Shadow Of The Mountain (12 page)

Jornan had been on the street below at the time. They were to meet at dawn to make morning muster, but Draz had overslept, which was part of the reason he’d found himself in such a predicament. Upon seeing the angry father trying to dislodge his friend, Jornan took to screaming at the man, threatening to enter the building and cut off his genitals. When Nikki’s father didn’t stop, Jornan tried the apartment’s front door. Finding it locked, he began kicking it savagely.

Around the third floor, Draz remembered dropping his boot and trying to calm Jornan below while at the same time attempting to reason with Nikki’s father above, but neither would have it. He’d climbed down carefully, knowing something so little as a sprained ankle might see him rolled to a later class.

Jornan had been seething mad when he reached him, but Draz was able to drag him away from the building before any city guards could show up. Instructors do not appreciate their students getting arrested for disturbing the peace while on leave, or for cutting off someone’s genitals.

Draz smiled. That was almost a year ago. He knew Nikki spent time with other boys, but that didn’t matter to him. Still, perhaps he should find another girl. One whose bedroom wasn’t so high above the ground.

He thought over the wooded path his class had traveled so far and decided a trip to the capital wasn’t in their future anyway. Corda would be a tense place right now, what with the column getting hit in the south and the battle raging in the flatlands.

No, the instructors will keep us busy with mindless and near suicidal tests of strength and stamina. It will be to the Gambit for them. Again.

He pictured the high-altitude refuge used by the academy, a hidden camp nestled within a mountain cavity to the north. To reach the elevated site meant traversing steep rock faces and tight mountain passages, all accomplished through the thin air of the mountain heights. The students would be forced to make the climb carrying makeshift stretchers or various supplies and, although the camp was always abundantly stocked, they would have to work together to overcome the challenging ascent.

The Gambit’s stores were laden with barrels of water and grain, dried meats, lumber for cooking fires and huts, loads of coal, blankets, clothes, and, of course, weapons. The secret camp boasted a massive armory of spears, swords, and old shields. There were bows and countless quivers of arrows, hunting traps, and various pieces of outdated armor. It was maintained by the army that two hundred men could hold those mountain passes against ten thousand, or even more. It was impregnable.

But what the Gambit didn’t need, Draz’s mind fumed, were these wretched stones! He had no wish for any of them to drag such useless weight up the Gambit’s mountain passes.

He scrambled through the free dirt of the next rise before finally reaching the top, out of breath and legs trembling. He wanted to collapse right there on the forest floor, but to do so would invite a storm of fury from Trobe. And he was better than that, stronger.

“Stones up,” the instructor ordered, as if Draz hadn’t already figured it out. The reward for the first two to reach the top was to hold their rocks high and wait for the rest.

He stood upright and lifted his stone above his head, trying to slow his heart and turbulent breath.

Trobe’s gaze settled on him, wide and fierce eyes of winter gray that sent chills down the spine during even the warmest weather. The old warrior had a crooked white scar that crawled across his throat, almost from ear to ear. All of the academy instructors were veterans of countless conflicts, hardened by battle and the elements, but Trobe was even harder.

No one really knew the truth of it, but at some point in his career, Trobe’s throat had been cut. His throat had been sliced open, and he hadn’t died.

“I have a surprise for you, little birds,” he told Draz with a devilish grin, pulling his hood back. Trobe nodded his head further into the forest, away from the hill they had just climbed.

Draz shifted his gaze down into the woods, making sure to maintain his grip on the stone above. He saw a large group in the valley below and the murmuring of their voices carried up to him through the forest. They were academy students cloaked in brown, over a hundred of them, waiting for something.

Waiting for us
, Draz realized.

“The Kessland boys wanted another shot at Orantak,” Trobe said, relishing the moment. He gave Draz a few seconds for it all to sink in. “I thought it might be a nice distraction to have another impromptu sword tourney.”

Draz couldn’t stop staring into the valley as Jornan fought up the slope behind him. His sword brother lifted his stone above his head as he came to a stop next to Draz. Instructor Trobe moved down the hill, urging the remaining students up at speed.

“Shit. Really?” Jornan said between breaths, staring down the slope. “He runs us to death and then shoves us into the circle? Do you think Kole is down there?” Draz’s stomach was one big knot.

“I‘m sure he is.”

The stone above his head seemed to tremble and grow heavier. There was hardly enough strength left in him to stand and nearly nothing left to carry him through a tournament. Draz knew Kole was down there and that they would meet in the circle. Looking below into the mass of students waiting for them, he knew it was inevitable. When last they met, Draz was well-rested and he had just barely scraped by with a win against the burly Kessland student.

Draz knew they’d cross blades in the tournament, because that’s what he was most afraid of.

“Do you think he’s still salty about the fingers?”

He let out a nervous laugh as more students lumbered up to see what awaited them.

“Yes,” Draz muttered with certainty. “I imagine he’s still salty about the fingers.”

Chapter 7

Trees ripped by Tenlon as Darkfire’s strength thundered him through Killian Forest. Afternoon sunlight poured down through the leaves, breathing life into the surrounding foliage with shafts of fluttering gold. He kept eyes on Kreiden to his immediate front and occasionally caught glimpses of Fenton in the far lead position over the champion’s shoulder. Accostas and Desik were on either side of him, riding half a length behind. The rest of the escort was trailing him and the rumbling of their hooves filled his ears, just like younger days at the races.

Tenlon began to think that perhaps Kreiden was wrong and their troop wouldn’t encounter any of the circling Volrathi. Apart from the far-off, sporadic howls that would reach them through the woods, the day had so far been uneventful.

Tenlon relaxed his bunched shoulders and tried to steady his thoughts. Hopefully Amorian luck was returning to them, even if it was just a sliver of it.

But then he heard a call that froze his blood.

“
Wolves!
” Fenton’s voice bellowed in the distance.

The surrounding warriors seemed to pull their swords in unison and the sharp steel snaked out to taste the air. Kreiden drew his heavy saber and it shimmered as the occasional ray of sunlight caught the polished blade.

Tenlon’s head twisted left and right in a frantic search for any of the fearsome creatures, desperate not to be surprised by a snarling attack. Darkfire began to sway back and forth, confusing his motions for intended direction.

“Easy, little mage,” Accostas ordered at his right. “
Easy.
”

There was no fear in the man’s voice and, when Tenlon glanced over, the tall warrior was looking at him with a smile. Out of place as it may have been, somehow it calmed him. He focused on the task at hand.

They came upon the black shape quickly, just in time to see Kreiden’s long sword swing down into the writhing creature on the ground, clawing at the dirt. Fenton’s spear was already jutting from its side as the champion’s heavy weapon cleaved into its shoulder and neck. The Blackwolf’s maw was open, its teeth long and terrifying. Accostas’s mount leapt to avoid the mortally-wounded beast, and then they were past it.

Long minutes slipped by without incident, but Tenlon was on high alert now. His fists held the reins in a white-knuckled grip, eyes always searching, scanning the heavy wood for threats. More of the creatures were sure to be nearby.

Their forest trail gradually rose upward, slowing their pace. Tenlon began to hear howls all about the wood, deep and throaty—bestial. They seemed to come from everywhere, but he knew sounds could play tricks in the forest, where hills and valleys and mountains would bounce the noise to one area when it actually came from another. He hoped that were the case, at least.

A human cry tore the air behind him, the sound of it so close that it couldn’t possibly be a deception of the woods. His head snapped back for a look…

And what he saw caused the icy fingers of fear to claw into his soul.

In that moment he spied an Amorian soldier on the forest floor, desperately reaching for his fallen sword as a black creature leapt up, closing its wide jaws onto his face, fangs tightening until the skull split and bloody pulp burst forth. The Amorian’s chestnut mare was on its knees behind him struggling to rise when two other beasts set upon it with horrifying speed.

Tenlon’s head spun back. The horse’s squeals followed him through the trees.

“Fool!” Desik barked. “Do not look back! Keep your eyes on the trail!”

Tenlon found himself out of breath. Frigid panic surged through his limbs. He did not want to die here. He
could
not die here.

More time passed, yet he could not say how much. Minutes were like hours when your mind was muddled with such terror. He was surprised to notice the sun had slid across the sky into late afternoon. They continued to ride hard and the land to their left sank downwards the further they climbed, allowing them to look out across the crowns of tall aspens, oaks, and pines.

The howls surrounding them grew in numbers, increasing along with the shadows, bounding through the forest in pursuit. Tenlon glanced about and could make out the forms of several beasts a short distance to their rear, with more running a little further away on the right.

A sudden thought danced across his mind, frightening and obvious all at once: they were being hunted.

He called Accostas’s name and pointed them out.

“Keep riding, little mage!” the tall warrior yelled over the thunder of hoofbeats. His amiable smile was no longer present and it made Tenlon feel sick.

Their path maintained its steady incline and Tenlon kept looking into the deep forest at his right. The Blackwolves were everywhere and he longed to be rid of the trees that slowed them down. To his left the terrain continued to drop, growing ever steeper, becoming a treacherous slope extending far down into the valley.

Ahead Kreiden’s saber suddenly lanced out at a leaping beast. The steel blade punched through its furry chest to exit out the back before the champion wrenched it free. The creature yelped and howled as it was skewered, falling short of its target. Accostas anchored a hand on the pommel of his saddle and leaned out, swinging his sword down into the beast yet again as they passed.

Tenlon heard a startled scream and snarls behind him, but this time he took Desik’s advice. He didn’t look back.

It happened once more to another riding at his back, and Tenlon could swear the beasts were pursuing just a few inches away, breathing down his collar, eyes burning, teeth dripping. He felt in his heart that if he dared glance back the trailing creatures would rip into him and he’d die a ghastly death.

His heels dug into Darkfire’s side, pushing the horse harder.

After another agonizingly slow mile, Killian Forest began to diminish into evening, with only another hour or so of daylight remaining. Already there were shadows growing beneath the trees and the steep drop at his left opened up, dark and ominous. Time was running out. Not even Darkfire could maintain the speed they needed to outrun Blackwolves through a forest night.

Accostas called out his name as they continued to climb.

“After we reach the crest of this rise, the forest drops back down and opens to more flatlands,” he yelled. “We are going to have to break through the wolves you pointed out. If they push us back into the valley, we’ll have no chance!”

Tenlon once more looked to the black shapes bounding up and down parallel to their position. There were maybe two dozen of them now and his escort had already lost three riders. He twisted his grip on Darkfire’s reins, feeling the warmth of the important bundle strapped to his back.

I will get to the coast,
he told himself through clenched jaw.
They died for me, and I will not fail them. It is the least I can do. It is all I can do.

Up ahead in the distance Tenlon could see the summit of the small mountain they had climbed all afternoon. The trees thinned at the top and what he saw waiting for them sent his heart spinning into the deepest pit, the sight nearly pushing him from the saddle.

To his left the forest had turned to a veritable cliff. It was far too dangerous to traverse and even if it were possible, they wouldn’t be able to climb back up the valley before nightfall.

They rode for the crest, about a quarter mile ahead, where Tenlon could just make out the shattered image of a golden sunset beyond the trees.

On top of the peak they needed to pass were perhaps thirty more of the waiting Blackwolves, their tattered capes blowing in the wind that swept over the mountain ridge. Even worse were the riders in black armor Tenlon saw pressing towards the summit from behind the flanking creatures. The Volrathi riders were still some distance away but would arrive in minutes.

The beasts had funneled them up against the cliff and towards the peak magnificently. There was little chance of escape now.

The Amorian riders began to close the distance to the crest, still a hundred yards from it and the waiting Blackwolves. Fenton had pulled back behind Kreiden and the remaining seven men of his escort formed a modified wedge, overloading the right side and front, leaving Tenlon’s left against the cliff completely unprotected.