That's a good question, and honestly, I have no idea. There is still a lot of story to tell. I'm going to try to hit 80k - 100k words at least, so it will at publishable length. Currently at around 30k.

Chapter the next. (11)

[SPOILER:f4b46e8514]The shouting and accusations began the moment they were back in the building in Old City. Oz purported that Varen had disengaged the second wheel system incorrectly, causing both the release of the tether and the release of the rope. Varen countered that Oz had not tied the rope properly in the first place. Red was in the middle, playing mediator, and trying to prevent the two men from throwing the first punch. She tried to shift the blame to herself by suggesting she may have been too hasty in tying the second tether. She tried to point out that the most important thing was that both of them had worked together and saved her life. Neither man was willing to back down. It wasn’t until Anquist put Oz in a chokehold, and Hart pinned Varen’s arms behind his back and wrestled him to the floor, that the two warriors finally relented.

“Someone had better tell me what happened. Red? Report.”

Redeinia detailed the night’s operation for Anquist, in a much more impartial way than Varen or Oz possibly would have. She told how the two men had been able to break the arrow in the tower by pulling on the rope. Then after Varen and Oz were back on the ground, she had released the knotted rope and climbed down. They had also successfully pulled down the original rope, leaving only the arrow in the beam as evidence of their presence. The lost packs were retrieved without incident from the sides of the building where they had rolled off.

Anquist nodded solemnly throughout the retelling. When it was done, he appeared satisfied with the results.

“Oz, take a walk with me. Cooler heads must prevail. Hart, Red, make sure he has calmed down by the time we get back.”

It may have just been the anger still flowing through Varen’s veins, but he did not like Anquist’s tone when referring to him.

After Oz and Anquist had left, Hart let Varen up from the floor and instructed him to have a seat on one of the mattresses. The man-at-arms then took up his sentinel position by the door. Red walked over and whispered something in Hart’s ear.

“Are you sure?”

Red nodded wordlessly, and Hart turned, opened the door and exited into the night. She walked back over to Varen and sat on the mattress across from him.

“You think you’ll be able to sweet-talk more information out of me if we’re alone?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and cast her eyes down in silence.

“Let me see your hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“Varen, I saw you flexing and shaking your hand on the run back here. I know how to treat rope burn. Please, it’s because of me that you are injured.”

This time it was Varen who began to protest. The look of wounded pleading that she fixed him with instead forced him to give her his upturned palm. He wanted to be mad at her, she had all but admitted to trying to coerce information from him the previous night, but there was something in her eyes that made it impossible.

“Good, it’s not too severe. It should heal quickly.”

She reached into a satchel that lay between the mattress and the wall and pulled a small clay jar. Removing the lid, she scooped out a thick, green cream and began gently massaging it into his hand. The cream was cold to the touch, and brought an immediate soothing sensation to his burned skin.

“Amazing, what is this?”

“Just my own little recipe. Made from some different plants and flowers I find in and around the city.”

“You must be quite an accomplished healer.”

Red smiled as she continued her work.

“Not really. It’s been beneficial for me to be able to treat burns, itches, and rashes.”

She replaced the jar of cream, and withdrew a roll of cloth from the satchel by the bed. Delicately, she wrapped the dressing around his hand and thumb several times before wrapping and tying it off around his wrist.

“How’s that?”

“Better. Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, Varen. I owe you my life.”

Varen was not accustomed to being shown such gratitude. His words came out in what he felt was an awkward mumble.

“You’re welcome.”

“Now, Anquist said I had to calm you down. I saw how much strain it was for you tonight, getting the end of that rope into Oz’s hands. Here, try and relax.”

She moved around to kneel behind Varen as he sat upon the mattress. Wrapping her hands around his shoulders, she squeezed and drove her thumbs in circles on the back of his neck. If having her check him over for bruises had been enjoyable, being massaged by those nimble hands was absolutely euphoric. He felt his spine loosen and his head drooped forward.

“How’s that feel?”

A groan of pleasure was the only response he was capable of giving. As he became completely immersed in the sensory experience, he allowed his mind to wander. He imagined that they were back in the forest, at the natural spring that sustained him and acted as his geographical sanctuary for so long. The water was cool and refreshing against his skin. Red swam gracefully around him as he stood, her bare shoulder blades occasionally breaking the surface of the water.

“You said you lived in the forest for a while?”

“Yes, nearly seven years apparently, though it certainly didn’t seem that long.”

“Wow, seven years? Didn’t you get lonely? Wasn’t it scary?”

She dove below the water, then resurfaced a little closer to Varen. She threw her head back, whipping her hair in a long arc over her head. Water splashed across Varen’s face. Her hair clung to her back in a tight matte, more elegant than the disheveled mess it had been the night before, but no more beautiful.

“There were a few lonely days at first, but once every day is a matter of survival, you forget about those sort of things. It was never scary though. I came from the wild, so being in the forest was like going back to my roots. It felt like I belonged there, more than I did in the city.”

Varen dipped his head back in the water. The warm water tickled his scalp, sending shivers down his whole body; its warmth radiated into his muscles, soothing them.

“What do you mean, you ‘came from the wild’?”

“Scrain found me in the woods outside Aereguard when I was just a small boy. I was apparently surviving on twigs, leaves, and berries. It’s a wonder that I didn’t die from poisoning. He took me in, fed me and educated me along with the other children.”

“Why did you leave?”

Redeinia rolled over and began floating on her back. Varen watched her unabashedly, hoping to take in her glistening, naked form; the flat of her navel, the contours of her hips and breasts. To his dismay, she was concealed by the steam rising off of the water.

“I never really felt at home in Aereguard, like something was always calling me back to the wilderness. It didn’t help that the other children would say that I was only born after my deranged father fucked a shewolf and made her pregnant with me. They stopped telling that story after I broke one boy’s nose over it, though the sentiment was still there.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Varen was uncomfortable. The water was very hot and he was having difficulty breathing the moist air. He had lost sight of Red in the steamy mist and began looking all around for her. A light shone below him, and when he looked down the darkness erupted in a growing red glow. The water seethed and roiled around him, causing his skin to blister and swell. He tried to swim away but vines snaked up out of the water and wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in place. Frantically, he grabbed at the vines and tried to power his way out of the boiling death.

“It was an accident! I didn’t mean to do it!”

Varen opened his eyes.

He was in the house in Old City, on the mattress he had been facing previously. Red was on the mattress he had been sitting on, staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified. He was still confused, momentarily caught between reality and the dream.

“Wh-what happened?”

“I should ask you that, Varen. You were talking about the other kids bullying you, so I tried to give you a hug. Then you jump up screaming about something being an accident and nearly throw me into the wall.”

“Kids... bullying?”

Varen stared down at his bandaged hand.

“What have you done to me? What was in that cream!?”

“Nothing! It’s a salve for burns, that’s all!”

Bracing himself with his good hand, Varen rose unsteadily and began to move for the door. Red leapt up and intercepted him.

“Please, let me leave. I can’t stay here.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not an option. This is where you sleep now, until we arrange to get you back out of the city, or until Anquist kicks you out.”

Red stood blocking the door. It would have been very easy for Varen to pick her up and toss her aside like a toy, but he knew he would never do it. Instead he turned back around and walked wearily back toward the sleeping area. There he lay down and rested his hands over his eyes. Red came and sat down beside him.

“You don’t have to be ashamed you know. I’m certain you had your reasons for leaving the city when you did. Whether or not the other kids had anything to do with your decision, it’s still okay. We all want to be accepted. Our pasts don’t define who we are. They shape us, without a doubt, they play a part in moulding us into the people we eventually become, but they don’t dictate who we are. The choices we make, the actions we take each and every day are what define us.”

Varen’s cheeks flushed beneath his hands.

“Here, let’s see if we can’t get you relaxed again.”

Red positioned herself above Varen’s head and began massaging his jaw and temples.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you again?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve dealt with worse thugs than you before.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

“Thank you again, Varen. I’m really happy that you shared something personal with me. Even if you were not entirely aware you were doing so. If you like, I can share something from my own past with you.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Alright, let’s go back to the beginning then. I was born to a young armorer’s apprentice, and an even younger armorer’s daughter. I was quite the scandalous child, you see. Fortunately my grandfather was fond of his young apprentice, and allowed the two to wed with his blessing. They say I was born with a full head of flaming red hair, a testament to the wanton affair that produced me, and the source of my name.

“My father moved into the home shared by my mother and grandfather, and there I was raised while he learned the trade that he would one day take over as his own. The Lord Commander was a frequent visitor to the shop. He would discuss the craft at length with my grandfather and purchase armor for his soldiers.

“When I was still very young, not even yet twelve, my father and grandfather were killed by bandits as they returned home from a long journey, selling their wares to other towns. It was the Lord Commander who took my mother and I in after that. He tried to make my mother happy, offered her everything his position could afford and even requested she remarry and become his wife. Her grief was too great however, and she also died within a year of our relocation.

“Life there was entertaining enough for a young girl, there were lots of places to explore, and I was given almost unrestricted access to the whole keep. There were no shortage of people to follow around and watch as they cooked and cleaned and caroused. Even with all the people it did get rather lonely at times. My favorite times were when one of the high-merchants would come to visit. He always brought along his son who was a couple years younger than me. He was a fun playmate, but he would cry at even the slightest scrape on the knee or if I was too rough with him. Don’t let Oz know I told you this about him, I don’t think he’d ever forgive me. He was smaller than me when we first met, if you can believe that. . . .”

Red continued talking and laughing and reminiscing until Anquist and Oz came back. She might have shared her entire life’s story that night. She may have only spoken very briefly after that. Varen did not know; he was asleep before the two men returned.[/SPOILER:f4b46e8514]

And now on to chapter 12. Thank you Sehksy for your grammar checking.

[SPOILER:4295d069f7]Patience had never been one of Varen’s virtues. He had sought to single-handedly remove Jalidor Saih at the first opportunity, and it had ended in utter failure. Now he was no longer able to act on his own. He had to have faith that Anquist had a plan in motion, and he had to offer his services wherever they were deemed to be needed. So on the morning after his time alone with Redeinia, when he was told that he would be taught to fight with a sword, he resolutely accepted the task. Learning that Oz would also be instructing him along with Hart was a tougher order to acknowledge. Even so, that very afternoon, when the guards that were part of the revolution were posted on the old city gates, they took wooden practice swords out into a light copse a short distance east of Aerguard.

Hart showed him some simple maneuvers, the basics of parrying and attacking, and allowed him to test his new skills on the man-at-arms. Once Hart felt comfortable that Varen knew the techniques well enough, Oz was brought in to spar with Varen. The smirk that came to Oz’s lips whenever Hart called a stop angered Varen far more than the welts and bruises did. He wanted nothing more than to smash it from his highborn face, but as long as Oz held that practice sword, Varen was powerless to do anything. Oz even went so far as to taunt him between sparring sessions, saying that once they moved on to real swords, there would be nothing left to Varen but ribbons.

From the first day it was clear to Varen, that if he wanted any chance of giving Oz any challenge whatsoever, he was going to need his own sword, made by his own hands. On their way back to Aereguard that first day, he carefully selected and tore down a tree branch to make into a handle for a hammer. It would typically take weeks to forge an adequate sword, but Varen did not want to wait that long. He was hoping that using his own hammer would both speed up the process, and result in a better weapon.

After arriving back in Old CIty, Varen was granted leave to spend his evening as he saw fit, so long as he kept a low profile and was back and rested before morning. He wasted no time in returning to Kirt’s smithy to take stock of what he would have to work with. To his amazement, he found that virtually all of Kirt’s tools were still safely locked away in his tool trunk, the key hidden in the metal press. Kirt’s continued presence, well after the surrounding area had been deserted, likely prevented many of his possessions from being looted. The weight of the trunk likely helped as well.

It took some coaxing, but in short order, he had the forge burning once again. The heavy rain from two days before had filled Kirt’s water barrel which Varen used to fill the slack tub once again. He then set to work melting down scrap metal for the hammerhead mould. While waiting, he shaped and smoothed the tree branch into a suitable handle. It took the entirety of the evening, and well into the night, but he had what he needed: a simple hammer with which to forge his own sword. Satisfied with his night’s work, he returned to Anquist’s base of operations.

Coming in from the red luminescence outside, his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light produced by the small fire that still smoldered low in the hearth. Anquist lay on his stomach, arms beneath his head, breathing through his mouth. Hart slept on his back, his left arm across his chest, right arm at his side. A high pitched whistle sounded each time he exhaled. Redeinia was asleep on her side, her knees brought up close to her chest. Oz lay behind her with his chest to her back, one knee slightly bent, and his arm draped over her. Her fingers were hooked inside his, pulling his hand into her neck. Varen wasn’t certain what angered him more, the general intimacy of the sleeping arrangement, or the signature scowl that even now twisted Oz’s face. Any man in his position ought to be smiling contentedly.

As he walked toward the mattresses, Hart shifted sideways to make room for him. Varen found himself wondering what the sleeping arrangements had been the previous two nights; he had been the first asleep and the last to rise both times. He did not have long to think it over, despite his soreness and anger, once he lay down the exertion of the day took over and put him straight to sleep.

*** *** ***

The sky was overcast when the trio went out the next day for their training. By the time they returned to Aereguard, it had opened up to a pounding rain. The wet weather continued into the third day of swordplay, and had cleared by the morning of the fourth. Varen was grateful for the rain. Not only did it cut his training sessions short, much to Oz’s chagrin, it also ensured that any smoke from the forge would be obscured and the ringing off the anvil would be muffled.

As he predicted, the hammer he made felt like an extension of his body as it beat the metal into shape. His months of pseudo-apprenticeship with Kirt came back as if he had been gone seven days, not seven years. What little skill he had developed was magnified through the hammer, and he made good progress.

Each night he would return to the house to find the four others sleeping in the same positions, though Hart had moved to share a mattress with Anquist, leaving Varen the last one to himself. Every night Oz had that same infuriating scowl on his face.

On the morning that the clouds finally broke, Varen learned that Red would be joining them for their daily training. This did not sit well with him. He had no desire to be bludgeoned again while she watched, but would not stoop so low as to feign an injury to escape the day’s sparring.

Red’s presence on the trek outside the city brought a definite liveliness to the group’s daily march. She conversed with each of the three men about a seemingly endless list of topics. That was not to say that the other days had been spent in silence. Hart had several interesting and amusing anecdotes from his younger years, and would talk at length about different aspects of swordsmanship with Oz. Varen actually learned as much during their walks as he did in practice. No doubt Oz, no doubt, also learned a great deal from Hart and Varen’s discussions on bowmanship and the preparation of animals for food, clothing, and tools.

While Hart was giving Varen his daily lesson, Oz and Red sat on a nearby fallen tree trunk chatting and observing. Varen found that the extra set of eyes on him to be distracting, reminding him of his days being taught by Scrain, when he would sense the eyes of the other students watching him. Hart focused more on defensive training, likely assuming, as Varen did, that Oz would be particularly offensive that day. After a relatively light lesson, it was time to spar.

Oz rose from his seat beside Red and picked up his wooden sword. Taking up his position across from Varen, he bowed low, with exaggerated concession, before adopting a fighting stance. Varen did not return the hollow gesture, but took up a stance of his own and waited for Hart’s cue.

“Begin!”

Oz rushed toward Varen and unleashed a flurry of quick attacks. Varen parried a dozen or more before Hart called for them to separate. Red applauded from her vantage as a spectator and Hart complemented Varen on defending against the assault.

On the next call to fight, Oz came in with a forward thrust. Varen brought his sword across his body to block it, only to have Oz flick his wrist and turn the feint into a solid strike to the thigh. Hart called another stop then, giving Varen a chance to limp around a number of times to relieve the sudden cramping in his leg. From the sidelines, Red shouted out cheers for both combatants.

Once Varen felt well enough to go again, he nodded to Hart and round three began. There was a distinct exhibitionist nature to Oz’s sparring, even on the days when Red was not there watching. On the previous two days he had attempted a spinning backhanded strike with a high arc that Varen had easily blocked both times. When he saw it coming this time, instead of raising his sword to defend, Varen dove forward, ramming his shoulder into the back of Oz’s knee. Thrown off balance, the swordsman crashed down onto his back on the wet ground with a satisfying grunt. Oz was back up in a flash, eyes raging, but Hart was already between them calling for a break. While Oz turned and tried to shake the mud from his clothes, Hart gave Varen a quiet admonishment.

“I know there are no rules in combat, but do try and stick to the lessons please.”

Varen apologized, but both men knew it was insincere. The blow to Oz’s ego was far too gratifying. When Hart restarted the match, Varen knew that Oz would be angry, but was unprepared for the level of ferocity he attacked with. In three rapid strokes, Varen’s sword was sent spinning through the air. Just for good measure, Oz landed another blow to the same thigh, just as Hart called an end to the bout.

“Alright, that’s enough for today. We’re done.”

Oz did not smile, not even a smirk pulled at his mouth. He just glared at his disarmed opponent. Red jumped up from the fallen tree and walked lightly over to the three men.

“To the victor go the spoils.”

With that, she hooked her arm into Oz’s, turned him around, and together they walked further into the woods. Varen hobbled over to retrieve his lost weapon, then without even waiting for Hart, began limping back to Aereguard.

*** *** ***

That evening in the blacksmith’s, Varen did not care if anyone heard him. He channeled his anger through the hammer and into the metal. The embarrassment he felt brought him back to his schooling days once again. With painful clarity he remembered the times he would be called upon to read a passage, and would stumble and stutter through half the words. Then Will Krennel would step in uninvited and recite the reading with flourish. The other students would giggle, Varen would fume.

So engrossed was he in his reminiscing and his ire toward Oz, he did not hear the door to the blacksmith shop open. He did not hear the person enter the building, nor did he hear the door close behind.

“I don’t believe it.”

Varen looked up suddenly at the intrusion. There before him stood Dala Krennel.

“Will said you was back in town, I didn’t think you were that brave. Or dumb. Or both. I even asked old man Scrain if it was true. He said you were just here passing through and that you were gone again, for real this time.”

Varen remained silent as the woman began advancing toward him, hammer held tight in his hand.

“Will said he gave you a beating enough for the both of us, but I don’t ever remember giving him permission to take care of my business. And you and me? We got unfinished business.”

She was right in front of him. He braced himself for the slap, punch, kick, knee, or whatever she intended to throw at him. She reached up, grabbed him by the back of the head, and pressed her mouth over his.

He was tensed and startled by the kiss, but as he let his jaw relax, he once again found her tongue working its way between his lips. The hammer dropped to the floor with a thud. He wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her in, pressing back against her tongue with his own. She cupped her hand over his crotch.

“You know Varen, this is as far as we ever got before. I say we fix that.”

Then her hand was inside his breeches, working him into a frenzy as hard as the anvil. He reached down, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and lifted it off of her in one swift motion. He buried his face in the nape of her neck and began kissing and biting. She held on tightly to the back of his neck, working his pants down with her free hand and feet. When he took her breast into his mouth, she moaned loudly and pressed her abdomen against his, covering him in her juices.

It was not long before she demanded penetration, and he was more than ready to oblige. He lifted her up, turned her around, and bent her over the anvil. The cold metal sent bumps all across her back, and when he slid inside her, the shiver intensified, causing her to squeal ecstatically. Where Varen had moments before been pounding the anvil in anger, he now released his anger in a way that he had not done in a very long time.

*** *** ***

The next morning found Varen tired and sore. Dala had wanted to spend the rest of the night together, but he had flatly refused, knowing that if he did not sleep back at base, there was no way he would be awake in time for training. Despite his rejection, Dala was at the smithy again the next night, and the night after that. Varen did not mind the interruption. If anything, he found the anticipation of waiting for Dala, and the invigoration he felt afterward, improved his time spent working on his weapon.

After six straight days of sword training, Varen was told he would be getting a reprieve on the seventh day. The fact that it was raining almost as hard as the day he had been broken out of the prison wagon surely had nothing to do with Hart’s benevolent decision. Varen made good use of the extra time and the rain, working in Kirt’s shop until his arm was so tired that he could barely lift the hammer for another swing. His dedication was almost come to fruition. He was satisfied with the condition of the blade, had crafted a usable guard, and only needed to attach the hilt and pommel.

He did not wait around for Dala that night, but instead went to bed early and slept late. His arm was still somewhat sore in the morning, but had benefitted from the extra hours of rest. Despite the extended slumber, when Hart gave him his wake up call with the reinforced end of a quarterstaff to the ribs, he wished he could have stayed in bed a while longer.

The two of them ate alone that midday. The others were already gone for the day and Oz would be meeting up with them at the training area. That suited Varen just fine. He had no desire to spend any more time with the swordsman than he had to. In Oz’s absence, Varen found himself enjoying the walk out to the training grounds. The air coming down off the mountains had a cool, crispness to it that cleared the sinuses and invigorated the mind when breathed in deeply. The afternoon sun took the edge off the colder winds, warming and relaxing the body in perfect antithesis. Even the rocky landscape and the scattered scrub brush seemed more pleasant that day.

When they arrived at the training area, Oz was nowhere to be found. Hart decided to begin without him, and began running Varen through some new drills, focusing on weaknesses and lauding the techniques that seemed to come naturally. Varen found Hart to be an excellent instructor, being able to criticize and remedy bad habits without coming across as condescending or making him feel inferior. He did not feel the same way about Oz. The swordsman always seemed to lord his prowess and superiority over Varen. He hoped dearly that once his own sword was finished, he would catch Oz by surprise and lay him low once and for all.

After an extended training session, they finally heard Oz approaching them through the trees.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“My apologies, Hart. Business ran longer than expected today. I trust you haven’t tired Varen out too much in my absence; I was hoping to break a sweat today.”

Varen smirked despite himself. In a way, a backhanded compliment from Oz was better than no compliment at all.

Even though training had run longer than usual, the two men sparred much longer than they had all week and with fewer stops. Varen knew that he was improving. Though he had yet to land a blow against the swordsman, he was getting hit far less frequently. It was plain to see that Oz was not fighting to his full ability. Varen was not even certain that yesterday’s disarming had been the peak of the swordsman’s talent, though it must have come close. When Hart finally called an end to the day, Varen noticed with pride that Oz had indeed broken a sweat that day.

The walk back to Aereguard was equally as enjoyable as the trip out. Varen even found himself talking to Oz directly, asking him about his own sword training, his preferences on weight distribution, and whether or not he’d ever taken part in any competitive tournaments. Oz’s responses weren’t warm by any means, but they were courteous and generally without malice.

As they made their final approach to the city, Oz suddenly brought the group to a halt, then grabbed the two other men by the shoulders and pulled them down behind a low bush. Varen felt his heart begin racing at the unexpected interruption. Hart, being better acquainted with the swordsman, was less surprised and more concerned.

“Oz, what is it?”

“The gate, look!”

Hart and Varen peered around the sides of their hiding spot. The guards standing at the gate were not the guards that they had greeted every afternoon for the past week. They were not even replacements from the city watch. Standing sentinel at the gate were two of the heavily armored men from the Lord Commander’s personal entourage.[/SPOILER:4295d069f7]

I took some time away from writing during the holidays, but at long last, here is chapter 13. Chapter 14 will mark the end of part 2 of the story and due to reasons of internet paranoia, I probably won't be posting it, or anything after this chapter. Fear not though, for those interested I will send out chapters via e-mail. So if you want on the mailing list, just say so.

[SPOILER:4a7796860f]They were trapped outside the city walls. Walking around to one of the other gates would take hours, and even then, those gates were still protected by unfriendly guards. When it became apparent that they would be spending the night outside, they settled on a course of action. They retreated back to the woods and set up in the clearing that was their training grounds as the day’s light faded into dusk.

As the three men sat around the fire they had built, Varen took to passing the time by telling the others about the various types of vines that could be found in the woods and their uses. Humming vine was highly elastic and very difficult to break, but could be cut relatively easily with a knife. For these reasons it was ideal for use as a bowstring. It was far too thick to be used in it’s natural form however, and had to be carefully pared down thread by thread until it was thin enough to be used with conventional arrows.

Stone vine was somewhat brittle when loose. It could be broken by twisting the vine or cut with a knife or sharp rock. When pulled taut however, it became rigid and hard like a plank of wood, even to the point of resisting being cut by a saw blade. It also became thinner and stronger the tighter it was pulled. Stone vine was useful for constructing elevated platforms between branches of trees, as a dozen or so in a crosshatch pattern could easily support an adult human.

Part way through a lesson on the best vines for trap-making and snaring, the sound of whipping branches and twigs cracking underfoot came from the far side of the clearing. The noises gave only a few seconds warning before two riders broke through the trees, one from the Lord Commander’s rearguard, the other from the vanguard.

Varen, Oz, and Hart were up and running at the first sounds of the intrusion. As they reached a path on the edge of the training area, Varen looked back to see the lead horse vaulting over their small campfire in pursuit. The flames lit the black underside of the courser with an orange glow, and licked up at its hooves giving it the likeness of some terrible nightmare. Varen looked forward again and sprinted ahead to make up the ground he had lost on Oz and Hart in those few seconds.

The three men ran down the narrow path, the pounding of the horses’ hooves driving them on like a war drum. Ament and Curian were both waning, but still not quite half-full. Their combined light aided their pursuer in tracking them. At almost the same time, Hart darted off the left side of the trail and into the rough, while Oz dove off to the right. Left alone, Varen continued forward, and the rider continued after him, rapidly closing the distance between them. Daring another glimpse back, Varen saw the rider lower his crossbow onto his forearm and take aim.

A snap and a twang rang out through the night air. Varen tumbled to the side of the trail, gasping for air. The scent of dirt and undergrowth filled his nostrils, and the ground trembled as the horse bore down on him, its hooves striking the earth in frenzied rhythm. The horse galloped past where Varen lay panting heavily, driven forward by its master’s command. As it passed, the crossbow fell to the ground with a rattle. It was soon followed by the decapitated body of the rider.

The trap had worked perfectly. The stone vine that Varen had tied across the path earlier in the evening had been invisible to the rider, his focus entirely on the fleeing man. When he had ridden into it, the vine held fast, slicing cleanly through the rider’s neck.

Hart and Oz soon caught up with Varen, both winded from their suddenly flight. Oz was the first to regain control over his breathing.

“I have to admit, I had no hope whatsoever that your trap was going to work, but it did.”

Two compliments in one day. Oz must have been having the happiest day of his life. The same could not be said for the rider.

Back at the campfire, the soldier from the rearguard was shifting back and forth in his saddle.

“Hey, Wexler! What’s taking so long?”

The crackling of the fire was the only sound that answered his shout.

“Did you run down one of them bastards yet? How long does it take to catch a man on foot?”

The stillness of the night settled over the clearing once again, causing the soldier to begin grumbling and muttering to himself. From amongst the trees a crossbow bolt came whistling through the air, embedding itself deep in the horse’s flank. The beast screamed in pain and reared up on its hind legs, dumping its rider unceremoniously to the ground, before running off into the trees, panicked.

The guard struggled to get back to a standing position. As he did, a figure came around the fire, light gleaming off the polished metal.

“Draw your sword, curr.”

Oz’s voice did not have it’s signature pompous affect. It was cold and commanding. The soldier drew his longsword from its scabbard and pointed it menacingly toward the approaching stranger.

“Who are you? Where is Wexler?”

“You will find out soon enough.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Oz arced his sword overhead for his first attack. His opponent met the challenge with his longsword, the ringing of the metal echoing through the clearing. Oz pressed the assault with several more swings before the soldier finally composed himself enough to mount a counterattack. Watching the combat from the trees, Varen got to see Oz’s defensive swordplay, something he never had the ability to bring out of the swordsman. It was no less impressive than his offensive onslaught. Oz repeatedly deflected the incoming strikes so that the soldier’s own momentum threw him off-balance, forcing him to waste energy to recover quickly enough to avoid a deadly attack.

The two combatants battled around the training area, their attacks slowing with each passing minute. The extra weight of the guard’s armor seemed to be having a more taxing effect, as he seemed to be tiring more quickly than Oz. The soldier lunged forward, attempting to drive his sword through his opponent’s chest. Oz turned the blow aside with a sweep of his blade, and the guard stumbled forward. Oz spun around and drove his blade into the slat in the front of the helmet. The sound of slicing flesh was overpowered by the sickening screech when the sword scraped the metal at the back of the barbute helm.

Oz pulled his sword free from the dead man’s skull and the lifeless body slumped forward onto the ground. He then produced a cloth from a pouch on his sword belt and began to wipe down his blade as Varen and Hart came out of the trees into the clearing. No congratulations were uttered to the victor; they were still trapped outside the city.

*** *** ***

In the first light of dawn, the two foot soldiers on guard at the gate to the old city watched warily as the mounted rider approached. They held their poleaxes at the ready, prepared for battle. Instead of riding right up to them however, the stranger stopped some distance off, turned his horse a quarter turn, and lobbed a large object toward them. They followed the trajectory of the object as it flew lazily through the air and landed with a thunk just a few paces away. The two guards walked over to see what had been thrown at them and easily identified it as the severed head of their comrade.

“Wexler?”

They looked at the rider just a short distance away.

“You’re a dead man! I’m going to mount your head on this ax after I shove it up your ass!”

The two rushed toward the rider, who turned his mount around and rode away. Undaunted, the soldiers continued after the horseman. As they pursued him across the brushland, Varen jumped out in front of them, brandishing one of the practice swords. The guards stopped up short and looked him over briefly, before bursting into laughter.

“Hey look, the little man thinks he’s gonna stop us with his stick!”

“What say we cut off his legs, leave ‘im out here, and see what kills him first: wild animals, or throwin’ ‘imself on ‘is sword!”

While they taunted, Hart stepped out from behind another bush, his quarterstaff at the ready. The foot soldiers were still largely unimpressed.

“Oh, what now? Two little men with sticks. I think I just shit my pants, I’m so scared.”

“Don’t worry, once we’re done with ‘em, you can wipe your arse on the one while I piss on the other.”

The two guards were so caught up in their taunting, they did not notice that Oz had circled back behind them until it was too late. The swordsman spurred the stolen horse on, barrelling into the soldiers from their rear flank. The guard that took the brunt of the impact from the horse was sent sprawling into his companion and ended up in a heap on the ground. The other managed to keep his footing. Before he had time to regain a battle stance, Oz turned the horse away from him and jerked violently on one of the reins. The horse grunted and neighed loudly in protest, then lifted its hindquarters of the ground and kicked back. Both hooves were driven squarely into the chest of the standing guard, sending him briefly airborne before crumpling to the ground.

When Oz turned the horse around again, the guard who had been knocked down had recovered enough to get a weak attack in with his weapon. The blade of his axe grazed the horse’s neck, bringing forth blood and a cry of pain. The horse reared up, trying to kick away the offending object with its front hooves. The soldier seized the opportunity and plunged the point of the poleaxe into the heart of the animal. He was unable to pull his weapon free from the horse’s chest, and with a dying wail the beast came crashing down on top of him. His free arm and leg, the only body parts not under the carcass, flailed and pushed, trying to get the animal off of him. The weight was too much to move, and soon the limbs lay still.

While the horse was going down, Oz had attempted to roll free from the saddle. Unfortunately his foot had become caught in the stirrup, and while he had managed to avoid being crushed, he landed hard and awkwardly on his sword arm.

The guard who had been kicked had risen to a sitting position. He wheezed and clawed at the dented front of his breastplate as he tried to force air into his lungs. Hart walked over to him and placed the end of his quarterstaff into one of the helmets eye holes. Then walking behind the injured soldier, he grasped his staff, placed a foot on the back of the guard’s shoulder, and twisted.

The three men looked over the carnage strewn across the ground. They looked at each other, and without a word, quickly made their way back into the city.

*** *** ***

When the trio arrived back at base, they were each embraced in turn by a bleary eyed Redeinia.

“Where have you guys been? We’ve been awake all night worried.”

Hart returned her embrace in full, a smile on his face.

“Practice ran a little bit longer than expected.”

Red laughed at the joke, though the laugh sounded almost like a sob when it came out. Anquist did not laugh at the joke. Varen knew that he would be expecting an explanation for their absence. Oz knew this as well; once he had received Red’s welcome and gave her a reassuring one-armed hug around the shoulders, he went into a detailed account of everything that happened from the time they discovered the missing gate guards.

Anquist nodded throughout the retelling, but did not say a word. In the silence that followed the story, Oz asked the question that they all must have been thinking.

“So what shall we do now? Once the Lord Commander finds out what has happened, he will tear Old City apart, board by board, to find us. We could gather as many of our weapons as we can carry and escape through the gate again before the guards change shift again. Perhaps go to Wendolen or to the west.”

“We will stay.”

The three words hung heavily in the air. It was madness. Jalidor Saih was obviously aware that something was going on, and with four of his personal entourage dead, he would not rest until they were dead as well. Only Hart was able to offer a small protest.

“Anquist. . . .”

“We will not run away. We will go about our business today, and tonight we will set up watches. No more fires during the night. We’ll huddle together for warmth if we need to. If someone hears nearby houses being searched, they’ll wake up the rest of us and we’ll relocate until it’s safe to come back. We will not flee, understood?”

The rest of the group nodded in silent acknowledgement.

“We should have some time before they find the bodies, so let’s try and get some rest. I’ll be on watch for the time being.”

Everyone nodded again and took up their spots on the mattresses. Anxiety and exhaustion were at war in Varen’s mind, and for a long time it seemed like anxiety would prevail. Exhaustion must have won out at some point however, because Varen was in a deep sleep when he was awoken next.[/SPOILER:4a7796860f]