Chapter 9: Fear Filled Eyes

Jarren watched Eagle's Crest from a distance. Before him, an army of Skraeg encircled the walls of the city on three sides; it's rear built into a large hill between the two mountains that flanked it. He had seen the glow and smelled the smoke of countless fires outside and inside the walls long before he drew near. He could not remember ever witnessing a force of Skraeg so large. He watched as the mass of creatures threw themselves at the walls again and again, only to be repelled by the men on the battlements above. Multitudes of arrows, lit with fire, arched over the walls at the enemy below, answered in turn by the same from those laying seige. Even as he watched, a company of Skraeg slowly made their way toward the wall pushing a large, wheeled battering ram with them. Many of them would fall to arrows, only to be replaced by more grey skinned beasts intent on breaching the gates and entering the city. He knew a slaughter would soon come after. This attack was not expected, and there was little warning, Jarren assumed. Otherwise they would have encountered more refugees fleeing the city, not the few dozen they found dead. The few fleeing citizens of Eagle's Crest had tried to leave too late, and were chased down and slaughtered on the run. How could such a large force have arrived at the walls of Eagle's Crest undetected? He shook his head, a little in sadness, a little in anger. That so many enemy were able to march undetected to the very walls of the city disgusted him. He turned his horse, growing tired of watching the inevitable doom of the city, and ready to return to Tia, Marek, and Runner. There would be no going to Eagle's Crest. The city would likely be taken before dawn. He rode past the bodies of the Skraeg he fought earlier, already half buried in the falling snow, and knew the bodies of those fleeing the city would be buried soon as well. How many, he wondered, would be buried thus in the Long Winter, and with it, the great war that appeared to have already begun.

Tia and Marek conversed quietly, sitting and warming their hands before the low fire. Runner lay nearby with his head resting upon his forelegs, occasionally raising his hears as he appeared to wait for Jarren's return. The snow had begun to fall heavily now, and Marek looked out of the low, concaved hillside in worry.

"He's been gone a long while," he said.

"I worry for him as well, Marek," the elven woman replied. "But Eagle's Crest is a ways from here, and Jarren knows well how to protect himself."

"He comes," Silverprince sent his thoughts to Tia, and an instant later the large wolf's ears perked up and he stood wagging his tail. A moment later they heard horse hooves crunching on the snow and Jarren came around the hill and into the glow of their fire. He looked grim as he lowered himself out of the saddle and to the ground. Tia'ialla noticed spots of blood on the grey side of his cloak and on his face, as well as spatterings upon his gloved hands, and the sleeves of his shirt.

"You've been in a fight?" The e'eld woman asked, concern on her features as she stood.

"I am unharmed," he assured her. "But yes—three Skraeg I encountered on my way to Eagle's Crest." He knelt by the fire warming his hands as the others looked at him expectantly. "Eagle's Crest is under seige," he continued. Marek looked at the tall man in surprise, while Tia gazed at him silently, waiting for more information. But Jarren hesitated, his jaw clenched, in obvious agitation.

"How do they fare?" she finally asked.

"I have no doubt the city will be taken by dawn, Tia," he said. "I've never seen so many Skraeg." He inhaled deeply through his nose and slowly exhaled, calming himself before continuing. "It seems many of the clans have united. I wonder if all of them have."

"Should we return to the Forever Lands?" Marek asked. "Should we inform Grea'oran what has happened?

"They will likely already know before we were to arrive," Tia answered. "And obviously far too late to be of any help to Eagle's Crest."

"I agree," Jarren said. "I want to ride for Rosenguarde. I'd like to think someone got out of Eagle's Crest to ride there and inform the king, but we can't be certain. And we should warn any villages or travelers along the way."

"What will happen to the people of Eagle's Crest?" Marek asked softly. Jarren simply looked at him, and slowly shook his head. That was all the answer the priest needed, and he bowed his head in prayer. A lump formed in his throat, but no tears came. It seemed, over the course of the last few days, he had run out of tears. Tia had bowed her head along with him, but Jarren stood and walked outside of the natural shelter, watching the snow fall, while the two prayed. "It's been long since I sought your guidance," he said. However, he could think of no more to say to the One God and turned around to rejoin the e'eld woman and the priest at the fire. When the two finally lifted their heads, he told them they should get some sleep. Dawn was fast approaching, and he wanted them to be well rested to begin their journey in the morning.

"No, my friend," Tia said. "You should sleep. You have been traveling hard, and fought, while we rested here. I will take watch for a couple hours, and Marek can afterward." Marek nodded his agreement.

"Thank you, e'eldsian," Jarren said, using the word for elven sister. "Keep a sharp ear, however. We cannot be sure more Skraeg won't come near."

"I will," she said. "And the roa'an will inform me as well if anyone comes near. Runner would likely hear them or catch their scent as well." Jarren nodded, and then wrapping himself tight in his cloak, lay down and was soon sleeping. "You should sleep as well, Marek," she said soon after.

"I'm not certain I'll be able," he admitted.

"Try—rest in the knowledge that the One God looks upon us," she said. Marek nodded and lay down, still uncertain he would be able to sleep, but as soon as he lay his head back, he closed his eyes and sleep covered him like an invisible blanket.

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In the darkness of the night, with the sound of chirping crickets and other insects in the Griffinwood behind her, Annyaa hugged her arms to her body as she sat on the damp ground, her ribs aching from being slung front first over a horse for what seemed like another day of countless miles. Her long brown hair was a nest of tangles, and her plain white dress was filthy, torn at the hem, and torn at the right shoulder. Her face was covered in dirt and grime, streaked where her tears rolled like rivers, cutting a cavern in the dust of travel. The tears were more from the pain of her ribs bouncing against the horses back, than from fear now. She was certainly frightened, but had ceased to cry from fear, not wanting to give her captors the satisfaction of knowing she was scared to death. Borian, the priest, helped with his praying and quoting hopeful messages from The Teachings, assuring her that although their situation was dire, the One God watched them from the heavens and would give them strength and peace through their ordeal. Annyaa did not feel at peace, however, but she hoped upon the One God and prayed for deliverance for both her and Borian. If not for Borian, she feared, she surely would have gone mad by now. His hope alone gave her strength, and kept her own hope burning—a hope that somehow, some way, they would find a way to escape or be rescued. She thought of the moment she ran to Borian's aid, and the hard backhanded slap that drove her to her back. As she struggled painfully to regain her breath after having the wind knocked from her lungs, she saw the recently returned Drogan, rushing to her aid, only to receive a sharp blow to the head by a rider's sword pommel. The strong man was out cold before his knees gave out, and he fell to the ground in a heap. She was uncertain why she seemed to care so much, and everything happened so quickly, she had little time to think about it anyway. One thing was evident; she was angry. She was known to have a temper, unafraid to scold a visitor at her fathers inn and tavern when he became—dishonorable in his treatment of her. Many times she had slapped, yelled, pointed her finger at, thrown food, or poured a mug of ale on someone's head, for an ungentlemanly remark—or sometimes worse. And when she was able to breathe again, and saw her father struggling to break free of Halin, and Drogan laying in a heap on the ground, Borian being bound hand and foot, and tasted the blood from her split lip—that temper surfaced. She was still holding onto the mug and towel she had been carrying when her and her father walked outside the White Swan to see what the commotion outside was about. She saw Drogan lying in a heap; she had always liked him, even though he hardly noticed she was alive when they were younger. She felt the heat behind her eyes, and itching at the top of her ears. She saw the smug look upon the man who had been speaking; the commander of these men who had waltzed into her home village and were seizing Borian for no apparent reason, and without thinking, she launched the mug right at the tall dark haired soldier, knocking that smug look right off of his face as he fell backward out of his saddle and landed hard on the ground. As soon as she started walking toward the man to give him a real taste of her anger, everything went black. She woke up later, bouncing her ribs against a horse's broad back and her head aching where she had received a blow much like Drogan's. Borian sat next her, his back against a hollowed out log, occasionally poking his sore ribs as well. She felt so bad for him. Over the course of the journey he had been treated far worse than her; his lip was split and he had a deep cut over one swollen eye. He had been kicked, pushed, thrown off a horse every time they stopped to rest, spit on and punched. His shoulder length shaggy brown hair looked no better than hers, and his white robe was torn and more brown than white now. He somehow still managed to smile, and his blue eyes sparkled, when he prayed with her or tried to lift her spirits. About the same age, they had long been friends, and they spoke often when she was not working at the White Swan, or he was not busy with the temple. Andorin spoke little, and bothered them not, and in fact had killed the man that had given the two the most grief, not that it helped matters much. He was still planning on turning them over to someone, for something, and planning on getting some form of payment in the process. He looked at her angrily when he would put a hand to the cut on his right eye, and she would stare back defiantly until his attention was drawn elsewhere. He was a dangerous man, she found out quickly, and she supposed she should be thankful her and Borian yet lived. But she so badly wanted to get away, to return home and be held by her father. And that did it—thinking about her father caused the tears to come strongly, and as much as she tried to hold them at bay they flowed freely, carving new lines upon her dirtied face. She thought of the stories she used to read as a child, of damsels in distress held captive by ogres, goblins, and monsters, and of the tall strong warriors and princes that would save them. How she wished someone would ride out of the darkness to rescue her from the monster that sat by the fire now, again looking at her in anger while poking at the cut upon his brow. She shook her head as she cried. Children's stories, she thought to herself angrily. This was real. There would be no champion hero in armor of gold.

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Drogan led the company of riders hard throughout the night, determined to close the distance and stop Andorin before he could do in another village what had been done in Misting Hill. Halin, now wearing a chain mail hauberk, with a sword at his belt, had been riding point and keeping a close eye on the tracks before him, when he put his hand up to halt those behind him. They were gaining quickly on the others, who were apparently slowing down for the night. Remmin mentioned the nearest town was yet another two hour ride, around the southern edge of the Griffinwood. He guessed they would rest for the night, likely on the outskirts of the forest, and continue to the town of Autumnleaf at dawn. Drogan, wanting to hurry, knew Remmin may be right, and they continued slowly. When Halin held up his hand the second time, he cautioned Drogan to move everyone off the main road, and out of sight.

"I believe I saw a faint glow ahead, Drogan," he said. "Might have been my imagination, but it may be a fire. I'd like a closer look." Drogan nodded in agreement.

"Be careful," The acting lieutenant said. "Be wary of guards posted." Halin checked the knife at his belt and made sure the sword at his side was secure, before shouldering his bow and disappearing into the tall grasses. Faldrek and Remmin began moving the company off the road to the shadows of a low hill in the distance. Drogan caught up and handed his reigns to Faldrek and then waited, kneeling in the grass near the road for Halin's return.

Halin did not have to travel long before he was certain of the small campfire in the distance. He moved slowly through the tall grasses, staying low, as though he were stalking game. Finding the sentries was easy this time and he was able to stay clear of them. The camp was made on the edge of the Griffinwood, and Halin decided to enter their dark shadows so he could move closer and undetected for a closer view, so he cut wide to his right to put distance between himself and any more sentries. He was always silent, and always watchful, moving like a predator in search of prey, and soon he entered into the darkened tree line where he slowly cut back to his left eying the glow of the campfire between the trees. He kept a close eye out for Annyaa and Borian as he watched the soldiers within the camp, sitting and talking quietly to one another. When he saw them, their backs were turned to him as they sat leaning against an old log. He badly wanted to get their attention, to let them know help was soon coming. If he could crawl along the ground through the tall grasses he may be able get behind them without being seen, but it would be very risky. One or both of them could be startled and cry out, dooming him, and dooming their rescue in the process. Finally, after a long few minutes of thought, he decided to act on the side of caution and simply took mental note of where those on watch were standing sentry and the location of the two prisoners, before turning back and retracing his steps to Drogan and the others.

"Bah... " Halin said disgustedly when he met Drogan just off the road, and they walked toward the others at the base of the low hill. "They were less than a stone's throw in front of me! If I'd been a few years younger I might have risked sneaking in and cutting their binds. But I'm out of breath as it is and I thought it too risky. It's been long since I've worn so much steel," he said indicating the chain mail hauberk and the sword now at his side.

"No matter, Halin," Drogan said and patted him on the shoulder. "You did well again, and you have the strength and stamina of someone half your age." Halin then told him and the others the location of the camp, where the prisoners were sitting, and how the sentries were spaced out. "I made a count of the men, and they're all outside of the tree line," he concluded.

"A serious mistake," Faldrek said.

"That we can take full advantage of," Remmin added.

"I agree," Drogan said. "We'll split into two squads. Halin and I will accompany your squad in the woods, Remmin, where we'll wait for Faldrek and his men to sneak through the grasses and silently dispatch of the sentries."

"Alive if possible?" Faldrek asked.

"If possible, yes." Drogan said. "Once that's accomplished and we see you moving toward the camp we'll come out of the trees and surround Andorin and his men between us, before they have a chance to arm themselves." He looked to Remmin and Halin. "You two will immediately move to secure the prisoners. I want no harm coming to them." They all nodded, and Faldrek and Remmin both went over the plan with their squads.

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Annyaa, shivering, watched the fire as Borian lay back with his eyes closed. "Are you sleeping?" she asked turning toward him.

"No, Annyaa," the priest replied quietly. "I'm just resting—thinking."

"I'm cold, Borian."

"As am I," he said, opening his eyes to look at her.

"You—wouldn't think wrongly of me if I leaned against you?" Despite the dire circumstances, Borian smiled and was soon laughing quietly, tears of both laughter and pain falling down his face, as he tried to hug his bruised ribs with bound hands. Annyaa was soon laughing as well, and before long they couldn't laugh quietly anymore and were chuckling and laughing out loud, both trying to hold their bruised ribs. Andorin and the other men were staring at the two as though they had finally both snapped and gone mad.

"No!" Borian said in his laughter. "Of course I wouldn't! The One God knows it's cold, I'm sure. I don't think he would mind if we attempted to warm ourselves!" He continued to laugh, and wince in pain as Annyaa leaned against him, laughing and wincing as well.

"Good," she chuckled. "If my teeth chatter much more, they'll likely shatter."

Drogan and Halin watched the exchange from just within the tree line with Remmin and his squad on both sides of them, and turned to face each other, both raising a brow in wonderment.

"Well," Drogan whispered. "It seems they're in good spirits, at least." Halin nodded with a smile. They turned again, looking beyond the two prisoners and the soldiers in the camp. Soon, those standing guard would be subdued, and Faldrek and his squad would move toward the camp. When they saw them, that would be their signal to move out of the trees and hopefully catch the deserters by surprise, and there would be no bloodshed. Suddenly a shout was heard from beyond the camp, and Drogan knew that one of the sentries had discovered Faldrek's men before he could be silenced. Andorin was immediately on his feet with his sword drawn, pulling another man with him toward Annyaa and Borian, shouting at the others.

"The prisoners!" he shouted, anger on his features. The element of surprise gone, Faldrek and his men had no choice but to run into the camp as did Drogan and the others. Time seemed to slow. It was a race for the woman and the priest as Andorin and another, as well as Drogan and Halin, swords drawn, ran toward the two from opposite sides. Andorin was closer, and Annyaa turned to face the newcomers just as her captor snatched her by the arm and pulled her toward a horse. There was a look of surprise and recognition on her face as she saw Drogan and the big bearded hunter. Borian was able to duck the other man who tried to grab him and the man stumbled and fell. Trying to reach them, Drogan and the others were suddenly engaged in battle with the deserters, as were Faldrek and his men. Frustrated and angry, Drogan fought to get to Annyaa, but when he had finished one deserter, and attempted a run toward Andorin and his captive, another stood in his way. Andorin, reaching a horse, threw the woman face down over the animal's back and pulled himself into the saddle. One of Remmin's men reached them, but Andorin was quicker with the blade and the man fell dead. Borian stumbled forward hoping to help Annyaa in some way, and upon reaching the horse, reached up to try and pull her down. He grabbed her by her bound hands and pulled, just as Andorin stabbed downward with his blade.

Annyaa heard herself scream as the priest's face distorted in pain. His blue eyes seemed to apologize as his hands slowly released hers, and he fell to the ground. In a mad dash, with the battle going on all around him, Andorin spurred his horse and ran down two men as they tried to stop him. He broke through and rode straight into the tree line. Drogan cursed, and ran for the nearest horse. Most had bolted, but a few still stood within the camp, although nervous and agitated. Getting into the saddle was not easy, as the horse tried to turn away from him. Finally reaching the saddle he spurred the horse and gave chase, leaves and branches from the trees slapping his face and body as he rode between them. Andorin was not yet out of sight, and Drogan leaned low in the saddle to protect himself from forest growth while riding hard. He could ride faster than the other, he knew; he wasn't trying to hold onto a prisoner and ride at the same time. He heard someone shout his name and looked back to see another rider break through the tree line to help in the chase. "Andorin!" Drogan called. "Give up now! You cannot get away!" He heard the sound of hooves on wood, and knew that up ahead Andorin had ridden onto a bridge. When he reached the rope bridge spanning a narrow chasm with a river below, Andorin was already on the other side but no longer fleeing. Without thinking, Drogan rode onto the bridge, and as he neared the halfway point Andorin began hacking at the thick ropes with his sword.

"Drogan!" he heard Annyaa scream. "Go back!" He tried to turn his horse, but the bridge was too narrow and he had no time to back the horse up so he turned and leaped from the saddle, running back the way he had come as soon as his boots hit wood. He jumped for the other side a moment before one rope was severed. He looked back as the man who had followed, now dismounted, steadied him just inches from a drop. The bridge had twisted to the right, and the horse screamed as it fell a hundred feet to the river below. He turned and watched angrily as Andorin hacked at the other rope to finish the job. The tall dark haired warrior looked back at Drogan with hatred. When the rope was severed and the bridge fell toward Drogan's side of the chasm, Andorin turned his horse and hurried into the darkness. As they rode away, he could not take his eyes off of the fear filled eyes of Annyaa looking back at him. When they were out of sight, he turned to hurry back to the camp, the soldier following close behind and leading his mount.

Faldrek hurried up to him when he again entered the campsite. Their eyes met, and Drogan just shook his head. His old friend informed him there were wounded and dead on both sides, mostly among Andorin's men. And despite the chaos, they still had the surprise, and a number of them were subdued, or knocked out before they could pull their swords.

"What happened?" Drogan asked.

"The last of the sentries happened to turn just as he was about to be knocked out," he said. "He managed to give a shout before we could silence him." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Drogan."

Turning away, he found Halin kneeling before the lifeless body of Borian.

"He was a good man, Drogan." The big man sighed. "And braver than I knew. I saw him trying to help Annyaa, when he was killed." He looked up at the younger man questioningly.

"There was a bridge," Drogan explained. "He cut the ropes before I could cross." Kneeling beside Halin, he reached with one hand to close the still open eyes of Borian. "I'm going after them," he continued. "You're a good tracker. I could use you." Halin looked at him for a long moment.

"I was planning the same, Drogan," he said finally, before rising to stand. Drogan then turned to Faldrek and Remmin.

"Let's get the wounded to Autumnleaf where they can better be tended to," he said. "After they've had their wounds tended, get a good rest and begin your return with the deserters to Grey Home at dawn. I'll be going after Andorin from here."

"I'll be going with you," Faldrek said. "This mission isn't over until we get Andorin back to Grey Home as well. Remmin, take good care of my squad for me until I return."

"I will, Faldrek," Remmin said.

"Are you sure, Faldrek?" Drogan asked.

"Well, someone who's still officially a soldier needs to be on the mission. May as well be me." Drogan clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him. When everyone was in order, Remmin gave a salute to Drogan and Faldrek, and led the soldiers and the bound deserters toward Autumnleaf. Drogan decided they would have to take up the chase again at dawn. They needed rest, and would be hard pressed to track Andorin in the darkness of the forest. Also, they would have to find another way across the chasm, since the bridge was cut down. Andorin was likely not stopping again for the night, and Drogan worried about the distance he could be gaining, but tired and in the dark, they would have a hard time finding another way across and picking up the trail again. They'd have better results in daylight. He sat down, and shook his head. This was nobody's fault; just a plan gone wrong, but he still felt like he had let down Annyaa and Borian terribly. He lay back and closed his eyes, but immediately had to open them again. When he closed his eyes, he could see the fearful, pleading green eyes of the woman he had hoped to rescue slowly fading into the distant blackness of the forest.

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The man, still not remembering what happened to him, or who he was for that matter, lay back against a tree to rest for the night. He was weary and cold, having spent another day and most of the night traveling through the woods, searching for a way out. With none found, no roads or paths, only the river he followed, he decided to rest his tired body and begin anew at dawn. He was hungry, but was able to find berries here and there for nourishment, and drank from the cold water of the river when thirsty. "What happened to me?" he wondered. "I remember nothing of who I am, what I do, or even of any friends or family." He looked at the trees and growth of the forest around him, listened to the sounds of nocturnal life that surrounded him as well as the sound of the river, and looked at the stars peeking through the holes in the canopy of leaves and branches above. "Where would you have me go, Father?" he asked the One God silently, not knowing why he gave him the title, but thinking it felt right to do so. He decided he would continue to follow the path of the river until he found people that could help him, or he found his way out. At the moment, he decided, he would close his eyes and sleep.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010