Romancing the Rogue (195 page)

Death Becomes Us All

Marek tucked the parchment away after reading it for what seemed the hundredth time. He still couldn’t decipher its cryptic code. Frustrated, he tossed the remains of the wild hare he gnawed on into the coals of the campfire. He buried his hands in his hair and hung his head between his knees. He needed to think.

Mindless chatter clouded his thoughts. He had somehow persuaded a handful of men to join his cause — most simply anxious for battle. His brother, Ronan, had insisted he accompany him, even though Marek had screamed and yelled that Ronan must stay with his own family.

They made camp not far from the bordering wagon road, a popular traveling route to the deepest Archaean territories. Marek hadn’t received word from his wife, and the worry pained him. He would do as her note instructed — wait for her in the White Forest — and hope she was still alive to carry out whatever plan she had forthcoming.

“What troubles you this night, my friend?” asked Gavin. With a groan, his childhood friend settled next to him.

“’Tis nothing, really.” Marek stared into the fire, watching the flames lick at a fresh piece of kindling.

“We are here to help, aye? So out with it. How am I supposed to utilize my greatness if you won’t talk to me?” Gavin cocked an eyebrow, flashing a grin.

Marek sighed. Gavin was right. He couldn’t do it alone. The only way he was going to get his family back alive was if they all worked together. He retrieved the wrinkled piece of parchment and handed it to Gavin. “Brynn gave this to me just before she was taken. It’s her plan, but I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Let me have a go at it.” Gavin carefully unfolded the crumpled paper and read the first line aloud. “My love,” he spouted in his best effort at a female voice. “Well, I believe you should take that part meaning she loves you. ’Tis obvious, aye?”

Marek rolled his eyes. “If you think this is a joke, Gavin, give it back.”

“No, no, I said I would help, now let me read it.” He turned from Marek, continuing to read the letter by the light of the flames. “I have foreseen the coming events… what does that mean?” Gavin stroked the blond whiskers on his chin.

“Brynn has foreseeing dreams. I can only assume she knew this was going to happen.”

“Do not follow me. Gather your brothers in arms — that’s us—” Gavin pointed a finger to his chest. “You will find us in the White Forest.” Gavin stopped reading, but his eyes were still fixed on the words. “She doesn’t mean
that
White Forest?”

“Aye, she does, but I don’t think she understands what peril she’s leading us into.” Marek released a long, slow breath and took the paper from Gavin.

“The White Forest will be certain death. Only evil lives there. Wraiths — the death walkers, they will kill us all.”

“The death walkers are a legend. Who is to say they even exist?”

Gavin rose to his feet. “I do! I say they exist, and I say we are not going! No, not happening, Marek!” His outburst caught the attention of the others. “Fighting for a cause is one thing, but walking into the White Forest with my arms raised high shouting, ‘Kill me!’ is not high on my list of priorities!”

“They say the White Forest is blanketed in snow, even during the summer seasons — that Death himself resides there,” spoke another.

Ronan approached, snatching the parchment from his brother. He glanced over the words, his lips moving in silence as he read. “What is this about?”

“He intends to send us into the White Forest,” Gavin blurted.

“Then that is where we will go.” Ronan’s firm tone put a stop to Gavin’s outburst. “Where is this book she mentions? Perhaps the key lies within.”

“She didn’t give me a book, only the parchment.” Marek replied.

“And who are you to kill?”

“I know not.”

“Well, at least we get to kill somebody.” Ronan handed the letter to his brother and addressed the men before fear overcame them. “Listen, lads. Tomorrow we face a great challenge. We fight together or die together. Marek needs us. Our brother… needs us. We will do as he commands, and if that means we face the death walkers, then so be it.”

“Where are my scouts?” Marek called to his men. Two stepped forward. “Which road do they travel?”

“They travel the high road to Braemir.”

Marek’s face contorted into a deep scowl. “That will take them completely around the forest.” Pressing his fingers to his temple, he pictured the road in his mind. In his younger years, he once fulfilled a bounty near there. A deep ravine curved alongside the wagon road. There was also a bridge. Destroying the bridge would leave Brynn’s captors no choice but to turn around, or detour through the forest.

Marek picked up a nearby stick and drew a map in the dirt. “At first light, we will take out the bridge, here.” He placed a rock where the bridge was located on his map and filled in a few other key elements of the surroundings. “The White Forest is here,” he pointed out, “and we will intercept them
here
.” Marek stabbed the soil with the stick to mark the spot where the battle would take place, deep inside the forest.

“Why not wait until they clear the forest?” someone questioned.

“Who is to say they will even make it out?” Marek looked at his men, at their expectant faces. “I won’t lie to you, it will be dangerous. I won’t hold it against any man who does not wish to continue. This is my family, my fight.”

Two men withdrew, and Marek wished them safe travels back to their homeland. Their departure left him with a mere fifteen men. They spent the night gathering supplies by torchlight and preparing to meet the Engels. Weapons were sharpened, armor double-checked, and arrows well stocked.

~~~~

Sunlight warmed Marek’s cheeks as he knotted a length of rope then tied it securely to the saddle on his mount. The morning held the promise of a beautiful day — not one cloud disrupted the clear summer sky. The Engels would make good time… he must hurry. His attention turned to several more of his men who were diligently securing the other ends of the lengths of rope to the support beams of the wooden bridge. “You lads almost done down there?”

The men dangled precariously over the edge of the bridge, trusting completely in the grip of their comrades to keep them from plummeting to the ravine below.

“Nearly finished!” one called back as he swayed slightly in the breeze.

“We must get this bridge down… we are running out of time.” Marek directed others to line up the horses, ready to pull when given the signal. The dangling men finished their work and motioned to be brought up. They cleared the bridge, and Marek gave the subsequent signal to move. “Go!” he shouted, slapping the rump of his horse.

Four steeds pulled in unison at the command of their owners. Snorts and grunts mingled with excited cheers, infusing together to make a joyful praise as the beams started to moan. Marek gripped the rope and dug his heels into the soft earth, tugging with his horse. “Again!”

The beams let out a cry, giving way to the strain. “Come on lads, pull!”

Men scrambled to their horses, doing whatever possible to join in the effort, grasping on to whatever they could in the combined effort to destroy the bridge. The wood groaned as the planks loosened. With a few more heaves, the rope frayed and the wood gave way. Planks fell into the void of the ravine as beams swayed freely, bound by the twisting of the ropes. A swift sawing with a blade freed the wood, and they, too, disappeared into the nothingness below.

Marek allowed a brief celebratory round of hand clasps and shoulder slaps with his men before refocusing on the task at hand. The bridge was down, but the hardest part was still to come. He now had to lead his brave and seasoned — but perhaps too few — band of brothers into death’s own territory, where superstition and fear were additional but unseen enemies. Keeping them all alive would prove to be his greatest challenge, one he knew he was unlikely to accomplish.

Marek pulled his horse to a sudden halt. The animal tossed his head, rearing slightly at the unexpected jerk. The edge of the White Forest stood steadfast, just a stone’s throw before Marek. His surroundings were eerily quiet, and he motioned his men forward with caution. “Stay focused, we know not what evil lurks before us.”

A frigid dusting of snow coated the narrow path leading into the depths of the forest. The beauties of the once lush terrain dwindled into an unbearable solitude. The horses picked their way over rocks and gaps with an uneasy carefulness. Skulls from those who had succumbed to the perils of the forest dangled from barren branches. Splintered bones crunched under the weight of the horses as they dutifully pressed forward.

A terrifying screech from an unknown being echoed through the trees, and Marek’s mount let out a snort, his ears flattening against its head. Marek reassured the animal by rubbing his palm along the gelding’s neck.
Easy, Cyran, I need you strong now.”

The men followed one another deeper into the bowels of the wood, making an easy escape less than likely. A cold panic seeped amidst the group. Marek shut out the whispers and the unsteady breaths of his comrades, closed his eyes, and listened. A stoic silence blanketed the air like a wall of stone, heavy and thick. Leather creaked and bits of metal clinked as the horses moved, but no natural sounds were heard. No birds, no wind rustling in the pines — no life at all. An unnatural quiet loomed over them.

A shadow darted across Marek’s path, and he stopped short, the rider behind him nearly crashing into the backside of his mount. “Did you see that?” He spoke the words so quietly he might as well have been talking to himself.

Blackness flitted in the corner of his eye, and Marek turned toward it, only to find nothing. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a shiver crept up his spine when a presence grazed his shoulder. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave Cyran a nudge with his heels, but the horse wouldn’t move forward. Rather, it took several steps backward. Marek reined him in, turning the horse full circle. Cyran pawed at the ground, tossing his head, and violently strained against the bit as the forest began to stir.

Inaudible whispers ricocheted through the trees, and the horses pranced precariously on the thin walking path. Unexplainable children giggled in the distance. More shadows appeared amongst the men but vanished when touched by the tiny slivers of sunlight flitting across the forest floor.

Gaining control of Cyran, Marek redirected his eyes to his men. They were no longer in a tight formation. Some had dismounted, others strayed into the forest with dumbfounded looks on their faces, oblivious to the surroundings. Something was amiss — they were being lured into the darkness. The whispers, the shadows, the faint sounds of children — Marek and his men were walking straight into some kind of unearthly trap.

A scream in the distance set Marek galloping from the footpath and into the thickness of the wood. He and his mount moved as one, dodging branches and weaving through the endless maze of impassable thickets. It was as if the forest knew he was coming and purposely blocked his path. When he finally reached his man, Marek rushed to his side, only to find him dead. A look of sheer terror still masked the man’s face.

Marek drew his sword.

In a bout of panic, Cyran tugged the reins from his master’s grasp and cantered from sight. “Damned horse,” spat Marek, gathering his wits. His boots sank in the fresh layer of powder as he pressed onward, retracing his steps to the trail and, hopefully, his men.

The sweet smell of summer flowers overtook his senses. He inhaled deeply, veering from his path to follow the intoxicating aura. No smell was greater than the fragrance of a woman. He rounded a tree, clearing a path with a swing of his blade. He stopped mid-stride, overwhelmed. “Nya?” He called out to the figure, his voice cracking. She stood in the distance, her smile beaming her love for him. “Is it truly you?”

“Hello, my love!” The figure waved excitedly at him, beckoning him closer.

Marek took a few steps forward. His chest rose and fell heavily. His own eyes deceived him. His beautiful wife stood before him, her essence radiating light. “It cannot be,” he gasped. His sword arm went limp, the steel falling to the snow.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Aren’t you joining us, Marek? Supper is ready.” She giggled, her attentions focused on the emptiness beside her. She knelt to the ground and held out her arms, waiting. A swirl of snow appeared at the tips of her fingers and in an instant, a boy formed from the fragments of ice and earth.

Marek dropped to his knees. His boy, his little Ewan, was wrapped in his mother’s arms only paces away. Tears dampened his cheeks as Marek regained his footing and started toward the pair.

“Da!” the little boy greeted, his auburn curls bouncing atop his head. “Wait till you see the fish I caught! Will you not come home?”

“I’m on my way, son!” Marek choked on a sob. His family stood before him, awaiting his return. He would give everything just to hold them again. He would go to them and never let them go.

He almost reached happiness when a force from behind knocked him to the ground. Marek wrestled with the beast, attempting to claw his way free, but the figure locked its strength around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides.

Ronan shoved his brother against a nearby tree, his grip unwavering. “They are death walkers, Marek! Do not believe your mind, they are not real!”

“Release me, Ronan, before I kill you!” Marek’s hissed, rage boiled to the surface.

“They are
dead
, Marek! You need to remember!” Marek kicked back against the hold, but Ronan only tightened the cage of his arms. “They take the shape of your greatest anguish to use it against you. Listen to me, Marek!”

“No! You cannot keep me from them!”

Without hesitation, Ronan released him, pulled back his fist, and punched him square in the face.

The blow jarred Marek enough that it took a moment for him to recover. He rubbed his jaw and blinked, confused. “Why the hell did you hit me?”

“You were walking to your death, and it was the only way I knew how to stop you.” Ronan backed away from Marek with caution.

“I saw Nya and Ewan,” Marek told Ronan. “They were here.”

“I know.” Ronan cast his brother a sympathetic glance. “In this forest lies a realm between the living and the dead. It will try to overcome your soul — you must not let it. Look.” Ronan pointed to the two figures evaporating before their very eyes.

The figure that had once been Marek’s love grew dark and lanky. The shape hovered above the ground as it formed into a hazy mist. It paused over his sword for a moment, released a shrill scream, and then disappeared into the forest.

“Remember why we are here.” Ronan gave Marek’s shoulder a tight squeeze before fetching the discarded sword. “You are going to need this, aye? To save your
current
wife, if I recall correctly?”

Marek managed a lopsided grin. “You are an ass.”

Ronan nodded, accompanied with a slight bow. “With pride.”