He walked all through the night, and by late sunrise, he reached the northern boundary of the great lake.
To his left, the mountains and rolling hills had since sunk completely into the land, giving way to flat forest. Up ahead, the canopy was slowly beginning to thin out. To the right, the red morning sun had now crested the horizon of the lake, and amber light washed across the ripples and waves. The chatter of crickets mixed with the chirps of plovers on the shore. There was a whisper of wind.
In the east, the sky was orange. Above – along the uncovered bank of the lake – it was blue, and in the distance ahead of him, Heror could see specks of skylight, as if the forest trees were starting to spread and scatter farther north.
Once he reached the northern boundary, Heror stopped to rest. He sat on a small grassy dune by the edge of the lake and opened his sack, eating one of the spare bread rolls left for him.
The bull-person had left Heror with enough food for several days of travel – if he rationed it well. But even if he reached Pylantheum within that time, Heror knew he’d need more food and supplies.
He remembered stories Ucankacei told him about Pylantheum when he was younger – how it was a Kingdom large enough to swallow three other Kingdoms inside of it, and how the entire southeastern quarter of Pylantheum was dominated by a great desert – Sparhha, as it was called. Ucankacei once told him that this desert was larger than all of Ardys. An endless expanse of rolling dunes beneath an unforgiving sun.
His mind on supplies, Heror wondered how he might be able to increase his stock. He couldn’t hunt – he’d never learned, and he didn’t have the tools. But as Heror’s thoughts ran, his eyes fell on the water in front of him.
When Heror was younger, Ucankacei would take him fishing. There were hundreds of inlets along the coastline near Cephragon, water from the Publaic spilling inland, into the dense, humid marshes – where the air was so thick that warm light seemed to pool in clouds of mist. Often, they’d take crude wooden poles and lures of horsehair, and use bugs and worms as bait. But Heror remembered one day, Ucankacei decided to show him a way to build a net, or weir, out of woven reeds, and block small stream channels to catch fish in the current. It had taken them hours to find a channel small enough to block the flow outside the net, and Ucankacei’s craftsmanship wasn’t perfect – he’d been the first to say it, time and time again – but they still managed to catch a half-dozen gleamfish. Ucankacei’s face always lit up when they…
Heror shook his head abruptly and whisked his thoughts of Ucankacei away. He reopened the sack in his hands and pulled out the small metal flask of water, then unscrewed the cork and took a sip. A sip turned into several. His throat was still dry. The flask was almost empty. His eyes then turned to the clear lakewater. He rose to his feet, stepped to the water’s edge, and dipped the flask beneath the surface, filling it to the brim.
As he twisted the cork shut and stored the flask, Heror heard quiet splashing to his left. He looked ahead, around the northern bend of the lake, and saw a sandy-colored corsac fox standing in the shallow waters, poking its nose below the surface. After a moment, the fox pulled its snout from the water – a dead fish trapped in its teeth – and doubled back into the woods as Heror looked on.
Once he was ready, Heror continued north. He left the lake behind and was soon surrounded by forest again. But this forest was different. It was warmer, greener, and no vines sprawled across the floor. Where there had once been pine trees, rough and spindly, the leaves above were softer and lighter, and some trees were still covered in buds, waiting for the cool air of early Rimvalen to recede. As he looked up at the trees, Heror searched for forked leaves and hissing plants – like the ones he’d heard of in stories about Mide. He saw none.
At one point, when it was light enough inside the forest, Heror stopped. He pulled out the map and unrolled it. He had to be close to Pylantheum now, he thought. He’d been traveling in Mide for the better part of two-and-a-half days. His body ached, his legs were sore, and his eyes were tired.
But as he looked upon the map, Heror’s eyes fell on the red line the bull-person had laid out for him, and he saw that he was only just over halfway to the border. The northern boundary of the lake marked the halfway point.
At this discovery, Heror let out a strained breath. He rolled the map up again and slid it back beneath his belt, and all at once, he felt the tinge and pain of wear all across his body, pulsating up and down. He took another breath, closed his eyes, and tried to let the silence calm him.
There was no steady wind in the forest anymore – only the occasional calls of cardinal, chickadee, and flicker up above, and the quiet hum of the morning crickets in the underbrush.
His breath still short, and his joints still in pain, Heror now reached inside his tattered siephall cloak. There, inside his armor pouch, he still felt it – the kinship cloth he’d carried with him all the way from Cephragon. His fingers ran across the cloth – as if to feel for any rips in the stitching – and when they found none, he pulled it from his armor pouch, unrolled it, and stretched it lengthwise between his hands. He let his eyes fall on it.
It was an intricately-woven cloth, made of designs and weaving patterns from the Kingdom of Pylantheum. Stitched along all four edges, as if lining a portrait, blue waves rolled and rolled, and on the left side, a jagged cliff lay. On that cliff, a lone wolf stood, stray fletchings of cloth acting as fur, hanging limp in the idle forest air. At the center of the cloth, the name ‘Heran’ was stitched in dark gray thread.
Heror studied the cloth; normally, it gave him comfort in its familiar, unfamiliar imagery. Today, those rolling waves reminded him of the tides he watched with her. The cliff, of the looming wall that stole his adolescence. The wolf – alone, isolated – reminded him only of himself. He didn’t find the comfort he sought. And in its place, questions haunted him.
Did he actually know where he was going? Did he even know what he was looking for? What would he do once he reached Pylantheum – the largest Kingdom? How would he cross the desert? How would he survive? Was there anyone on the other side waiting for him? Was there a family for him to find?
Frustrated, he rolled the kinship cloth and placed it back inside his armor pouch. At the thought of family, his mind danced back to Thaeolai and Ucankacei – but only for a fleeting moment before he angrily swatted it away. He took another deep breath and let his eyes drift upward. He gazed up at the patches of forest canopy beneath the rich blue sky – green and bronze leaves glinting gold in the morning sunlight, as thin cirrus clouds wisped far above.
He heard the birds and the crickets and the light rustling of the leaves above as a high gust of wind passed through the upper branches. A hummingbird whisked by not far from him, its wings whirring in the air. His breathing slowed. He started to feel calm.
“This is what you wanted,” he said to himself, trying once more to say the words. “You’re free. You have a chance. This is what you wanted.”
His hand snaked back up to the rolled kinship cloth and patted it softly beneath his breastplate.
“You have a choice.”
And at last, he found enough conviction to take another step forward, and he started to walk again.
He walked through the forest for hours more, as the morning sun made its slow, steady climb toward its apex in the sky. The trees slowly began to spread out, and the flat forest ground – free of the twisting, snarling roots he’d seen in the damp mountain woodlands – was easier on his feet and ankles.
After a few hours of walking, Heror found a wider tree with a cradle-like root structure, and stopped there to nap. He sat in the short forest grass and let his back rest against the tree’s smooth, scaly bark – craned his head and let the calls of the birds lull him to sleep.
But his body would only let him sleep for so long. It was a light sleep in the forest, and he woke only three hours later. The sun was still high in the sky, but he felt the cool shade of the tree now, as the sun had drifted farther to the west. He stood, stretched, and stepped out from the shadow of the tree. His eyes lifted, and he saw the sun peeking through breaks in the canopy above. Seeing its tilt in the sky, just to the left of his position, he deduced that north was straight ahead – and so he carried on.
The midday hours took him through a narrow stretch of deciduous forest, which had lined the eastern edge of the Midan mountain range. But as he carried on, the trees stretched farther and farther apart, until the air was more open than forest, and the forest detritus was replaced by tall, olive grass, soft to the touch. The sky opened slowly ahead of him, rich blue mixing with gold and yellow. By the time the sun started its descent in the west, Heror reached the speckled treeline of the forest. And as he emerged from the fading woodlands, feeling the wind meet his skin again, another new world revealed itself to him.
The forest was gone, and now, from the top of a knoll, he looked on at what appeared to be an endless steppe. Vast plains of long olive grass stretched as far as the eye could see underneath a clear, bronzing sky. Rolling hills gave off green-gold light against the sunset that peered past the edge of the highlands to the west. From where he stood, Heror could pick out herds of antelope and gazelle and saiga – animals he’d never seen before, animals he only recognized from Ucankacei’s vivid tales – commingling with cohorts of buffalo in the far distance, close to the horizon. A brilliant orange plateau stood on that horizon, as if marking the edge of the Aelyum, and spaced out intermittently across the endless plains, savannah trees stood, their branches sprawling out to form golden canopies of their own. He could sniff a hint of dryness on the wind.
For a moment, Heror stood in wonder, eyes fixed on the boundless landscape ahead of him. His gaze drifted to the west, where the amber sun hovered over the endless hills, producing a warm glow in the lower sky. Then his eyes drifted right, to the east – and he saw a small farmstead not far in the distance, situated at the edge of the forest, at the bottom of a long-sloping hill.
As his eyes fell on the farmstead, he saw movement, and he instinctively dropped to the ground, hiding in the tall grass. Realizing his armor might have caught the sunlight, he dug his right hand into the dirt and caked mud over his left pauldron, then he did the same with his other side. Then he waited.
When he heard nothing but the breeze, he slowly propped himself up off the ground with his arms, and peered over the tops of the tall grass. Hidden among the blades, he could just make out a bull-person at the edge of a wooden fence that lined the farmstead’s grounds. The bull-person had a brown linen sack – similar to the one Heror had been given – slung over his shoulder.
The bull-person was far enough away, and his back was turned – and so Heror rose a bit more, planting his knee in the dirt. He craned his head, and as he peered across the plains, he could make out two more armored Midans by the east end of the farmstead, both on horseback, with bows and arrows slung over their shoulders.
Heror watched as the bull-person closed a farm gate behind him, then walked – with the slow gait of an elder – to the east edge of the farmstead where the two Midans waited. The bull-person handed one of the Midan soldiers the sack, and the Midan appeared to hand him something in return – perhaps money. Then, Heror watched as the Midan riders turned to the north and rode off. They disappeared behind the farmstead for a moment, then reappeared farther north, fading away beyond the horizon.
Heror waited until he was sure they were gone, and then he carefully rose to his feet. His eyes went from the plains to the farmstead, and he saw that the old Midan farmer was back inside the fence walls, retreating inside his house for the evening.
Now Heror looked on at the farmstead. Beyond the lodging house, the fenced area stretched onward, with several cows and bulls grazing on grass within. And to the left of the livestock area, Heror could see a small patch of crops. Judging from the shape of the plants and the stalks, it looked like corn or maize.
It was then that Heror felt his stomach grumble. He winced, let out a sigh, and clutched his midsection, then lifted up his bag and felt the weight of it. He only had one spare mutton left.
For a second, he hesitated. But as quickly as the thought entered his mind, he started in the direction of the farmstead, toward the rows of corn that grew on the west flank. He walked slowly through the tall olive grass at first – keeping his eyes fixed on the farmhouse’s door. As he got closer, however, he quickened his pace.
In minutes, Heror made his way to the edge of the farmstead. He wandered past the fencing, to the sound of murmurs from the cows and livestock, and reached the section of maize. In the wind, the corn husks rattled softly, and the leaves of the ears danced with each gust.
Heror knew little about harvesting corn – only what Thaeolai had told him once. She came from a wealthy family, and one of her uncles owned a farmstead northwest of Cephragon. When she was very little, she visited there now and then. Ardys wasn’t known for its maize – rather, it was known for the fresh fruits that came within its borders. But Thaeolai’s uncle had many servants, and he grew everything he could. And so she was able to help harvest the corn – snapping the ears off the stalks and shucking them clean. Then she’d basket each ear, and she’d return to the market with a full bushel. Looking back, she would laugh about how she wasn’t able to lift it herself, no matter how hard she tried…
Lost in his thoughts again, Heror came back to his senses. He stepped toward the maize and knelt down next to a stalk that had a fairly large ear protruding from its stem. He sent one last glance back toward the farmhouse before turning back to the corn and grabbing the ear with his hand. The stalk was firm, but with some force, he was able to break and peel the ear off the stem. In the wind, the crack and tear of the husk was little more than a whisper, and he pulled the ear clean off.
Now Heror held the ear in his hands and ran his fingers over the husk, searching for a place to start shucking. Once he found a crease, the husk tore like thick parchment, and with only a few swipes, he was able to clear off the kernels. But this corn wasn’t like the ones he’d seen in the market in Cephragon. This corn was whiter, more bland in color. The texture was rough, and the kernels were fused together.
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He thought to save it for later, or perhaps to check other stalks. But his stomach repeated its growl, and almost instinctively, he brought the corn to his mouth and bit down. He expected a soft crunch, but instead, his teeth could barely make an impression, and the corn tasted of starch. He tried to bite down a moment longer before conceding – the corn wasn’t ripe yet.
Heror let out another frustrated sigh and tossed the inedible corn aside. The air was getting cooler, and he could feel the light of the western sun fading behind him. Not far beyond the section of maize, from the direction of the farmhouse, he heard a cow moo angrily in his direction. He stood and turned, starting back to the north. When he was far enough away – and the sun was nothing more than a line of red underlying a clear night sky – he ate the last of his food and carried on.
The steppe was quiet. There were few trees to house the birds, and no forest underbrush for the crickets to hide. Every so often, Heror would pass a tree and hear the hoot of a burrowing owl. In the fields, he could hear distant howls of wolves or coyotes, echoing endlessly in the vast expanse. The wind itself wasn’t cold, but it was constant, and in the darkness of night, it cooled. And soon, Heror found himself shivering. His teeth chattered.
He wanted to stop – find a tree for shelter, rest his legs and feet, and sleep. But he had no food, and at least two days left of travel by his estimate. Even then, he didn’t know how close he’d be. Racing against time, he saw no option but to keep moving.
The tall grass brushed against his legs as he went, and his feet again found their unconscious rhythm. He walked up and down the rolling hills of the steppes, straining along inclines and stumbling down slopes. For hours, he carried on.
Eventually, in the deep of the night, he stopped at the top of a small crest to catch his breath and take a drink. He grabbed the flask from his bag and opened it, then took a few sips of water. Then he closed the half-empty flask and thought to look up – and he was met with an extraordinary sight.
Whatever light overcast that had rolled in at sunset was gone, and up above him, spread out over an endless flat landscape, Heror could see the entirety of the night sky. Stars dominated the blackness above like grains of sand on a beach. Some twinkled, while others clustered together in tight formations. There was silver, blue, red, yellow, orange, and the white glow of the waxing gibbous moon Gantuin – and underlying it all was the dust and light of a galactic ring, blending the colors into a glowing skyscape.
Transfixed in wonder by the sparkling sky, Heror forgot about the cool winds and the ache of his bones, and he tried to pick out constellations. Ucankacei had taught him a few – Garriel, the explorer, lifting his eyeglass. The Psolemyte, the great beast, stewing in the shadows. Nisimi, the nymph, flocking stars on her branches like fireflies. Trichus, the warrior, with his belt and his blade. Eodei, the archer, nocking a golden arrow on his bowstring. Tiloprio, the Timekeeper, marking the ages in narrow columns. Hiirvanos, the hero of millennia they called the Divinium.
Even at night, Cephragon had been a city of light. The torchlight often pooled and blotted out many of the stars. And so Heror had rarely been able to see them all.
But in the middle of the wilds, with the open sky, Heror could see everything. And he could see the stories they told.
It was a long while before he started walking again. When he dropped his eyes, the cold came back. He picked up where he left off, and his legs settled back into their rhythm. He traveled up and down small grassy hills, letting the soft ground crunch beneath his feet with each step. By now, the days without much sleep were starting to catch up to him. His eyelids were heavy, and he started to sway as he walked.
Every now and then, Heror thought to stop, sit down, and sleep. But he told himself to keep going. He was in the fields now, where the horizon was low-sloping – almost flat – and there was little to no tree cover. One could see for miles on end. He’d seen Midans on horseback the evening before, with bows and arrows. He assumed they roamed the steppes and plains, and they’d be able to run him down if they saw him in the open. If he traveled at night and rested during the day, he could avoid being spotted.
And so he carried on. Exhausted, he walked slowly, painfully, but steadily enough – and in hours more, he began to see the red whisper-glow of sunlight on the eastern horizon, just to his right. He kept walking until the clear sky began to lighten, and the stars began to disappear, and then he made his way to a savannah tree in the distance. Up ahead, past the tree, he could see a small herd of gazelle making their way east – a female hiding its calves in the tall grass as they ventured on.
Minutes passed, and eventually, in the budding light of dawn, Heror reached the lone savannah tree. Both the roots and branches of the tree sprawled out above and below from the central trunk, and the leaves drooped over the root system in a wide bowl shape, creating shade and cover from the light. Around the root system, the tall steppe grass shrouded the area beneath the tree. It was as good a place to hide as any, and as Heror stepped underneath the tree, his feet collapsed from beneath him, and he crumbled to the ground, letting his back rest against the trunk.
As the air warmed, and the sunlight crept in from the east – to his right – Heror started to fall asleep underneath the savannah tree, to the sounds of shimmering grass and to the touch of the morning breeze. When he woke, the light came from the west – the rich amber hue of another sunset.
Safe under the savannah tree, he’d slept for around twelve hours. He was rested, but his body was still tired. He was hungrier now – and as he woke, his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth, and his throat was dry.
Grimacing, Heror rose to his feet, his back sore from the firm tree bark. Once on his feet, he leaned beside the trunk and opened the sack, pulling out the water flask by impulse. He unscrewed the top and took what felt like a mere sip – but in fact, he’d guzzled the rest of the water in only seconds.
Sooner than he expected, Heror felt the last drop hit his tongue, and his throat was still dry. He tipped the flask upside down, tapped on the bottom, and waited for any last droplets to flow down – but there was no more water left.
Heror didn’t bother closing the flask again. He shoved the flask and the cork back into the sack and let out a frustrated grunt. Then he pushed off of the tree and stepped back out into the open evening air, feeling the wind on his face and skin.
To the north, there were no more trees, and the semi-arid steppe stretched on for miles – tall grass dotted by shrubs and wormwood plants. The plateau he’d seen the night before was closer, but still far in the distance, sitting on the northern horizon. Looking back behind him, he saw that the southern forest and the farmstead were long gone – swallowed up by the fields and grass. No Midan riders were in sight.
The sun set. Heror walked. The sky was less clear on this night, but he could still see most of the stars through a light, patchy overcast. He remembered a story Ucankacei had told him – about when he was in the Ardysan army, and fought against Midan pirates from Cuyasa, in the Bay of Ocinion. The bay was nestled between four Kingdoms – Ardys and Mide to the east, Ghiovan to the north, and Charondor to the west. The bay was large enough that Ucankacei and the Ardysan sailors sometimes needed to use the stars to navigate at night. He’d forgotten which star the sailors used to find true north. Perhaps it was the Sword’s Edge – the apex star in the Trichus constellation, due upward from Trichus’ belt. Or perhaps it was the columnar star stacked at the very top of Tiloprio’s time obelisk.
Heror stopped for a moment to study the sky, worried he’d lost his orientation in the dark. He tried to find one of the celestial navigation stars, but as soon as he started looking, he was lost. The overcast faded in and out, occluding the black expanse of the sky. And when it cleared, he’d forgotten his place peering amongst the stars.
It wasn’t long before Heror started moving again, in the direction he guessed to be north. He’d been walking – more or less – straight north since the lake. The air had steadily grown drier with each passing day. By now, he thought, he’d be nearing the outer edge of the desert Sparhha. And from there, he’d be able to find his way.
The hills flattened as he carried on in the night. His stomach empty, he walked a step at a time, in a daze – with blistered feet, and with only the wind to speak to him. Up above, he heard the occasional call of a falcon, echoing in the night air. Somewhere off to the far west, a coyote cried. It was as if he was in a realm of limbo – nothing but dark, flat, unrecognizable land for miles on end, under a clouded cosmic canvas. The thought ran through his mind – that if the steppe truly never ended, he might die here and be forgotten – but he brushed it away and kept moving.
It wasn’t until sunlight started to peek above the horizon that Heror was drawn to a stop. As he looked on with tired and glazed eyes, he saw the red glow of dawn directly ahead of him – and he realized that he had, in fact, skewed to the east while traveling through the night. He turned to his left, and in the low light of early morning, he saw the silhouette of the great plateau almost directly to his west now. He might have gone off course.
Heror cursed under his breath and twice stamped the ground with his foot, kicking up a patch of grass and dirt. He shouted in frustration – his call dying out quickly across the flat, empty landscape. He fumed silently, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
After taking a moment to calm himself, Heror opened his eyes again. The eastern sky was starting to lighten, and a deep blue washed above, flowing around the stars. He was about to turn back to the north and correct his path – but before he did, something caught his eye on the eastern horizon, illuminated by the fledgeling sun.
East-southeast of his position, Heror could see trees – thick tree cover. More forest. He glanced to the north and saw that the flat landscape carried on for miles more. The air was dry, and the desert Sparhha felt vaguely within reach. But he had no food or water. He’d gone without food for almost two days. If he kept heading north, he didn’t know if he’d be able to find more.
To the east, a new forest lay. There, Heror could find food. He could find a river and refill his flask. He could rest. He could find shelter from the constant wind that had now chafed his skin.
He didn’t have to think for very long. After only a moment, Heror started off to the east-southeast, setting his sights on the thick treeline of the forest. It was a few miles away – perhaps an hour walk.
This morning was clear, like all of the last ones had been. As the sun eclipsed the horizon, it revealed a clear cerulean sky, dotted only by small wisps of cumulus, and cirrus far above. Beneath the blue-gold light of the morning, and in the light swelling breeze, the tall olive grass danced. Heror could hear crickets now.
Nearly an hour of walking passed, and Heror was within a hundred yards of the treeline. These trees were taller and greener than the ones he’d seen days ago, and they towered over him as he grew closer. Their trunks were wide and strong, tightly packed within the forest bounds. Near the ground, low branches blurred the view inside the forest. And far up the trunks, at the peak of the woodlands, the green leaves above conglomerated to form a dense canopy, which hummed and whirred constantly as it caught the wind from the west.
As he grew closer, the thoughts of water, food, and protection from the wind filled his mind, and Heror started to pick up his pace. He stumbled once, but kept his eyes ahead, feet trudging through long grass. He picked out a small gap in the trees and started to make his way toward it.
But just as he started his final approach – just twenty yards away – two Midan archers on horseback emerged from that same gap, and entered the plains.
Heror’s stomach dropped, and so did his body. All at once, he sank to the ground, hiding in the high grass. His pulse began to race, and after a moment of tense silence – breached only by the wind – he ever-so-slowly lifted himself up to a crouch and peeked through overlapping blades of grass.
The Midan riders had stopped, and were looking in his direction, unsure of what they had seen – but they had caught a glimpse of him.
They were djauuls – skin a light, pale gray, clad in thick, dark leather armor banded together by brown leather straps, with steel spaulders and sheet tassets protecting their shoulders and thighs. And atop their heads sat leather helmets with black plumes of horsehair.
Heror stared them down from his hiding spot in the grass – blue eyes catching the light of the rising sun – as his right hand snaked down to the handle of the dark metal sword Kerit, tucked between his belt and his torso. The riders still did not move, and instead appeared to be talking amongst themselves. They were stopped just beyond the edge of the forest bounds. If he was quiet, and if he stayed hidden, there was a chance Heror could sneak around them.
Silently, Heror started to sidestep to the right in a crouching position, careful to keep his balance as he rolled his hips toward the forest. His eyes were fixed on the riders, but theirs were fixed on the spot where they’d first seen him. One rider had taken his bow off his shoulder, but neither had advanced yet. As they questioned what they saw, Heror started to reach their periphery, inching closer to the forest line. The whistling wind from the open steppes masked his movements, but inside his head, he could hear the pounding of his heartbeat – so loud he worried they would hear it, too.
One step at a time. He was almost to the forest line now – where the tall grass faded and gave way to forest underbrush. Once he reached the edge of the grass – he decided – he would turn and run into the forest. He was at the edge of the riders’ periphery now, and they had begun to ride forward, slowly – their attention still on the grass farther infield. If he was quick and quiet enough, Heror would be able to slip away without them noticing.
One step at a time. Right, left, right, left. Ten yards – eight, six, five… four… three…
As he turned to run into the woods, Heror’s right foot came down on a large branch, snapping it in two. The loud crack echoed in the morning air, and Heror froze. His eyes darted back to the fields, and he saw that the Midan riders now had their eyes set on him.
In a flash, one rider nocked an arrow and let it loose. Heror leapt forward, into the tree cover, and felt the cool rush of air on his ankles as the arrow just grazed past his reach. Once he was past the treeline, he sped up to a sprint, and heard one of the riders shout from behind him as he ran.
In a paralyzed silence, Heror rushed ahead, whizzing past thick brown tree trunks and moss-covered vines. He shot a quick glance back toward the treeline – a rich emerald hue trickling down from the dense canopy – then turned his eyes ahead once again. He couldn’t see them yet, but he could hear the gallop of a horse, getting closer.
His mind racing, Heror kept running – until up ahead, he saw a small log lying on the forest floor, next to a thick tree. He leaned down to grab the log as he veered past it and heaved it into the air, farther into the forest. Then, he turned and slid behind the thick tree and went completely silent, freezing as his chest heaved. With his back to the trunk, he heard the log crash into the tree branches up ahead, and now he heard the hoof-steps of a rider’s horse heading to investigate the noise.
As he heard the horse grow closer, Heror grabbed the hilt of his sword, choking it near the top so the bottom part of the handle was left exposed. He took a silent breath, hearing the horse coming up to his right. And then, as the first rider made his way past Heror’s hiding spot, Heror spun to the right and swung the hilt of his sword high and over his right shoulder, hammering the rider’s abdomen with ruthless force and knocking him off his horse.
Spooked, the rider’s horse kicked and dashed off with a cry, and the rider lay on his back in the forest brush, gritting his teeth in pain. Heror now stepped out and stood over the rider. Matted brown curls hanging over his forehead, nostrils flaring, he spun his blade and adjusted his grip, preparing to stab down and finish off the rider. But as he lifted his sword, the second rider emerged from behind a tree farther down the forest corridor, nocked an arrow, and loosed it as Heror had his back turned.
The arrow knifed through the gap between Heror’s left pauldron and the sheet armor covering his upper back, and a piercing pain suddenly shot up Heror’s left arm from his shoulder blade. He loosened his grip on the sword – letting it fall to the ground – then whirled around, clasping at his left side with his free arm. As he turned, he saw the second rider nocking another arrow. The rider pulled back the bowstring and held it at the anchor point, glaring at Heror from under his leather helmet.
At the sight of the archer at the ready, Heror froze again. His breath was hoarse from the pain and the running, and for a moment, he and the archer were locked in a staredown. Heror waited for the killing shot to come. But instead, the rider looked past Heror and shouted a Midan word that Heror did not understand.
Before Heror could react, the first rider was back on his feet, and he snapped the projectile off of the arrow embedded in Heror’s shoulder, then wrapped his arm around Heror’s neck and sent him to the ground in a chokehold.
Heror fought and kicked for as long as he could – boots scraping up leaves and dirt – but he was weakened and wounded. And after a few seconds, he felt his muscles start to give out. The Midan’s chokehold around his neck tightened, and he gasped for air that he could not take in.
In just seconds more, his vision went dark.