What Was Forgotten (10 page)

It took Zayd a moment to find Gavras amid the chaos. He had found a sword and charged into the forest beyond the safety of the shield wall the soldiers had hastily formed, and even with chains around his wrists and ankles, he moved as fluidly as ever. Zayd cursed to himself as he saw several Dramandi encircle him, their weapons poised. Zayd drew his own weapon and ran forward to the right flank of the shield wall. Stepping in front, he motioned to the three closest soldiers to follow him.

“Hold here!” a sergeant shouted from behind them.

Zayd stopped in his tracks and stared at the sergeant, then at the soldiers while touching the tip of his sword to the captain’s crest on his shoulders. “I have rank here, sergeant.” He spat out the last word.

“Piss on your rank,” the sergeant growled. “You don’t command me, Tauthri.”

Zayd grimaced and told himself he would not forget this man and his insubordination. Without uttering another word, Zayd reached for the shield of the nearest soldier, tore it from his grip, and ran towards Gavras and his attackers.

The other Ryferian soldiers that had charged recklessly into the woods were being cut down. Many were running the opposite direction, back toward the safety of the shield wall, as Zayd approached Gavras, who was only making quick jabs at his three opponents to keep them at bay. They had already landed several blows on him; he was bleeding from his arms and chest.

It was clear they were fixated on him. They must have come from Yasri, Zayd thought as he threw all of his weight behind his shield and knocked one of the attackers off his feet. Before anyone could react to his sudden appearance, Zayd spun quickly and drove his blade into the pelvis of the next closest Dramandi. Gavras lunged at the third, burying inches of his blade between his ribs, but the man stepped back just as quickly before retreating into the woods, clutching his side. Zayd dispatched the Dramandi at his feet with a merciful thrust to the heart. Gavras looked at him with a smirk. Completely forgetting the danger they were in, Zayd grabbed him by the collar.

“What in the black Beyond are you doing?”

Gavras was breathing heavily, a look of pained confusion on his face. “I thought… I thought you were one of us.”

“I am,” Zayd blurted, not knowing what Gavras was talking about.

“No, no. You’re not,” he stammered. “You’ve become so much like them that you’re ashamed of us. Of yourself. I don’t know what you are.”

A new clamour arose from far behind the shield wall. Zayd could see another group of Dramandi pouring down from the ridge into the midsection of the column, and, releasing Gavras from his grip, he sprinted towards the new threat.

The chaos intensified. Soldiers were running in every direction, hacking and slashing as they went, but many were being cut down. The attackers were overturning supply carts. Areagus’ command tent had collapsed. There was something strange about it. It took him a moment, but he soon realized it: their numbers were too few. This was not an assault meant to break them. The attack at the front had been a feint.

They were after something.

Zayd entered the fray shield first again, bowling a grey-haired Dramandi into another, more fierce looking fighter. They both cried out in surprise. He moved to finish them while they were both defenseless, but a powerful strike landed on his shield, putting him off balance.

The newcomer was tall, muscular, and covered in scars, and as Zayd reeled back, the brute must have just noticed who he was attacking. He wore a look of hate borne out of fear. He tightened his two-handed grip on a threatening iron hammer already dripping blood.

“Gattra!”
the brute screamed.

With surprising speed, the scarred brute brought the hammer down in a vicious overhead swing, and Zayd only just managed to avoid the blow by inches. The hammer struck stone and broke it as if it were glass. Zayd lunged at his larger opponent, but the Dramandi swung the hammer up from the ground and caught him again in the shield, but this time, the shield broke to pieces and Zayd was knocked clear off his feet. There was a deafening roar, and the full weight of the brute was on top of him. Zayd felt a sudden heat.

Blood. He could feel it spreading on his stomach and legs. He always thought dying in battle would be more painful, but he felt nothing but the warmth. There was another roar. The Dramandi lifted himself up, and Zayd saw only then that the brute had been cleaved in half at the waist.

Talazz tossed the torso aside like a piece of rancid meat. The giant’s laugh sounded like thunder. “Good thing I came along when I did,” Talazz said before charging after another enemy.

The flow of battle seemed to shift when Talazz moved. The ground was shaking. Looking back to the front of the column, Zayd could see the shield wall had broken. The Dramandi were fleeing in earnest, and the swordsmen of the Ninth were giving pursuit.

It was the return of the cavalry led by Barrett Stern that shook the ground as they charged towards the remaining Dramandi attacking the column’s centre. Gavras was making his way towards Zayd, fighting as he went, when the Silver Sun knights wheeled and charged again. Their swords flashed out and down as they went, each blow an exercise in precision. Stern spurred ahead, faster and faster, felling foe after foe. It happened so quickly that Zayd did not have a chance to warn him. Gavras was only turning around when Stern’s warhorse knocked him down and trampled over him.

Zayd dropped his sword and ran to his fallen friend. Barrett galloped past him, and neither one paid the other any mind.

Gavras was soaked in blood from the numerous wounds he had sustained. Zayd quickly searched him for a sign of any wound more grievous that he could mend, but he stopped when he noticed that Gavras was staring into the sky, completely still. His short black hair was matted in blood. Zayd gently touched his head and sat there as the sound of the battle waned until it finally disappeared.

He only looked up when he heard a familiar voice, though for a moment he did not comprehend. The rush of the battle had sapped him of his senses. He looked up to see Tascell approaching, looking back and forth, calling for his brother until he saw Zayd on the ground, and he stopped. He and Zayd held stares for the longest breath Zayd could remember, not looking away as he desperately searched for words that would comfort Tascell, but he could think of nothing. Tascell dropped his sword and shield and walked towards Zayd, becoming more and more unsteady as he neared until he sank to his knees next to the body of his slain brother.

Always stoic and stern, Tascell was cut through in a way Zayd thought impossible. He held his hands over his mouth as he began to weep, then gently wiped the dirt from Gavras’ face and slowly shut his eyes.

“My brother,” Tascell whispered. “Little brother…” Zayd wanted to say something, but saying anything would only fill the silence with useless noise. Should he tell Tascell that Gavras fought bravely? Should he lie and tell him he died bravely? He wanted to say these things but he knew it would help nothing. Platitudes are not good company of grief. The image of Barrett, reckless and dangerous, flashed back into his mind. Zayd picked his blade up from the dirt and walked off. Tascell did not follow.

They had lost nearly fifty men and were only able to find fewer than twenty bodies of their attackers. Soldiers were walking to and fro, reorganizing the toppled supply wagons and moving the wounded where they could rest comfortably. Zayd pushed his way through them all. Ahead was a crowd and through the press of bodies he could see Barrett: he could hear him speaking with someone else. As he neared he saw people on the ground.

It was Willar Praene, leader of the Ninth, speaking to Barrett as well as to the rest of the assembled soldiers. Zayd noticed at once they were all officers over the rank of corporal. On the ground lay Commander Areagus.

“…once we are certain that the wounded have mended enough to march, we will do so,” Willar told the group. He spoke with calmness and authority. To Zayd, he sounded eager to command. “And this will be difficult,” he continued, “but in the interest of our safety, we will forego burying our dead.”

Several objections arose, but Willar raised his hands. They were covered in blood and dirt.

“It is unfortunate, I know,” he said, “but we can’t remain here in case they return. We need to move. This terrain does not lend itself to defensibility.”

“What of the prisoners?” Barrett asked.

“For now, we will keep them alive.”

More objections. “Burn them alive,” Zayd heard someone say.

Willar spoke over the voices. “They will likely not attack again if it will put their kin at risk.”

“And if they do?” another voice asked.

“Then they can watch as we slaughter more of their soldiers like dogs.”

They laughed. Foolishly so, Zayd thought. When you wound your enemy so badly that he cannot or will not attack – that is a victory. His father’s words echoing in his head. This was not a victory. Only a reprieve.

Willar dismissed them. The officers dispersed, but Zayd did not move. Neither did Barrett. The knight, facing away looked over his shoulder before slowly turning to face him. He wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m in no mood.”

“You saw him,” Zayd said as he slowly stepped towards the knight.

“Not until it was too late.” Barrett grimaced. “I needn’t explain myself to you, now step aside.”

“You’re as much a coward as you are a liar.” The words hit Barrett like a slap across the face. His eyes widened in anger. Zayd continued, “You did not have the courage to cut him down yourself like you wanted to. It wasn’t enough that he was in chains for wrestling you off of me, was it?”

Barrett took a step closer. They were within an arm’s length of each other. “If I want to cut you down then I’ll bloody well do it.”

“Do it, then. Do it, and see how long you keep your head.”

Barrett scoffed. “I could beat you to a bloody, spineless pulp and no one would blink. Praene wouldn’t even reprimand a Silver Sun knight for it, so don’t think I won’t. I’ll let you hit me first.” Barrett stuck out his chin. “Go ahead, Tauthri. Let’s finally settle this.”

When Zayd did not move, Barrett continued: “Would it help if I told you I did see him? I saw that useless dark-eyed insect and I thought to myself,
the world will be better off with one less
. I heard his bones break as he fell. At least he
had
a backbone.”

Zayd could see Gavras staring into the sky, felt the warm blood trickling from his head, and saw the chains on his hands and feet. Without thinking, Zayd spit in Barrett’s face. The knight flinched and took a step back. “Bastard!”

Barrett shoved him with the force of a battering ram. Zayd was knocked from his feet and landed flat on his back, and the air in his lungs rushed out. He began to cough and gasp, but he could still hear Barrett as he walked away. “Bloody dark-eyed vermin! God-cursed rodent!”

Zayd got back to his feet. What was he doing? A week ago, he would never have thought that he would have spat in the face of any superior officer, let alone a Silver Sun knight. And certainly not Barrett Stern. Several days of marching and the edifices of authority were already falling apart. And there were many miles yet to go.

When they resumed marching with Willar Praene at the head of the column, they veered west, off of the original route they had planned. Zayd thought nothing of it as he sat in the back of the carriage with the nine remaining Tauthri, watching as the bodies of their dead slowly disappeared from view as they went. They were leaving the bodies of two of their kind to rot in the open: Tuhri, the youngest of the sentries, had survived the battle but not his wounds. It was odd, Zayd thought, that they had not even moved them off of the road. They had just left them as they had fallen.

Sitting the carriage next to his men, watching the dead fall away into the distance, Zayd once again traced his sigil, this time on the inside of his arm with the point of his dagger.

Chapter 8

The sound of thunder woke Osmun from yet another restless sleep. He had covered the only window in his small room in the monastery so that, if he did happen to find restful sleep, the sun would not wake him. It was a vain hope.

The calming sound of the rain nearly took him back to sleep, but another, louder roll of thunder told him it was not to be. The time that had passed since he met with Nestor was a blur, a mixture of study, daydreams, near-sleep, and nightmares. Nestor had pointed him in the right direction, but it did nothing to get the voice from out of his head. He needed to confront Egus and Andrican and bring his trial to an end, but to do so, he needed to find the answers. They were already written, but after speaking with the old historian, it seemed they were hidden between the words.

“Why bother writing anything if you leave so much unsaid?” Osmun muttered to himself as he sat up in bed. He could appreciate the need for some ambiguity; some truths needed to be found by way of discovery, not just by dictation. But why would something as crucial as this be written in such an obscure and indirect way?

“If it’s written at all,” he said again. He wondered if anyone passing by his door would hear him talking to himself, but then he decided he didn’t care. Let them listen. They may learn something. As incoherent as he may ramble in his exhaustion, he knew that, out of anyone at this monastery or any other in Lycernum, he was destined for greatness. He had the most powerful natural gift for communing with and commanding the Beyond.