Rise of the Red Harbinger (34 page)

Ronan laughed, “If you think our conversations would be complicated,”

“…you should hear our arguments.” Aron added with a wide grin.

“Enough. We must go. We will continue to ride for a few miles along the bank. If we cannot find a way to cross by then, we will swim.” No one argued with Garrison this time. He took the lead with Aron and the others followed. As they rode, Garrison realized their chances were likely futile. The river was wide and he knew it would not get any narrower as the rode closer to the House of Darian. In his previous travels, he normally led soldiers through Mireya and knew there were no bridges or crossings until the very end of the river, where it flowed out to the sea. It would take over an hour to reach that and there would surely be soldiers there. The crossing point would be too obvious. He took a deep breath and raised his hand as he slowed his horse.

Just as they’d come to a full stop, Aron came crashing into Garrison, which threw Garrison down to the ground. Garrison sat up, pulling his helmet off and rubbing blood and dirt from his eyes. Aron lay still before him with an arrow protruding from his head and blood seeping out. Garrison shook his head.
Kale was right. He is a fool. Stop. There is no time for this.
He stood up. The others had already turned away to defend themselves. His horse had been unharmed, but he decided against remounting. Garrison stepped forward to see a few dozen riders coming their way. More arrows hailed down toward them, but the riders were still far enough off that the arrows couldn’t pierce their armor.

Garrison quickly realized how Aron’s death could still help them. His companions had begun firing back upon the attackers. Garrison crouched down and hoisted Aron’s limp body into a sitting position. He removed his belt of pouches and loosed all of the brown pouches into a pile on the ground.
I apologize, my friend. At least your death will not be wasted.
Garrison pressed a pouch against Aron’s head where the blood oozed, and then stood and hurled it toward the attackers. The brown dust only needed a few seconds to react with the blood. Garrison threw it close enough that it could hit the ground before the reaction occurred. In a few moments, the ground rumbled in the distance. The first tremor threw two soldiers to the ground as their horses rollicked then turned and galloped away. A small hole opened in the ground which swallowed another rider and horse. Garrison would need to use the rest of the pouches quickly. Lewis, atop his horse, was the closest. “Lewis, come!” Garrison drew a dagger and deeply sliced open Aron’s thigh. Lewis crouched next to him. “These pouches need blood for the reaction and we need to throw them quickly! Use his thigh, then throw them at the ground between us and the riders!”

The boy, barely fifteen years, nodded. “Understood.”

Seven pouches remained, but if they could throw them all quickly enough, Garrison knew it could even the numbers between the two sides. He threw another bloodied pouch, killing four more soldiers. His companions fired arrows back but only managed to kill one rider so far. Garrison and Lewis threw two more pouches which landed right next to each other. The ground erupted and swallowed several more soldiers.

The tumult of the tremors caused their own horses to panic. The pack horses had already run off and Ronan and Marika had jumped off their horses to avoid being thrown. Marika threw off her helmet then pulled Garrison’s bow and arrows from his back. The soldiers were drawing in very close. Garrison knew his window for the brown dust was narrowing. He threw one more as Lewis stood to make a good throw. As Lewis brought his arm forward, an arrow struck his breastplate and staggered him. The pouch dropped to the ground in front of Lewis, who stood only a few feet before Garrison.
No. Not enough time to get it.
“Everyone get to the ground! Now!” Garrison rolled away. Marika dropped next to him while Kale and Yorik dove from their horses away from Lewis. Ronan had been standing next to Lewis and hesitated for a moment, as if not knowing which way to go.

The ground erupted from beneath Lewis, catapulting him toward the enemy soldiers. Garrison looked up from the ground and saw the soldiers drawing their bows toward Lewis. There would be no saving him.

Ronan was thrown several feet away, somersaulting through the air. He’d landed awkwardly on his head and didn’t move. From where Garrison lay, he couldn’t tell if Ronan had been knocked out, severely hurt, or killed. He would have to wait to find out. Aron’s body, along with the rest of the brown pouches, had been thrown in numerous directions. Yorik and Kale had ridden out toward the soldiers by the time Garrison had remembered about them. He had no idea how they’d reigned in their horses, but he didn’t care. His own horse milled about several yards away. Garrison ran to it and mounted it before it could think to run away. He rode out toward the soldiers. About fifteen remained and Yorik and Kale engaged them, while Marika fired more arrows from afar. Garrison readied his first spear and vaulted it toward a group of soldiers, striking one and knocking him from his horse. Without hesitation, Garrison clutched his second spear and hurled it harder than the first. This one struck a man through the neck and tossed him so hard that he knocked another soldier from his horse. He rode closer to engage.

Only then did Garrison realize that Yorik had fallen to the ground in the middle of four soldiers while Kale clashed swords with three more. Kale had killed three already. Garrison glanced back at Marika, who was running toward the soldiers with a sword in her hand. A deathly scream turned Garrison’s head toward Kale. The soldiers had taken him down as well. “Marika! To the river!” There was no longer any sense in hand to hand combat. Ten soldiers remained and Garrison only had Marika left. He turned his horse toward Marika. She had been much closer to the river and ran toward it.

It took a few moments before all of the soldiers realized Garrison and Marika still lived. Once the two were noticed, the soldiers climbed their horses and pursued. Marika ran to the edge of the water and Garrison met her there. He looked behind them then turned to Marika, “They have no more arrows! If we swim, we may be safe. They cannot cut us down and swim at the same time!”

Marika shook her head, “Boy, we are too tired. We would drown before making it across.”

“Stones of Gideon! Then what do you suggest? We would die if we stayed to fight!”

Marika closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. “You will tell no one of this. And if we ever meet another Taurani, you will never speak of this.” Marika closed her fists tightly and lowered her head as if trying desperately to concentrate.

Garrison realized what she was attempting to do.
Impossible. Stones of Gideon, Taurani cannot…

Loud crackles came from the river and Garrison turned back toward it. It had become a sheet of ice as far as he could see in either direction. Marika dropped to her hands and knees loudly. The riders were closing in.

Marika looked up at the river, “We must…” as she fell forward, Garrison saw the handle of the knife protruding from the back of her head.

“NO!” The riders were within twenty feet. Garrison commanded his horse to a gallop and rode across the ice. His horse slowed to a nervous trot, but Garrison knew even that was asking a great deal from the steed. Even with horseshoes, there would be no traction on the ice.
They will have the same problem.
Garrison whispered in the horse’s ear, “Just be steady, my friend.” He glanced back and quickly realized that his pursuers were having difficulty following him, a result of urging their horses impatiently.

He dared to take a longer look behind. The soldiers all held their horses’ reins tightly with both hands. Garrison felt his waist to ensure he still had daggers. Still there.
But how do I throw them from here?
He pondered the question for several moments as his horse skittered on. W
ait. The saddle. Of course! Ten against one. The only time I will have any advantage is right now. Might as well take the risk.
Garrison kept one foot in the stirrup and brought his right to the saddle. He placed it in the holster at the front of the saddle then braced his hands so he could bring the other foot up. Once both feet were secure, he crouched sideways atop the horse as it trotted slowly.

The ten soldiers were not far behind, but their horses slid as they ran, preventing them from gaining any ground. Garrison pulled the first dagger and threw. It actually hit a soldier in the face with its handle rather than the blade, but the man was only stunned. He tried once more and struck another soldier in the throat. Garrison knew the hit was more luck than skill, given the bouncing of his horse.
I have no choice.
He aimed the next dagger at the lead horse and struck it in the face.
Forgive me, Orijin.
The horse neighed wildly and bucked its rider from the saddle, then flailed its head crazily and collided with another horse, sending both falling to the ice.
Eight remain.
Garrison had seven daggers left. If only he could be so lucky with the rest.

The next two he threw missed completely and the third struck a horse in the shoulder, but barely impeded the beast. He could not garner much motion for an accurate throw, considering he was crouching, bouncing up and down, and gripping the saddle with his left hand. The next dagger struck another horse in the side of the neck. It panicked and crashed to the ice, crushing its rider beneath it in the process.
May the Orijin bless you, Marika.

After missing with his remaining daggers, Garrison accepted the desperation of his situation. He removed his helmet and threw it at the feet of the closest horse. As it attempted to sidestep the helmet, the horse slipped on the ice and slid sideways. Garrison swore he heard the snaps of bones in the process. The sliding horse caused another behind it to attempt to jump over it, but when the horse landed, it lost its footing and tossed its rider, then fell to the ice as well.
Five more.

Garrison reached to his back and threw his swords, one after the other. Only one successfully brought a horse down. He had nothing left to throw. He glanced forward again to see where the horse was going. The other side of the river was not far. Just as Garrison began to think about what to do once reaching the bank, one of the soldiers threw a sword at Garrison, which missed. But it had come close enough that Garrison realized he would go down with the horse if it was struck and he was strapped in to the holsters. He loosened his feet enough to be able to jump out if necessary. As if reading Garrison’s mind, another soldier followed suit in throwing his sword. The blade also missed Garrison, but struck his horse in the leg. As soon as Garrison saw the sword strike, he launched himself to the ice. He let his breastplate break his fall and then quickly stood. The bank was no more than a hundred yards away. He pulled off the breastplate and hurled it toward the remaining pursuers.

Garrison turned and ran without waiting to see the result. His pace was surprisingly fast despite the continuous pain in his knee and ankle. He soon reached the bank and, once on firm ground, turned to assess his pursuers. In the distance, four ran toward him, none on their horses, while a fifth hobbled behind. Judging by the distance, Garrison had barely a minute on them. He turned and ran toward the mountain on the horizon, which he gauged at nearly two miles off. That was the entrance to the House of Darian.

The towering peak before him seemed so close. Violence chased him while the mountain sat at peace in solitude before the sea. His feet ached of weariness and rawness, and they kicked up as much dust as the five men behind him. The mountain drew nearer as his pursuers chased. Their yells were the only evidence he had that they were not far behind. Garrison dared not slow himself down by turning his head. He put the sound aside and exerted his remaining energy to his legs. They were all he focused on. His knees throbbed and his muscles twitched and tightened, but to stop now would cost him his life. He only hoped he could gain access to the House. He continued on for several minutes before the mountain finally seemed within reach.

In his previous visits here, a porter guarded the entrance and only those with the Descendants’ mark disappeared into the mountain. Unfortunately, he was never one of those who’d disappeared. His dealings with the House of Darian mostly consisted of dropping off captured Descendants who’d bribed him to be delivered there.

His arms swung crazily as he ran and his mouth hung open, sucking in air and searching for any moisture. The mountain now lay close enough that he could discern the guard standing at the boulder that marked the entrance. Behind him, the soldiers gained ground, but he had kept enough distance that he would survive, assuming the guard granted him entrance.

The guard stared straight at him, armed with a one-handed sword and a bow and quiver on his back. As Garrison ran on, the guard, of a similar build and height, met his eyes but did not alter his countenance or position. He was now about thirty yards away. If the guard had not initiated a fight stance by now, he had no intention of attacking. Garrison let out a yell that tore at his raspy throat, “Let me…brother! …am be… chased! They will k… me!” Most of his words were truncated by the fire growing in his throat, and he intended for his yell to project more than it had. But the guard understood, and also saw the pursuers in the distance.

The guard yelled back, reassuring him, “Fear not, Prince Garrison, for I am a decent and somewhat understanding man! Of course I will allow you passage!” Garrison had come upon the guard, thankful that he was not required to say more or plead for admittance. “However, Prince, admittance is allowed only to those accepted by and trusted by the House.”