CHAPTER NINETEEN

AND WHO ARE YOU

It would rain soon; Ander could smell the storm brewing in the air. The hot, damp breeze that smelled of salt and far off lands. The light nip of humidity in his breath and the straight hairs upon his neck told him well what nature had in waiting. As he stared into the clouds, he saw the muted flash of light beneath their vale. They fought over one another, swirling and spiraling to paint a dark masterpiece in the sky. And upon his upturned nose did a raindrop fall, small and near unnoticeable. But often did the hardest of things start with the smallest of signs.

The worn leather of his soles slid against the wetted stone of Vimbaultir-Proper as he dismounted the wooden walk. The steps off the furnishcart were steep, and as he climbed off, he imagined how great of an effort Lord Jannes Seroxs would have to give to scale them. Perchance it was his forever home, as if he were bound to it by his weight. But that was a rather silly notion, even he had to admit.

Daybreak was not far off, and in the near, three grand tolls beat out in slow rhythm. More flashes came from the darkness on high, and the wind dragged at his shredded garbs with greedy hands. He had to hold them to his form, and the silk cloak of the Charities was quick to fly off his back. The wind spat daggers of rain onto him, forcing his eyes shut. But when it relented, he heard the voice of the heavyset lord bellow out from the furnishcart, “Until we meet on the morrow, young Ander Idris.”

With a stagger and a screech of brakes, the cart was off to tread upon the cobblestone road. It was pulled by two spotted carthorses, and in the black of night, it disappeared from sight. The wind became heavier, and the rain grew fatter as it streaked down the boy’s face. His garbs soaked up all they could, and it dragged on his weary form.

“Ander! Pardon, Ander!”

From an alleyway to his right, the voice of Theran Vaughstock filled the small cobble square. The Ironvaurd approached, draped in his steel fabrics, with a grated helm pinched between his arm and side. The sideways rain stone away glimpses of his face, but when the two stood close, there was no trouble in seeing clear. The nobleman spoke, “You shall be leaving for Norsjin tomorrow, I presume?”

“You would presume right, Lord Vaughstock,” replied the thief. He had to mind himself while speaking to the Ironvaurd. The Lord had figured him a thief with ease, and if that secret were to pass to Theran, the consequences would be dire.

“Need you a roof and board?” The man asked. Even as the storm struck at them, neither man bent to the wind. “I would be glad to accommodate you. Vimbaultir has a rather grand Lords-hall, and the Seroxs would bid your stay no mind.”

“I am in no need,” Ander shook his head. “I will find myself an inn in the city, your lord does not need to burden any of my expenses… But before I retire, I must leave.”

“Then leave you shall. And my eyes will be blind to the duties of a thief,” Theran touted, his eyes made small by his smile. The reveal was no grand surprise, and Ander made sure his reaction was buried deep.

“Please, do not fret. I mean you no harm, Ander Lone. You may have been a thief this morning, but beneath this moon, you are a hero. Do you know that? What you did tonight saved countless lives. You are a hero, and it is only right for your wrongs to be forgotten in consideration of such an act… That, in addition to the hunter’s purse.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the boy, his face unburdened by emotion. “Will you be departing tomorrow, Lord Vaughtsock?”

“That I will be,” sang the man. “I shall be returning to my master, Lord Veçeryn Thornfeld. I served beneath him as a Journier, and come my maturity I was entrusted to my Lord Jannes Seroxs. It will be a grand day when I can be in service to both of them, gods willing.”

“Be wary of the will of the gods,” mouthed Ander. “They are not all merciful.”

“They have been to me,” said the Ironvaurd. “And my witness is enough. I shall leave you be, Ander Lone. I have my own duties to attend to. Good night to you, and good luck.”

“Good night and good luck to you the same.” The two shook hands before parting ways. The rain was full-on now. Colder than a blanket of snow, and harsher than the winds of the high-mountains. The flash of lightning had stolen away the night-vision of his eyes, and now he found his surroundings a portrait of black, and even darker black. Little noise could penetrate the walls of wind, but to his behinds, the muffled sounds of padding rose. He turned to face them, eyes squinting for sight, and when the silver image came to him, his hands dropped in shock.

“Raynar?”

The horse trotted before him, stopping with slick hooves upon the wetted stones. His mane was ruffled with brush and mud, forced down harder by the weight of the rain. And his tail was in no cleaner as it dripped with cold rain tainted with dirt. The horse let out a *Neigh* as it brushed its head against Ander. The boy ran a hand down his friend’s neck as he spoke. “What are you doing here, my friends? How in all the living lands did you manage to find me?”

The beast had no tongue to speak with, and so no answer was returned. It would be a lie for Ander to claim he had not seen such strangeness in the steer. Ever since his night at the Summer Trance, he knew well the mystic aura that Raynar put out. The horse was simply perfect in every aspect, near to perfect to believe. And this latest stunt was no exception. Has he been trailing me since the morning, he thought. Lord Seroxs wheeled me to Vimbaultir, just how long has this animal been loping at my heel?

“I suppose I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?” Ander made for the beast’s side. He threw a foot into him to mount. The Saddle was slick and hard to grip, and the reins were no better. His legs were sore, and riding would do nothing to bring them strength. But when compared to walking to the Stronghold, there was no other choice.

“Well, Raynar. Let us go home, one last time… Things have changed, and we are no longer welcome. Our journey has begun, my friend.”

The pair sped off down the streets, passing rising homes and towers of Vimbaultir-Proper. They came upon the Northside, where the buildings were stunted, and all the roofs swelled with smoke, and a short ride later they passed beneath the arched stone tunnel that led out of the walls. Cloaked shadows manned the dips of the parapets, where blazenflames burned in defiance of the rain. Vimbaultir was no less a grand Stonehold than it was a grand city, and the brazen garrisoned there defended it well. The arms of the Vernwood took the rider and his steer in, and the darkness beneath its canopy was black as pitch.

The flash of storm light ran through the woods, and the crack of timber and thunder made for a wild ride. Even with the low light, Ander could make out the red eyes of the forest-kin, watching him beyond the wall of the veiled road. One even kept pace with him, for a while. Its eyes were mounted on a mass of shadow, just black enough to see distinct from the rest. By his sight, Ander assumed it to be a bear, but an assumption was all it was. Raynar outran the beast, and again were the riders alone.

The Vernwood, Ander looked around, the wind pulling hard on the mantle of his cloak. That night, with the bear cubs and the beast. How long ago that was… How far I have come.

His two swords thumped hard against his saddle with every gallop made by Raynar. They were heavy on his waist. Fighting with two blades was no easy feat, and he still had a great distance to go before he became proficient. The Inagnivorr was slow, much slower than a swordsman. The monster had bested him at every turn, and Ander’s knowledge had been his only strength. It had taken his shield as well, but in the end, the young Idris had taken something from it, something far more valuable. Its life.

Perhaps I could have done this a different way, a smarter way. His mind began to wander during the length of their ride. Sylas has always been plain with his intentions. ‘We must preserve the clan against all odds, and by every measure’. Maybe there was a path that did not end with me breaking his vow… Yet, I put them in no danger. It was my choice to go, and I was the only debtor that needed to pay an expense… It was his choice to save me. But he will not see that, how could he? For a man with an eye for duty, he is quite blind.

If there was one thing Ander would never do, it was bringing harm to his kin. He loved his family: both the old, and the new. His parents, Elara, Nina and all the rest. There had not been a second since Sylrel where they were lost to him. Nor were Bella, and Leon, and Damien and Nallia, and even Sylas and Thaddeus lost to him. It was love that drove his vows, but it was also love that made them. If he were to finish his journey, it would have to be alone. Yes, I needed saving. But no longer shall I require it. I will become strong by the whip of war, and I shall do it myself. This is my burden, not theirs. They will never understand my pain, and my goings. And still, I WILL have my vengeance.

*Neigh*

Raynar agreed with him. They were in a full gallop, passing tree after tree with blinding speed, and yet the horse was not even panting. You are a strange beast, my friend. I suppose we both are.

A flash of lighting brought the far distance alive, and Ander made out the rise of a stone cliff. A great torrent of water was flowing down its side, with trees bent beneath its heel, and chunks of debris taken in its tide. The waterfall of Komer Run was wild under the storm. The sight told him they were growing close.

“You will wait outside. I will not be long,” Ander said, his voice carried poorly in the wind. “Try your best not to be taken away in a flood.”

*Winnie*

“I kid. I kid, Raynar.”

When the trees parted, the dark portrait of the stone-engraved stronghold made its face. Its walls a set of arms lapped about its courtyard, with sharp eyes of glass lit by low-burning candles. Black shadows moved beyond them, and the front gate to the Stonehold… was locked shut.

“Dammit,” Ander slid from his mount. He turned, facing Raynar, “Sylas may have been serious… When has the man not? Knowing him, he is either taken by rage, or swooned by mead.”

The gate of timber and steel stood before him, towering like the spires of a keep. The sky did not bother to flash with lightning, and so Ander put out his palm to whisper, “Salash.”

His hand began to glow with light. It was just enough for him to see through the breach of the gate. He drew his broadsword to press between the doors, and with a strike, he shattered the wooden crossbar holding the bulkhead shut. The doors were thrown open by a gust of wind, churning mud upon Ander’s lower half. The courtyard was flooded by about half an inch, just enough to render the grass mud. All the doors were locked shut, with the stables barred, and the white tent was taken down.

A crash of lightning painted it all, and the shine left Ander’s hand. His boots dug deep into the mud as he made a path through the yard. The drops of rain were like speeding bolts, and its chill was felt on every finger and toe. But when he passed beneath the cover of the rock face, the rain relented, and Ander approached the door to pound off three heavy knocks.

*Knock* *Knock* *Knock*

Here we are again, he thought back to the winter night so long ago. The feel of the bear’s weight came upon his shoulder, and the cry of his chest scars burned hot. But we are stronger now. And we bear the weight of great purpose.

Muffled noises came through the door, inaudible in the blaring storm. There was no response to his knocks, and so he pounded them out once more.

*Knock*

*Knock*

*Knock*

A voice called in the wind, soft and smooth in contrast to the turbulence it rang in. It was a word of The High Tongue:

“Yaftā. Mavas. Vecera. Narath.”

But its meaning was lost to him now. His prior knowledge had gone with the beast, and he was left wondering what mystics the wind had spoken.

That was when the handle of the door turned, and the creak of its poor hinges sang their pitched song. The storm took the door, throwing it open as a crash of thunder roared above. Ander was painted in white light, and when the flash receded, he found his former leader before him. Arms crossed, dressed in all black, with a raging look of contempt. It seems as though the mead has not found him yet.

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Neither man spoke, but their eyes stared daggers that were sharper than the blades of the Shadhr Varr. Ander stepped beneath the heavy beam of the door transom, and the faint light of the den danced upon the slickness of his garbs like a wetted mirror. He was given a full view of the stone room. Nallia was reclined flat upon the aged cushions of the ancient Lerverg couch, with Bella hovering near her. Her leg was wrapped with bandages, and her eyes were closed in silent rest. There was little blood visible, and she seemed stable. Thank the few good gods.

Damien was not far from the Nyx as well, and across the den, Thaddeus leaned against the dark of a corner, masked in shade. But his eyes were not hidden, and they stared Ander down with great loathing. No one dared to say a word. There was only the howl of the wind and pelting of the heavy rain. The stares went on, and when Ander pulled back the veil of his mantle, he finally spoke.

“I have come…”

“...So you have.” Sylas’ voice was rough and crawling. “...I assumed you would. Fool. Degenerate scum.”

“There is no need, Sylas-”

“-There is every need!” The man threw an arm in anger, his eyes lit and his tongue sharp with grievances. “Look at you, Idris. Look at your clothes. Look at your sword. Look at everything you have.”

Ander did not look.

“Everything you have was given by my hand. I filled your belly! I put a roof over your head, and bandages on your wounds, and a weapon in your hand and a shield on your arm! And what did you do? You took my gifts, and you threw it all away. We have one purpose, Ander. And that purpose is to stay. Alive…”

Ander’s eyes never left the elder thief. He replied, “And who has died?”

“You- Gods, you miserable creature. Look at Nallia, look at Bella! Look at everyone. You put their lives at risk, boy. And for what? What was it all for! What has this all been for, Idris?”

“I did not wish for you to come.”

“You would be dead if we did not-”

“-And what of it?” Ander stepped forward, trying his best to mask his anger. He did not do it well. “So what if I died? It was my choice, and it should have been my consequence… What great grievance did I make? How is this any different from the Freemans? Then any other missions where I spilled blood for you. Tell me? How is this any different?”

“Because we act with reason!” Sylas shot forward, his brow tilted low, a mix between rage, and what seemed to be despair. “Because we do not act stupid… That is how we stay alive. We do what we do so we can live to see tomorrow… What reason do you have, Idris?”

That was when Ander looked away. The man’s gaze was prying too deep, and at last, the moment of truth was at hand. Everything was sealed when Leon pushed his way into the room, eyes barren of emotion, but locked on Ander with perfect aim. It all went silent once more, as if the lifeblood of the clan relied on his words.

It took a second in thought for Ander to find his words, but when he did, he spoke them in a voice befitting a great man.

“You want the truth? You want my purpose?” He stepped further. “My name is Ander Idris. I am the child of the cursed city, made to wander with great burden. The god of flames took from me my life. And it is my purpose to serve him all the grace he has given me… From this day, until my last day…”

“My name is Ander Idris, the cursed wanderer, and I shall slay the fallen god Aranos.”

The response to Ander’s truth was deafening, and nobody dared to speak. The eyes of his kin were pried open as if they were held by steel, and mouths fell agape in unison. But not Sylas’. Surprise had no mention on his face. Rather, rage had it all.

“…You left my home… You used my tools… You risked my lives, all because you think you can kill a god!”

His voice crescendoed as his rage peaked. “How the gods have cursed me with a burned fool! By every witness in this world, a burned fool indeed! Lord Aranos, the fallen god - Hahaha! I would sooner fit through the eye of a needle than you would ever lay a finger on a high-god. Hah… Hahaha! I cannot with this one. Cursed wanderer, what a joke! Hah!”

“Tell me this joke?”

Leon stepped forward, his presence a looming shadow over every present soul. Sylas spun to face him, a tide of hilarity in his eyes. He began at once upon Leon. “I am not surprised that you fail to see this joke, brother,” he pointed at Ander. “You are a half-wit who dresses up as an Ironvaurd. You are quite literally a child in boots too big for his feet, Lone! Your opinion is inconsequential, and I shall have you silenced. You have done enough tonight-”

“-Ander,” Leon brushed by the raging man to stand before his apprentice. The look they shared was a pleasant one. And compared to the temperature of the den, it was a divine thing. “Is this the truth you promised me?... Is this why you have learned the ways of the Magii? Is it you whole intention to hunt down this ‘fallen god’?”

“It is, and it shall always be. It was the purpose forged to me in flames, and a vow tempered by times of hardship. This is the truth, and the whole truth.”

“Then it is my truth as well, my pupil,” Leon placed a steady hand on the burned-man’s shoulder. “If you will walk this path, then I shall walk it all the same. Be it through fields of golden wheat, or calderas of flaming rock, or even hallows of terror and death. I shall walk it all for you. For you are my apprentice, from this day, until my last day. That is the vow I have taken. You have yours, and I have mine. And we shall see them done.”

“Leon, no,” Ander picked his hand up. It was a heavy hand, and it did not let go easy. “This is my path to walk. Alone. Your life is not to be paid for my purpose-”

“-What did I tell you, Ander? What did I say? When the Inagnivorr raged down against you? What did I say?”

“... Did you think I would let you die alone?”

“Exactly,” Leon stepped forward, turning to be abreast with his student. “Sylas, if Ander’s time in these halls is to end tonight, then so is mine.”

“Fine, fine! That is a fine thing!” Humor was all Sylas spoke with. His anger had broken him. “Clearing two rats with the price of one stone is fine by me! Out with the two of you.”

“Rats?” Leon pressed. The black-haired thief’s comments were pushing beyond reason. “And how are we rats, Sylas? What walls do we burrow into and what plague do we spread?”

“The plague of being a moron. That’s what! Enough of this, out the door! The two of you!”

“The three of you…”

“No, no,” Sylas turned, eyes honed at the woman with the auburn hair. She had risen from Nallia’s side. The Nyx was stirring in all the commotion, and to her left, Damien started with wide, questioning eyes. Thaddeus was brooding, none any different. Their leader threw a finger at the blondes.

“I can go on fine without half-and-quarter wit here, but you are not to leave!”

“Why so? I am my own free woman.”

“No, you are not,” Sylas bit back. “You belong to the clan, as do we all. We live to help each other, and you are needed most of all.”

“And we are not?” Ander said, a smile tugging at his lips. In the maw of such trouble, the boy could only see the faint humor in it.

“No,” Sylas replied with haste.

“You lie, Sylas.” Bella padded across the room to stand face-to-face with the axe man. She stood near half-a-foot shorter than him, but her strength was made no lesser by it. “They are our kin; The both of them. If you can throw them out without a second in thought, then I have the right to leave on my own accord.”

Sylas’ frown deepened, and his eyes went sharper than fireglass, “you are a stupid woman who does not know what is best. If you walk out that door with them. You. Will. Die!”

“If I stay behind these doors, I will die the same.” The Ladymagii did not pay mind to her leader’s insults. “We all die. The only difference is what I choose to do with my life before lady Laane takes me… Tell me, leader. What will we have in sixty-years time? How gray must we become before we put down our cloaks and be something other than thieves. How many people must we wrong before we do what is right?”

“We wrong no one.”

“A lie,” Ander said. His voice was deeper now, and it crawled out of his throat like a chimney-man crawled out of a furnace. “Our actions have brought consequences.”

“What consequences? We drove out the Freemans, we cut down the legs of merchants and pirates and ravagers and the like! We are a shield!”

“We are a thorn bush: we hurt all we touch. I watched an innocent man die for what you did to Monrose. Our heist on the Midnight Crows has made food more costly. No doubt some have starved for it. If only a few, it is still far above none. And what other places have the Freemans been turned to where they can pillage where no one is strong to resist them… We hurt, and take, and steal, and kill. You were fine to kill me just to save yourself, do not preach to me your purity.”

“Step off!” Sylas sneered. “I told you to leave already.”

“And I shall leave with them,” Bella touted.

“So you would rather die some horrible death on some bloody field by some savage brute than live a long life here?”

“There is no life here, Sylas.” She pushed past him to stand nearer to the doorway. The rain was hammering harder than ever now, but no lighting fell. “There is only survival… Ander has a purpose in his life. Be it vengeance, or something darker, it is a purpose. And a good one, at that. If Aranos is a fallen god as he claims, then he will be ridding the world of a great evil.”

“He will rid nothing. How can you not understand?” The rage made Sylas throw his hands up, fists tight with the fiery emotion. “No mortal has ever slain a high-god. You think you walk in Faerthor’s footprints? You wish to be a god-killer? The gods are not all the same, and you will soon find out how much so!”

I know that, Ander cringed. Do not think me ignorant to the danger. It is why I do not wish for any of you to join me!... But I will slay Aranos.

“You are a pragmatic man, Sylas,” he began. “If one tree can be timbered. Then even the greatest oak can fall.”

“Do not speak to me of pragmatism,” Sylas’s arms went cross like his brow, and the muscles of his bare forearms made deep lines beneath his skin. “If you all wish to be felled beside this burned fool, then do as you wish. Be you my kin, I will lose no sleep over your leaving. There is clearly no helping your rotted little minds.”

“Then I shall go with him as well!”

“No, you won’t, boy.” Thaddeus kicked himself off the dark wall to stare hard on Damien. It did not stop the young archer from moving to Ander’s flank. His brother eyed him with a gaze that sang a thousand words, and the young Idris could not help but look at the long scar that bit his forehead.

“What do you care?” Damien barked. “What loss would be made of me leaving?”

“Watch yourself, Damien,” his master growled. “There is much you do not know. You are my apprentice, and I command you to stay.”

“Let him go, Thaddeus. He is not the first fool to find our door, and he will not be the last. We must take these losses as they are. There is no helping them.”

“Rage has clouded your mind, Sylas,” Ander mouthed. The black-haired thief’s eyes twitched at that comment. “As have all your minds been clouded. I do not wish for you to walk with me! This is my way, paved by my blood, and all those who fell before me. My kin, brothers, sisters, and all. You need not put yourselves in danger. No more than you already have-”

“— I owe my life to you, Ander.” The young archer cut him off. “And I shall see my debt paid in full. I shall walk with you, and fight with you. You saved me from a brutal death, and now my life is yours.”

“A-As is mine, *groan*”

“Nallia!”

“Seriously, must you all have your precious moment.” Sylas groaned beneath his breath as Bella made to steady the standing Nyx. Nallia was pitched upon her good leg, with a simple cane held in the hand of her other side. Her face was strained, but her eyes were set dead upon Ander. Bella threaded an arm beneath her shoulder to aid her.

“No,” Ander said flatly. This was all going too far. “You will not come with me, nor shall any of you!”

“Listen to him, those few words are the only reason left in his speech.”

“I shall not listen to you, Ander,” Nallia laughed, though strained. “Tonight is the night I owe my life to Damien. He saved me, and in weeks prior, you saved him. My debt to him is thereby passed to you, and so I will serve you as he does. It is my debt.”

“Your debt is forgiven! Do not march into danger under such a thing.”

“I don't care. I am coming nonetheless.”

“Gahh, please, I ask you all. Have a second thought of this.”

“No, we shan’t.” Leon stepped closer to him, placing a firm hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. They all looked at the cursed wanderer. “We have made our choice, Ander. We are clear. We will walk with you, and fight with you on this path. Whether you want to, or not.”

“And what do you want, Thad?” Sylas turned to his closest kin. The archer was out of the shadows now, standing only a foot away from the doorway that led to their cells. The man yawned, before shooting them all a blank stare.

“I want to live,” he said plainly. “I am going to bed. Leave the fools to their foolishness. It cannot be helped.”

“At least one person here has some sense,” Sylas spoke with a smile. He pivoted to take in the picture of his mutineers. His eyes shined without love, cold and heartless. It was hard for Ander to imagine that all the man’s tidings toward them were severed so quickly. But in truth, survival is what Sylas cared for. And if you made a choice that did not resonate with him, neither would you.

“So be it,” he shrugged. “Go, run off. Die in whatever corners of this world you care to die in. You won’t make it far, if you even know where you are going. Do you know where you are going, Ander? Where does this path take you?”

“To Norsjin,” he replied. “To fight beside lord Thornfeld. I shall leave for the Northernland in the early morning at Marrencross. ”

His words put a silence into the room. Even in Vimbaultir, the great lord of Fimbull was well known, and even better renowned for his prowess. And looked at his companions, and where he expected to find shock, he found nothing to stoic eyes. They were in no way deterred by his reveal. Truly, they would walk with him, even into danger.

“Fine, enjoy freezing your manhood off,” Sylas smirked. “Take your stuff, and take you mugs, and get out of here. If Thad and I are the only ones who wish to stay alive, then so be it. It was only us two to begin with. And the two of us it shall remain! The clan will not die here, and when you are buried beneath the frozen wastelands up north, we shall have halls brimming with wealth and gold and food and drink! When you realize your mistake, perhaps you should send a makestone message to me, so I may enjoy hearing your pleas to come home. But this is your home no longer.”

The man turned his back to the five, his nose raised in the air. “I’m off to bed. Enjoy your lives, fools!”

His words were no lie, and just like that, Sylas Lone was gone from sight. It was only the mutineers left: Leon, Bella, Damien, Nallia, and chief amongst them, Ander. His kin turned to face him, their eyes like a thousand onlookers, all eager to know what comes next in the play. But this was no theater, this was the real world. This was his vengeance, and he was not all convinced that they should walk with him. But when he tried to voice concern, not an ear wished to hear him.

“I ask you again, please, recon-”

“Quiet, Ander,” Bella snapped. Though her tongue was sharp, her mouth was curved in a grin. “We have made our choice.”

“We all have, brother,” came Damien.

“And we shall see it through.”

“No matter the road,” Nallia and Leon chimed in as well.

“What if there is no road for you to follow me on?”

“It will be no matter,” replied Leon.

“We shall follow you all the same. We are your family, Ander. Where you go, we will be there. Always”