Marked (13 page)

“His Royal Highness, Monarch of Rogdon? What has happened, Mother Healer?” inquired Aliana, worried and a bit frightened.

“The King’s son was struck by an enemy arrow in an ambush. It is suspected to be the work of assassins from the Nocean Empire... the men of the desert. The royal surgeons have done everything they possibly can but they believe the arrow was poisoned with some kind of foreign substance—an extremely potent, unknown toxin. The Prince’s life is slipping away and the King has asked that we intercede immediately.”

“Such sobering news... this is terribly serious...” Aliana was nearly whispering, trying to imagine the implications and possible repercussions of an assassination attempt on the Prince who was heir to the crown of Rogdon. Relations with the Nocean Empire were always tense; the children of the desert were cunning and always seeking to broaden their power by expanding to the north... but an assassination attempt?... The audacity... it was unthinkable. In any case, they had to save the Prince.

“I am sure you will be able to neutralize the poison, Teacher,” said Aliana with measured optimism.

“I am not so sure, my daughter. My Gift of healing is depleting, little by little. I no longer have even half the power I had before and, unfortunately, it does not regenerate itself,” the leader confessed, decidedly troubled.

Aliana lowered her head. “I am so sorry, Teacher; I was not aware that your power was waning.

“Actually, daughter, that is why I need you to accompany me this time. Your Gift is exceptionally powerful and it is quite possible that we shall need it. I want you to be by my side at all times. It is of vital importance for the kingdom that we save the Prince. Not only that, but we owe them a very important debt of gratitude. The royal family of Rogdon has accepted and protected our Order from practically its inception. This is a unique opportunity to repay that debt.”

“You could ask other Healers with more experience to accompany you. There are nearly two dozen sisters in the Order with a well-developed Gift of Healing, and I am among the youngest.”

“I know, my daughter. The Gift does not manifest itself much in Tremia. An Order of more than one hundred fifty Sisters and only about twenty who are blessed with the Gift of Healing. Let us hope that the Light blesses us with more Healing sisters in the near future. But for this delicate task I want you to be the one to accompany me; your power is far superior to that of any of your sisters.”

“I will do everything in my power to help you, Teacher,” Aliana humbly replied.

“Let us hurry, then, to gather our most potent antivenoms, antidotes and balms and leave immediately for the capital. The horses are being readied and a royal escort is waiting for us—a regiment of the Royal Lancers of Rogdon. A sentry of fifteen of our Protectress Sisters will also be escorting us; as you know I do not like leaving our refuge if not in their company. It would not be the first time we fell into an ambush because we were overconfident.”

“Be longsighted and suspicious and you will live to see one hundred,” recited Aliana, smiling slyly.

“You have no idea how very true that is, dear daughter...”

They heard the unmistakable sound of battle as it was ushered along by the wind. The pealing of steel on steel and the shouts of the armed confrontation were softened by the distance, floating to them across an invisible current. To their young but experienced ears, that sound and the bloody message that went along with it were unequivocal. The tragic presence of death was patently clear, dangerously near. Hartz and Komir stopped in their tracks. They grabbed their weapons and looked around them, tense and alert. The trail they had been following crossed through a pine forest, but just then they were surrounded only by underbrush and some trees. They focused their attention and listened intently, not missing a single detail—just as Gudin had taught them—trying to extract valuable information from the muffled sounds coming to them on the breeze. They were like two young bears, lifting their snouts into the wind to catch a scent. 

“Quick! To the forest!” Komir quietly urged as he pointed at a hillside to their right.

Hartz gestured in agreement and promptly followed his friend.

They veered from the trail that led directly to where the battle was taking place and cautiously proceeded up toward the forest, to the refuge the woods would provide. They jogged quickly, taking care to step lightly so as not to make any noise. For two outdoorsmen like themselves, the forest was their best ally. They got to a bend in the path that bordered the rocky drop-off and stopped so they could peer over the edge. Komir crouched down and made his way to the rim, now able to see down into the clearing that spread out before them where the trail crossed an oval-shaped, open plain surrounded by forest.

A fierce battle was taking place in the middle of the open area. A large group of men dressed in purple and black, greater in number than their opponents, was attacking a small group wearing white and gray. The men in purple and black were wearing light leather armor reinforced with metal plates that covered their chest and back. Their legs were protected by tall riding boots, and on their shoulders and forearms they wore protective armor made of hardened leather. Each was armed with a short sword and a shield. By their style of fighting and equipment, Komir assumed they were a light assault force—agile fighters accustomed to clashes and hand to hand combat.

Conversely, the men in white and gray wore heavy armor with large rectangular shields that covered half their body. They held long, traditional one-handed swords with handles in the shape of a cross. Their heads were completely covered by a helmet with a slit cross piece which allowed them to see. Gauntlets and steel boots covered their extremities. Komir knew armor like that would make combat difficult, and the weight would eventually end up draining the combatants of energy.

The aggressors in the conflict they were witnessing were the large mobile assault force. They had cornered their victims—the much smaller, slower group—against the hillside at the mouth of the plateau. The leader of the group in purple and black was shouting orders to the rest of his men. They were trying to break through the barrier of shields the defenders were holding up, apparently in an effort to protect one person who was in the middle of the semicircle they had formed.

“What do you think?” asked Hartz as he stretched out face down next to Komir.

“Well... I count sixteen attackers in light armor and seven defenders in heavy armor. The attackers’ faces are completely covered by some kind of mask... strange... and I don’t see any emblem or a flag from any kingdom that would indicate they might be soldiers. They’re not soldiers from Rogdon, that’s for sure. I’d say they’re bandits or mercenaries since they know how to fight; they aren’t just simple thieves. I don’t know; I don’t have a good feeling about this...  The ones in white and gray are wearing heavy armor with what looks like some region’s coat of arms. They seem to be protecting someone... it must be their lord. I could be wrong but I’d say this was an ambush,” deduced Komir.

“I think so, too,” concurred the brawny Norriel. “If you look at the ones who’ve already fallen, you can tell the attackers came at them from both sides of the trail. Should we intervene?” asked Hartz, the excitement apparent in his voice. “If we don’t do something soon they’ll all die. The leader of the assailants is ordering them to attack the flanks, and if they do that their defensive circle will fail.”

“Yes, you’re right. That is probably what will happen. We better not get mixed on this, we don’t know what’s going on and we can get killed.” Komir was trying to convince his friend as much as himself.

“If we don’t help, we’ll be letting those thieves get away with murder.”

“Why are you going to risk your life for something that doesn’t concern you?”

“Because otherwise this life would be really boring.” Hartz flashed a huge smile as he began to stand up.

“There are too many of them; we couldn’t handle all of them. If we attack we’d have to take on almost a dozen at once and there are only two of us. It would be suicide.”

“We’ve got surprise on our side, and we’re in an elevated, protected spot. That would even things up. But you already know that; you’re much more clever than I am about this sort of thing.” 

“Hartz, listen to me, please. It is too dangerous.”

His friend shook his head.

Komir knew the reason Hartz could not keep from jumping in was that his soft-hearted friend could not accept that those men were going to be killed. “Let’s get out of here; otherwise they’re bound to see us.” Still crouching down, Komir very carefully turned around to slip away.

He suddenly heard a strange cracking sound behind him, and immediately turned his head to see what it was.

“Komir!” Hartz gasped in distress. He’d lost his footing when turning back from the cliff and his mighty body listed irrecoverably backwards, over the edge of the cliff. His wide-opened arms flailed desperately in a vain attempt to regain his balance and keep from falling over the side.

Komir’s heart thumped so forcefully he thought it would explode through his chest. Instinctively, he reached out his hand to try to grab onto Hartz and keep him from going over the edge.

But his hand clutched nothing but air.

Hartz fell backwards, rolling and tumbling downhill.

Komir ran to the edge and watched in dismay as the great Norriel plunged violently downward, losing his bearskin cape on the brutal descent. He was barreling over ground, underbrush, rocks, and trees. Finally, with a noisy thud, he landed against a tree at the foot of the hill. Komir cringed and clenched his teeth when he saw the impact. He instantly asked the three Goddesses for a miracle: that the fighters hadn’t noticed his friend’s mishap.

But the Goddesses were not listening.

Several of the assailants—including their leader—had already realized something was going on. They instantly noticed Hartz lying at the edge of the clearing. The leader was gesticulating wildly, apparently ordering four of his men to go to the fallen Norriel. The henchmen took off running.  

Fear seized Komir. His very soul shrank within him as if being wrung out in the hands of a giant. They would have to fight for their lives, and the outlook was certainly grim.

He jumped up and swiftly got the bow that was hanging from his back as he dropped his bearskin cape on the ground.

He had to protect his friend—he had to help him!

The four thieves were running toward Hartz, brandishing their weapons.

Hartz had gotten up, but he looked stunned and disoriented. Miraculously, his bow was still fastened to his body. In the quiver, which was now hanging at his knees, was a single arrow.

Komir nocked a black-feathered arrow onto the bowstring. He had to buy them a little time so Hartz could recover and have a fighting chance. He aimed, inhaled deeply, and released the bowstring. The arrow shot through the sky in a descending arc, emitting a hissing sound as it cut through the air. It stuck with a hollow thud into the chest of the attacker in front. The unfortunate man stared in horror at the unexpected arrow—then dropped to the ground, dead.

The three remaining attackers immediately stopped their advance, their eyes scanning the area to locate the threat. One of them spotted Komir and pointed with his sword. His companions immediately saw him as well, and nodded. As if by instinct, Komir armed his bow again and swiftly took another shot without thinking twice. It hit the henchman who had pointed him out in the stomach. He dropped the sword, looked down at the arrow protruding from him and stumbled, doubling over and wailing in pain. Komir silently gave thanks to his dead father for having taught him to use a bow and arrow and for the innumerable hours of hunting they had shared in the mountains and forests of the highlands.

The other two assailants hesitated, unable to decide whether to advance or retreat.

And that was precisely what Komir needed. While placing another arrow on the bow he could see out of the corner of his eye that, down below, Hartz had recovered a bit more from his terrible fall and was quickly arming his bow.

But the two attackers, spurred on by their leader’s shouting, launched themselves at Hartz.

They were less than five steps away.

Two arrows with two distinct trajectories hit the doomed henchmen with maximum velocity and force. Their race brutally interrupted, both men fell back. One struck in the stomach, the other in the lung, they lay there on the ground, dying. They would last no more than a few moments longer.

Komir did not like having to kill these men but there was nothing he could have done. Their own lives were in danger. That was the nature of combat. It was neither noble nor dignified as he had imagined it in the daydreams of his youth. Quite the contrary. It was brutal, savage, and merciless. Komir knew that all too well, and he despised it. He watched as Hartz put down his bow and unsheathed his sword. Hartz looked at him and, with a tilt of his head, asked what to do. Komir looked toward the bloody fight and saw the leader sending four more men to finish off Hartz. Not giving it a second thought, he gestured to his friend to head over to the trail and then promptly started down the hill to help him. As he was running and jumping over the undergrowth and roots he dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword.

He had to get to his friend to help him.

Together, maybe they would have a chance of getting out of this predicament with their lives.

Hartz waited restlessly, still in significant pain. His body had taken a colossal beating and he cursed his enormous clumsiness. His size was matched only by his lack of coordination, and that frustrated him greatly.
Which one of the three Goddesses might I have offended for them to punish me with this way?

The four men came rushing at him with intent to kill, shrieking violently. Although Hartz felt afraid, this was not the first time he’d been face to face with death. He had spilled enemy blood and killed during combat while defending the Bikia coasts from pirate raids. He and Komir had fought together, but they had been surrounded at all times by experienced Norriel warriors. Today they were alone, just the two of them, with no one to help and—heading straight for them—enemies determined to end their lives. He regretted having asked Komir to get mixed up in this battle. Sometimes his desire to crush a few skulls took charge and he did not stop to think things over first. Now they were in quite a fix and, once again, it was his fault. He felt bad about it now and, as if trying to rid himself of his discomfort, he gave his head a good shake.

Komir appeared behind him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, panting.

“Yes, thanks. They’re coming...”

“Shoulder to shoulder, my friend.”

“Norriel are we, Norriel shall we die!”

Hartz got ready for the first attacker. He raised his sword and executed a powerful diagonal chest cut that his enemy almost failed to block. He followed that with a forceful cross cut; with a resounding
crash
his victim fell on his back. Filling his lungs with air, he let out the Irruli, the fearsome Norriel battle cry, then faced the second enemy who was already on him. The piercing, ear-shattering din of the cry exploded across the whole plateau and struck fear in the hearts of the enemy.

Komir drew his hunting knife with his left hand as he advanced toward the henchman running toward them. The extremely sharp weapon—more a machete than a knife—was the size of a short sword and had been a gift from his father. Komir cherished it. It was of exquisite quality, perfectly balanced and light; it was a masterpiece. Created in Orrio by the Master Smith Althor years before, it had initially belonged to his grandfather, then to his father, and now he had the honor of carrying it. It was always with him, wherever he went, at the ready on his belt. The knife filled him with valor and calmed his spirit, dispelling the fear he was feeling. He blocked the enemy’s first attacked with the knife then, without hesitation, he swiftly and skillfully stabbed his sword into his opponent’s neck. The dying man’s eyes shone with terror as his blood splattered Komir’s face. Komir turned his face away—just in time to see and immediately block another attacker on his left. With one thrust, he drove the sharp blade of his knife into his rival’s leg, below the shield. The man fell to ground, bleeding profusely.

To his right, Hartz had just split open his opponent’s head in one brutal blow. When Komir saw that, he felt a bit more confident. His friend was a wondrous physical specimen while he himself was an extremely skilled swordsman; perhaps they could actually get out of there with their lives if they were careful... and just a little lucky.