Darius Chapter 46

Temporarily out of danger, Bart and Silfor rode in awkward silence along the Great Road. The night was cool, and they had nothing to say. Erinstone burned behind them, but the screams of the people and the yowls of the underkind had faded after a kilometer or so, carried away on the easterly wind.

Bart still held his fire poker in one hand, resting it across the bump at the front of the saddle. He wasn’t experienced with any kind of weapon, but holding it gave him reassurance. He might look scary enough to cause some doubt in a bandit’s eyes.

Since Marth and his men had been chased back to Barringvale, the roving bands of miscreants had dropped away, all of them now taking to greener pastures once the funds dried up. The Great Road was safe once again, at least for the first handful of kilometers.

However, the two riders had many more kilometers to go if they were going to make it to Barringvale – each for their own reasons. Bart wanted to see Darius again, and Silfor wanted to rule her soldiers, as was her birthright. There wasn’t anything left for her to rule in Erinstone, but she would work something out.

Eventually, Bart got hungry, so he drifted off the Road into the forest, looking for forage. Silfor stopped on the Road and called out.

“Watcha doin?”

“Food.”

Bart was far from forgiveness and didn’t think he was obliged to give his former captor much more than that. He dropped onto the damp earth and scoured the bushes for berries, and the trees for bird’s nests. Silfor tied her horse to a sapling and followed.

“Bart...We’re going to have to speak if we’re going to make it to Barringvale. It’s a two-week ride at least.”

Bart scoffed at her sudden soft tone. He couldn’t believe that just over two months ago, he’d gone bright red and almost fainted at the sight of her arriving at the Royal Forge.

“Nothing to talk about. Just get food, you know how to do that, right?”

Silfor did not. She was proficient in some of the lowlier tasks assigned to her servants, but foraging wasn’t one of them.

“I don’t, sorry. Servants usually did this.”

Did. Only a couple of hours had passed, but Erinstone was already a ‘did’.

Bart relented, stepping aside to reveal a bush laden with berries ranging from a bright red to dark purple.

“Come here then, I don’t want to have to gather for both of us. These are stamberries, and if you eat the bright red ones, you die. The purple ones, however,’ he plucked one from the branch and tossed it in his mouth, ‘are delicious. And you won’t die from eating them.”

Silfor plucked a few of the berries, holding them out to Bart for approval. He nodded, and she sampled one. It had the texture of a blueberry but tasted like carrot. Overall, not bad.

They wandered through a bit more of the forest, keeping within shouting distance of each other and the Road. Bart hadn’t tied up his horse, but he didn’t think it would go far – not in this dim light.

The rest of their foraging trip was much of the same. Bart showed Silfor a few other edible – and inedible – tubers which she screwed her nose up at when she bit into them, but they didn’t have any luck with bird eggs. Bart would’ve killed for a couple yolks to keep him going.

They fought their way back to the horses, where Bart’s mare was starting to nose around the banks of the Great Road. A few minutes later, she might’ve been headed for home. She wouldn’t have found much.

They hopped up and continued, their mouths sufficiently stained and their bellies not so sufficiently full. Bart was used to the pangs of hunger, but Silfor hadn’t gone a day without having three square meals in years.

They rode through the night, occasionally going into spurts of galloping or a canter when strange noises came from the forest. In daylight, these noises wouldn’t have concerned them, but the looming threat of underkind on their tail was a strong motivator. They greeted the morning with tired, sunken eyes.

“Should we keep going?” Bart asked.

Silfor was nodding off at the reins and leaning on her horse’s neck. She jolted up and widened her eyes at the sound of his voice. A yawn escaped her before she replied.

“No, you look like shit.”

“As do you.”

They picked their way into the forest, this time tying their horses in a spot where they couldn’t be seen from the Great Road. Bart pulled some ferns off a tree and laid them on the ground, creating a makeshift mattress. Silfor followed suit.

“This dress really isn’t made for travel.”

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Bart had to agree.

“Suits the horse though. You’ve still got the noble look.”

“Thank you.”

Bart fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow – or the mass of wet moss that he called his pillow. Sleeping on it was like waterboarding himself, but he was too tired to care.

In the early afternoon he awoke with a bladder ready to burst. He rustled out of his fernery, clearing his head as he stood up. He stumbled into the bushes and urinated. When he finished, he could still hear a splashing sound. He looked down to make sure it wasn’t him, and thankfully, it wasn’t.

A stream. Water.

He and Silfor had suffered through the entire night without a drop of water between them, and dehydration was starting to influence him. He felt like his brain was scrunching up in his head, and he couldn’t clear the dry taste of sleep from his mouth.

He followed his ears, breaking through the vines and tangles until he found himself standing ankle deep in a small brook. He threw himself down and sucked in gulps of water, then bolted back through the forest to Silfor.

“Silfor! Water!”

She croaked back a tired reply, but stumbled to her feet, following him. When they came back to the brook, she fell in, soaking her tattered dress, almost swimming in the shallows.

When they’d both drank their fill, Bart picked up a piece of bark shaped like a cup, and scooped water into it. He stepped back through the forest, taking the water to the horses. They lapped it up, splashing excess. Silfor followed suit, and they made another four trips to and from the stream.

When the excitement was over, they led the horses back to the Road, mounted, and continued through the evening and night.

They would follow this routine for the next two weeks until they met with Mitrev’s army.

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Mitrev was fed up. He swept a series of maps off his makeshift desk, scrunching up the remainders in his hands and tossing them in the general direction of the fire outside.

“I don’t need these fucking maps and these fucking theories! I need my stupid excuses for soldiers to form up and fight!”

The advisors and captains in his tent stood with their arms by their sides, looking down. Mitrev had arrived two days ago, expecting to march in and lead the Erinians to a swift victory, but a significant portion of the troops - along with the explosive arrows - were delayed, struggling to get enough food and water for the hundreds of soldiers. The arrows were the capstone of the battle plan, and they couldn’t start without them. Every day wasted was an opportunity for Barringvale to shore up their defenses and produce magical weaponry of their own.

When a scout rushed into the tent with the news that the arrows and men were only a few hours away, the air cleared, and Mitrev’s expression lightened. He looked like he might pull a bottle of whiskey from his pocket and pour everyone a drink.

“Phenomenal! See? Ask and you shall receive. Let’s start the fun, shall we?”

He stood up, looking out of the tent as though he might see the rest of the army coming over the horizon. He’d have to wait a while yet.

Fed up with the concept of patience, the Erinian General strode outside and yanked a sigil out of the ground, raising it high above his head.

“At arms! All forward!”

The soldiers responded by forming tight rectangles, grouped by the platoon. Mitrev could barely be seen while he paced the front lines, but the sigil bobbed along, marking his position.

“We’re getting reinforcements in three hours, but I want to hit ‘em NOW! They’re sitting high and mighty in their walls, and it’s time someone tore them down. That’ll be us. Let the archers blast through the main gate, then flood through and take the city. Simple!”

The men looked past him at the thick gates and scores of soldiers atop the battlements.

Simple was one word for it, ‘deadly’ was another.

Mitrev could see the same soldiers they could, but he was not perturbed. After all, he wouldn’t be on the front lines. He had his horse brought to him, and he stuck the sigil in the dirt as he mounted. He donned his helmet, the purple plume bouncing with each step the horse took. For those not taught to revere his purple-accented helmet – the sign of an accomplished general – he looked almost comical.

“To your positions! Charge!”

The soldiers took off, whooping and yelling. In response, the dots of the defenders on the Barringvale ramparts scurried around, raising their bows and yelling down the ladders and stairs to the people below. The Erinians came in fast, closing the distance between the edge of the forest and the outer wall of Barringvale in a few minutes of dust and clamor and confusion. Archers curled around the outside, shooting their volleys of explosive arrows at the gate and the sandstone bricks around it. They sent two volleys, ripping holes through the thick wood and knocking soldiers off the ramparts. The Barringvale soldiers returned fire with Darius’s creations, sending back an arc of fire and explosive arrows.

When the first inferno spell detonated, rolling out a plume of fire and smoke in a three-meter radius, the Erinians were caught in a mess of frightened horses and dazzled men. Some jumped off their mounts and rolled in the dirt, while others tried to ride through the smoke, colliding with their comrades.

After the Barringvale ambush had gone so poorly, and without any presence of explosive arrows, the Erinians had assumed that they would have the upper hand. Now they were the ones with dwindling supplies, facing up to a new threat. One captain had the good sense to shout over the deafening sounds of battle.

“We’ve breached the gate! Archers, focus your last volley on the edges! Spread out and push to the gate!”

The captain pulled his reins to the right, waving his arm at a group of soldiers nearest him, telling them to follow. Others followed suit, realizing they would be far less vulnerable to the arrows – both kinds – if they spread out. They would have to converge at the gate, but by then they’d have broken through, and the Barringvale soldiers would be fighting a battle on two fronts. Soon, the focused barrage of arrows became a spattering of stray explosions and bursts of fire as the Barringvale archers had to focus on singular, high speed targets. The Erinians were adapting fast, and they rushed towards the gate, drawn to their only hope of salvation – going back wasn’t an option, not with Mitrev waiting for them.

The first soldiers came within a hundred meters of the gate. They could see the soldiers rushing to shore up the holes with whatever was on hand – planks of wood, shale and anything that fit a gap were being thrown at the base of the gate. It was effective at slowing the horses, but with the gates smashed open, the hard work was already done.

The captain who’d suggested the successful tactic, feeling distinguished, charged through first. He could see Barringvale swordsmen standing across the path in a blockade, but he was mounted, and they were not. He grinned manically, excited to wet his blade.

A tall man came out from the pack, wielding a shining long sword.

Then, when the captain was still ten meters away, he swung the blade, releasing the Strike Spell.