The Spirit of Revenge (28 page)

Jiran nodded and leaned over the table. “Everything happens for a reason, Warriors. The attack on Andaurel, no matter what anyone says, was neither blind nor random. It was deliberate.

‘Despite your Dun Ara being vulnerable, Abaddon deliberately chose Andaurel as his target, and no such attack could have been conceived without intent. There indeed was a purpose behind it all, but that remains hidden for now.”

“But what of the attack on our town twenty two years ago?” Aaron asked Jiran. The Vilante pushed his empty mug forward and grabbed another from the tray.

“You are not the secret hand of kings as you were before. All of Tarsha knows of you and your journey to unite us like the Alliance of Ivandar long ago.

‘However, little information has been leaked of your various histories. Very few even know of the assault on Andaurel over two decades ago. I am not the one who has the answers you seek.”

“But what do you think?” Aaron asked him.

The man fingered his beard a moment. “I think…that both attacks were not random, they are more than arbitrary links in the chain of events.” Silence followed, no sound filled the room save the crackle of the fire.

“Damn it!” Cain cried out suddenly, slamming his mug on the table. “Why! Why has all of this happened to us?” He hung his head low, his hair falling over his face. He shook with repressed anger, suppressed sorrow.

His hand clenched fiercely around the handle of his mug, the other shaking on the table, nails digging into his palms.

“We’ve lost everything! We have nothing and we fight for nothing! Why us? Why any of us? No one deserves such suffering!” He continued to clench his fist until his knuckles turned white and blood trickled onto the tabletop. “No one deserves such suffering…”

C
ain rose from his bed heaving with exhaustion. Beads of sweat poured down his face. He panted heavily, blinking as he looked around the room.

His friends were asleep, sprawled under the thick wool sheets of their beds. A hearth was cut out of the stone on the opposing wall, a dying fire clinging desperately to life in its iron maw. Cain hung his head and closed his eyes before exhaling deeply.

Flashes of his past ravaged his thoughts. Andaurel’s buildings burning, men he had known his entire life dying around him, slaughtered by Abaddon’s ruthless puppets. His life narrowly taken in Abraxas, more lives falling forfeit to the wanton hand of death. The Knights of Iscara in Alon Heath who hunted them down like animals. Their lives hung ever on the brink, their sanity, his sanity, stepping one-step closer to the edge with every passing day.

Most of all however, images of his dead wife and son hung like shadows over his eyes, haunting his every thought. Eileen’s blood spilt across the earth, her body mutilated, his child reaching lifelessly to its father.

Cain sat up from his bed, tears brimming in his eyes. The moon peered occasionally through the clouds, its faint light filling the room before disappearing behind a shroud of passing clouds. The moonlight faded, darkening the room for a moment before slowly returning. Cain noticed Malecai under the window.

He sat atop his bed, left knee raised, his arm propped against it. His bright eyes gazed out the frosted window, the moon shining against his face.

A large cloud rolled across the sky, shielding the moon for several moments before casting the room in a pearly facade once again.

“Never think you are weak,” Malecai muttered in the still room. “Your scars make you stronger, never forget that.” Cain stared into the moon swathed face of his friend.

“Ideas lead to action, action leads to character, and a man’s character shapes the path he must follow. Yours is that of revenge, a path that reaps naught but death and sorrow; for this you have set upon yourself…and if you are not careful, it will lead only to your downfall.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

The room fell to darkness once again. Malecai’s eyes seemed to pierce the very blackness profound. “You will come to understand, before the end of it all.”

Morning came at last, filling the city of Ilross with the rays of early morn. The sunlight split the skies and the clouds rolled away, bathing the earth in an array of accruing hues.

The Warriors rose grudgingly out of their beds. They walked over towards the table beside the door and stretched with sleep.

A large tray of meats and cheeses sat on the tabletop. A long loaf of bread and a bowl of fat lay beside a pitcher of slightly dirty water.

They donned their armor and ate heartily, emptying the tray of its contents as the room filled with the sun’s amber light.

Cain set his empty goblet on the tray. “Let’s go.” He threw open the door and led the others out of the room.

They walked down the long hall, their boots echoing loudly in the silence. They followed the winding halls and soon came out into the main room.

Several men and women were dotted across the various tables, eating and drinking merrily with the vigor of a new day.

Jiran stood in front of the door, blocking the exit with his tall frame. “You weren’t thinking of leaving without a goodbye were you?”

“We must get to Morven as quickly as possible, we dare not tarry,” Malecai said as he shouldered his broadsword.

Jiran nodded. “Of course, I wouldn’t think to delay you any further than I already have.” He stepped aside from the door and unfolded his arms.

“Good luck to all of you. We Vilante wish you well.” Suddenly, every man and woman in the room stood up from his or her seat. Silence followed as the Vilante proudly saluted the Warriors.

The Warriors saluted back and turned to Jiran. “Thank you for everything, Jiran,” Cain thanked the man.

After shaking his hand, they followed Malecai out the door. “Goodbye Warriors…our paths will cross again someday,” Jiran called out after them. “May the good will of Tarsha be with you.” He returned to the inn with a final wave and closed the tavern door.

The Warriors left the inn and followed the road north. The tan brick of the main road led them through the middle of Ilross, the tall gray and brown buildings covered in freshly fallen snow.

Men and women roamed the streets, children weaving playfully through the crowds. Soldiers and Vilante patrolled the road, tirelessly protecting this isolated town.

Following the main road, the Warriors soon came to the edge of the town and stopped before a field of snow.

“Morven is about seven days from here,” Malecai informed the group. “Our time runs thin.”

The seven stepped from the edge of Ilross and left the city behind. They trudged across the field and gradually approached the feet of the surrounding mountains.

As they walked into the shadow of a mountain, they noticed a small path cutting up its side. They began to climb this steep path, their knees sinking into the snowy furrows.

Eventually, they ascended the pathway and came to a long valley-like formation that cut its way through the mountains.

They soon came out of the other end of the gorge, stepping from the shadows as they came out onto a large plateau.

The travelers crossed the rocky plateau and came before the edge. They stood awestruck at what lay before them.

Hundreds of mountains seemed to fill all the earth, dotted across a jagged and twisted landscape. The mountains stood like monolith watchmen over their domain. They stretched far into the clouds, their peaks embellished in sunlight, their cragged forms garnished in robes of ivory. The Warriors stood now before all of Erias, its true face revealed at last.

Malecai glanced at the others as they stood in disbelief at the battle ahead. “Erias…it is beautiful is it not?” The others nodded in reverential silence.

He turned and gazed out over the endless expanse before them. “Seven days…make that a fortnight.”

For weeks, the Warriors traveled across Erias, slowly crossing the vast wilderness, passing over mountains and endless valley chains, trudging through the snow and ice ever towards the country’s capital.

Snowstorms blew across the countryside, striking with crippling winds and blinding snow. The sun rose and fell, its perpetual cycle binding the horizon lines, days blending and nights slipping ever to dreams.

Over two fortnights had passed as the Warriors at last arrived at the doorstep of Morven.

The sun peered over the eastern horizon as they came to a lofty hill. The travelers ascended the slope as it wound its way through the forests. Eventually they came out atop its crest and paused to catch their breath.

An enormous snow-covered expanse stretched for miles ahead of them. Numerous mountains lined the field and a chain of peaks extended from these, stretching southwest across half the field. The Alar River poured from the mouth of these beasts, flowing southwest across the expanse before being swallowed by the surrounding mountains.

The citadel of Morven, capital of Erias and the mighty jewel of Tarsha stood defiant in the middle of the field, its imposing walls stretching for miles in all directions, forming a kind of misshapen oval that encompassed the Icadras Mountains.

The mighty Alar split the citadel in half, running from one side to the other through great sluice gates.

The walls of the city towered far above the surrounding plains, well over twenty yards in height and many in girth, fashioned entirely of white and silver stone.

Every few yards along the causeways were outcroppings that housed immense trebuchets. The great beasts of war eyed the edges of the field, monstrous stones loaded in their nets ready at a moment’s command.

Thousands of armored men roamed the causeways, pacing the intricate network of bridges and catwalks that loomed far above the city.

From the Warriors’ vantage point, they noticed thousands upon thousands of gray buildings that filled the interior of the city’s walls like the sands of a shore. White limestone roads webbed through the city. Two mountains loomed far above the mightiest of buildings, one on the farthest bank of the Alar, the other on the southern half.

“This,” Adriel stammered as they stared in disbelief at the majesty before them, “This is amazing…” The group stood in wonder at the gem of Erias shining over them.

“The armies of Andred would be foolish to attack such a city,” Aaron muttered after moments of silence.

“Foolish?” Malecai retorted, “Or wise?”

“Either way…” Cain shrugged, “We’ve got a job to do, let’s see that it gets done.”

The others nodded in response and the group began the long descent towards the city. They eventually came to the edge of the field, ice thrashing about them as they fought through the endless expanse.

After nearly an hour of walking, their legs numb from cold and bodies haggard, they at last came to the front gates of the city.

Two lofty statues stood on either side of the doors, looming many yards above both gate and wall. They were identical in appearance, made of pure granite to match the surrounding snow.

They were carved in the likeness of kings, armored head to foot and regal swords raised above their heads, blades crossing in midair above the city.

The Warriors approached the gates, their eyes raised to the heavens in awe as they stared up at the statues, the mere toes of which were to their heads.

The gate between the kings nearly reached the top of the walls around it. The doors were fashioned of darkened iron, its edges lined with tempered steel. Murals of clashing armies and winged beasts covered the doors, all ornately fashioned of bronze.

The doors were securely shut and sealed; not a handle or latch to be found on the outside of the seemingly impenetrable gates. These doors formed the only entrance in the endless miles of walls, daunting and forever indomitable.

Several men in steel plate armor peered over the gate, curiously eyeing the distant travelers below.

“We are the Warriors!” Malecai cried up to the guards. “Let us in!”

“We were informed of only four!” one of the guards shouted, “Yet you bring seven!”

“We need all the swords we can get!” Cain replied.

“Very well!” the sentry answered. “Stand back!” The guards left the edge of the causeway. Soon, the grinding of rusted iron rang out across the city as gears cranked in some hidden pocket of the city’s wall.