a normal one. They were clearly made for a giant. Attached to the two spears were tulkick hides pulled tight and stitched to a square frame of wood. Painted on the skins in red paint were strange glyphs. The road they traveled skirted the forest, but beyond the narrow path were thick trees, their limbs gnarled and twisted, covered with snow and ice. Without the green leaves and foliage that would appear in spring, the forest looked bleak and ominous.

  They had taken a brief rest at midday, the massive army scattered across the snowy ground, taking a quick meal before departing once again. As they readied to depart Brant stood next to Kivalla facing the shadowed path. Their comrades stood there with them, looking on with trepidation. King Elwyn stepped next to Brant. “You sure you want to go in there?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you know what those glyphs mean?” he asked.

  Kivalla inspected them closely but even he did not know any Varga sigils. “I do not.”

  “They say stay out,” the king answered. “Occasionally we are allowed entrance to trade with them, which is why the road is here. But without an invitation I’m afraid it is very dangerous.”

  Queen Elwyn stepped between Brant and her husband. She held King Elwyn’s hand and gently touched Brant’s, her fingers brushing the outside of his hand. “Be careful, Brant. The Varga are very formidable.”

  Brant smiled. “I know.”

  Everyone said good bye and the last to leave was Jarak. He looked at both of them. “Kivalla, you know how I feel about this. I do not think you should go.”

  “I know. And if you order me to stay, I will. It’s just that I may never get another chance to meet the Varga. For a scholar such as I, this is a once in a lifetime chance.”

  Jarak looked concerned. “That is my point. It might just be the last thing you do in your lifetime. I need you, my friend. Don’t die here in this cold forest.”

  “I don’t plan to.” Kivalla smiled weakly, his confidence waning.

  “We will be fine,” Brant added with certainty. “I just need to find my friend.”

  King Jarak shook both of their hands. “Good luck, my friends. Meet up with us in Dy’ain.”

  Everyone left, and the two of them remained, staring at the narrow path, the dark clouds above blocking out what little sunlight that managed to penetrate the dense forest. Brant looked Kivalla in the eyes. “You ready?” he asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Brant nodded and without another word walked towards the forest with an apprehensive Kivalla at his heels.

  They had a quarter of the day left before the sun would set and they walked the forest path in relative silence. Tall trees towered over the thick gnarly bushes that dotted the ground, all covered with a dusting of snow. The narrow path twisted and turned along switchbacks that led to the tops of hillocks before descending again.

  “What kind of trees are these?” Brant asked. “They look like vylin trees.”

  “Most of them are,” Kivalla agreed. “The ones with the narrow trunks and white bark are called sorull trees. They become more common the farther north you go.”

  They came to another gentle rise and when they trekked to the top they were looking at a small lake, surrounded by the same dense forest. Brant glanced up at the thick gray clouds. It was late and they didn’t have much light remaining. “Might as well camp here,” Brant said. “At least we have a nice view.”

  Kivalla looked about and saw a small clearing just off the path. In some places the snow was a hand span deep, but in others, closer to the base of the trees, there were spots of bare ground. Several huge vylin trees grew around the clearing and their large spindly branches had allowed only an inch or two of snow to accumulate. It would be a good spot. “Let’s camp there,” Kivalla said, pointing to the clearing.

  Brant looked over and nodded in agreement. Together, it didn’t take them long to set up camp. They had two canvas rolls similar in design to the ones the Dygon Guards used. They cut a few poles from the nearby trees and built a simple lean-to structure which they covered with the oiled canvas. They scraped the snow out from underneath it and laid out another cloth inside. Taking their wool bedrolls from their packs, they laid them out in the small shelter.

  “Should we light a fire?” Kivalla asked.

  “Might as well. After all, we want them to find us.”

  Together they gathered some rocks and hunted down several loads of dry wood. The bark of the sorull tree made for good tinder and it wasn’t long before they had a nice fire built. They built their fire just outside the opening of the lean-to, and sat inside as the heat quickly warmed the interior. They cooked a pot of beans and used chunks of hearty bread to clean their plates.

  “Tell me about your Varga friend,” Kivalla said.

  Brant paused, thinking of where to start. “Have you seen a Varga before?”

  “Just drawings.”

  “Well, they are quite impressive. My friend's name is Uln and he stood nearly two heads taller than me. But he seemed even larger.”

  “How so?”

  “They are extremely muscular. Uln’s shoulders alone were several hands wider than mine and his chest nearly as thick. His muscular bulk was massive. Vargas have large mouths, stretching almost ear to ear, filled to the brim with small razor sharp teeth. I don't know if they all have dark brown hair, but Uln’s was anyway. And his eyes; they were very strange, totally green and almost iridescent. When I first met Uln he seemed like a monster to me.”

  “And now?”

  “Uln is about as far from a monster as I can imagine. He was soft spoken and kind. I consider him a friend.”

  “Let us hope that his people treat us with the same kindness,” Kivalla said.

  “Agreed.”

  They sat in silence for a bit longer, passing around a wine skin that Kivalla had brought with him to help them more pleasantly pass the cold nights. After several long drinks Kivalla broke the silence. “Why are you here, Brant? You owe no loyalty to King Jarak and yet you fight alongside him, facing dangers and risking your life in the process.”

  Brant stared into the fire, thinking about Kivalla’s question. “I have asked myself that question as well.” Brant paused again.

  “And?” Kivalla coaxed.

  Brant shrugged. “It is the right thing to do. Kulvar would want me to help Jarak.”

  “So you do it for Master Rand, not for Jarak?”

  “Perhaps I felt that way at first. But I’ve grown to admire Jarak. He will be a good king. I also do it because it is the right thing. The Saricons do not belong here. They killed the only friend I had, and they are a threat to my friend’s children who are still alive. I will not, if I can help it, let anything happen to them.”

  “I see. That is very noble of you.”

  “Noble? I’m sorry, scholar, but I don’t see it that way. You people throw that word around like it mirrors bravery, honor, and loyalty. I’ve known people, without noble blood, who act more courageously than any man or woman sleeping soundly in their massive mansions.”

  “I didn’t mean noble in that regard. But I see what you mean and I meant no disrespect, and I suppose you are right. That was a poor choice of words. I agree with you, nobility is not always synonymous with honor. But it is also true that having gold in your pocket and a large home to live in doesn't mean you would not give it all up to do the right thing. You of all people have seen nobility act nobly.”

  Brant sighed, thinking of Kulvar Rand and the others he had recently met who had done nothing but risk their lives to do what'
s right. “You are right, of course. Perhaps I reacted too defensively.”

  “A warranted reaction, I believe.” Kivalla looked into the fire and pulled his winter cloak around his shoulders. “I wish I had your courage. I often feel…inadequate.” Brant looked at him, a smile spreading across his face. “What is so funny?”

  “For one so smart sometimes you miss the obvious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Scholar, you do not know how to fight and yet you have joined the king on a mission that may yet see us all dead. You have no idea how to use a sword or bow and yet you have joined me in finding a race of giants who are known for killing anyone who enters their lands. Courage? Scholar, you emanate it. Do not pair courage with being able to kill. Who is more courageous, me, facing an enemy with the knowledge that I will likely have the skill to come out of the confrontation the victor, or you, who faces an enemy knowing that you would likely die in any physical confrontation. You underestimate yourself. You, and your actions, give me courage.”

  Kivalla looked thoughtful. “I haven’t thought of it like that. Thank you, Brant.”

  They talked of more trivial things for a few more hours before they built the fire up, and lay down before the warm flames to sleep.

  As it turned out they didn’t have long to wait before they encountered the Varga. Brant woke early in the morning, just before the sun rose, and walked off into the trees to relieve himself. He had only stepped away ten paces so had left his sword behind. He wore what he had slept in, his clothes and armor, something Kulvar Rand had drilled into his men on many occasions. When he finished, he turned around to make his way back to the shelter. Standing before him was a Varga. The giant wore only a fur lined vest and leggings, his huge arms bare and painted with white designs, which stood out in stark contrast against his green skin. Streaks of white adorned his face as well, and in his right hand he carried what looked like a short sword of Marastian design. But in the Varga’s hands, it looked much smaller.

  “Tulg’ onith narg condoon,” he said.

  Brant held his arms out slowly. “I don’t speak Varga,” he said in Newain.