Trenton, along with everyone else, lurched upwards into the air as Garrote hastily dragged their bodies up high into the tree. Luckily, the abnormal size of the tree gave them a gracious platform to stand on, a branch some hundred feet off the ground easily wide enough to mask their bodies. They crouched low, huddling together, no one daring to peek over the edge as the stampede grew ever closer.
“Draw your presence into your core. As long as they don't have a direct sight line with you, breaching your core’s nearly an impossible task. They won’t be able to feel your presence,” Wimbleton muttered, eyes closed.
They all did as he said, some of the more inexperienced members among them struggling somewhat with the task, the strain of withholding presence more than a little straining, but overall they were able to mask themselves, and just in time.
Below them, breaching through the treeline in tight formation, Trenton felt the clap of thousands of feet, the muscled exterior of many warhorses bodies, and the cold steel of standard militia plate and blade. Although, for Trenton, it was difficult to make out any particulars, especially amidst the mad pounding.
There appeared to be 3 individuals leading the pack, 3 younger folk just behind them, and an indistinguishable mass of soldiers of varying ages coming up the rear. They slowed as they approached the chasm Trenton’s group had moments prior, coming to a complete stop at the behest of one of the three leading members just below the tree they were hiding in. Had they been found? Surely not. Wimbleton still looked remarkably calm, if a little focused. But if the army wasn’t there for them, what were they doing?
Far below, the lower murmur of chatter echoed out, bouncing in between the trees interminably, allowing Trenton to catch some strands of conversation. They spoke of their weariness, the long travel they’d taken up to this point. They spoke of missed family members, kids, wives, and mothers left behind to fight this battle. They spoke of the gods–their duty. But most importantly, although a little hard to make out, they spoke of their leaders: Ieren, Draval, and Isthil.
Trenton knew those names, of course he did. Any child across the continent would recognize those names at the briefest of glances, and to them, they were especially important. These were three of the gods special chosen, pontifices of the divine sect holed up in Iradel. They were enemies, beings of remarkable strength, and they’d brought with them an army. But they didn’t seem to notice their group's presence, the three chosen bickering about something at the front of the pack.
“What’s happening?” Garrote mouthed, looking over at Trenton for an answer, but Trenton merely shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, stilling Garerote’s tongue for another couple moments.
“Quiet!” A gruffer voice boomed out, Draval’s if Trenton had to guess.
In an instant, the chatter ceased as a new man approached, this one garbed in much simpler cloths, a thin veil stretching over his face. Trenton’s blood ran cold, heart rising to a mad tempo at the briefest contact as the man's presence washed over him. Around him, everyone had a similar reaction, Wimbleton clamping his hand over Millie’s mouth to keep her silent. He had an intimidating aura about himself, not quite pride, but neither arrogance. He held himself exactly as he was, confidence in his ability–complete and utter.
Trenton looked over at Wimbleton, whose eyes were open but distant, “Which one?” Trenton mouthed.
Wimbleton’s eyes focused, and although he didn’t say a word, his message came across loud and clear. 10 fingers, each raised to their fullest. This was the 10th veil, the lowest among their order, and yet, still a monster in his own right. He stopped before the chosen, each one of them standing loosely to attention atop their horses.
“We were promised Two, where is he?” A thinner voice called out, likely Ieren’s.
“Elsewhere, doing something actually important. That he even deigned to see you once is a testament to his generosity. Where I not ordered, I would not be here entertaining you fools,” Ten said, a slight bite to his voice.
Draval dismounted his horse, stepping forward to confront the man face to face. He was noticeably taller than Ten, wider by a fair margin as well. It looked something like a goliath approaching a child, although he was nowhere near the stature of the Conqueror, merely a mock imitation. But before Draval could reach Ten, a younger boy jumped out from Draval’s horse, leaping at Ten with the viciousness of a wild beast.
Ten easily sidestepped the boy's attack, snatching him out of the air with a single arm, not reacting in the slightest as the boy wiggled and fought back, wailing into Ten’s body over and over again.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“What is it with you damned veils!? Rat’s–each and everyone ONE OF YOU! No deference!” The boy slammed his arm into Ten’s face. “NO SHAME!” Once more, harder this time. “I’LL KILL YOU!” Again, he bore his arm into Ten’s face, but this time he didn’t simply rely on his strength alone.
Below, a massive burst of light lit up the forest floor, fire flying out in every direction, instantly alighting upon the ground's foliages and ancient trees' dried trunks. The forest swelled with smoke, a vibrant red hue emanating from beneath them.
But just as Trenton looked to Karfice, worried the fire might spread to their branch, the temperature of the air simply dropped, plummeting like an apple to the earth. Spreading out from Isthil in every direction, ice coated the forest floor, spreading its way up the trees all around them, stopping just shy of their branch.
“Lythus!” A younger girl leapt out from behind Isthil, but got intercepted by the woman before she could make it very far.
Ten held Lythus close to his face, even his closed completely unmarked from the attack, “I could say the very same to you, boy. Do not forget my name. This mark I wear is no mere ornament. It is a testament to my ability, to my status. I should kill you for such a transgression…but I’m not so cruel. I have nothing to prove to a child, nor any of you,” Ten called out, looking over the mass of nervously shifting cavalry.
Without looking, Ten threw Lythus over his shoulder, tossing him like a sack of potatoes. Lythus’s body flew through the air, slamming into a far tree trunk and slumping to the ground. Isthil let the girl go, allowing her and another girl to swarm around Lythus’s battered body. It was remarkable that he-
Pain, searing, agonizing pain shot through Trenton’s body, every muscle in his body convulsing, every tendon ripping, every bone snapping. He clenched his teeth, pursing his lips and holding his breath in a vain attempt to control himself as the world started to spin.
He couldn’t scream, it would immediately give away their position. And with such a powerful force of enemies just below, it would mean certain death. Yet neither could he remain quiet. He was losing focus, losing strength, and fast. He opened his mouth, involuntarily letting loose his agony. But before he could make a sound, Wimbleton clasped his hand over Trenton’s mouth, pressing into the flesh with impossible force.
As Wimbleton locked eyes with the boy, staring deep into his soul with absolute focus, the pain only grew, panic rising in Trenton’s chest. It felt as if his whole body was being sewn shut by millions of little termites, air sacs collapsing, lips sealing, throat closing.
Focus. Fight. Stabilize.
Trenton closed his eyes, listening to the voice deep within and calling force whatever strength it had to offer him. It was an impossible task, keeping himself conscious as the pain overwhelmed his senses, keeping himself still as every part of his body screamed to be let free, but there was no other choice. He was stronger, he had to be. Trenton raged against forces deep within his soul, ripping and tearing at unseen hands, quelling the fury of unknown minds as the drivel continued below.
“Are you going to let him treat Lythus so haphazardly? The boy is your responsibility, Draval,” Ieren said, bristling with a measured fury.
“That boy has been warned more than enough times not to start fights he cannot win. Maybe this time the lesson will stick,” Draval said, finally looking back at Ten. “As much as I loathe you, we are honor bound to work together. So for everyone’s sake I’ll make this quick. The ambassador is further south, but his exact location is unknown.”
“Spatial mages tend to be slippery little bastards, but him especially so. One of the Bloody’s generals is hunting him as we speak, although progress has been gratingly slow. There’s no guarantee we’ll find him quickly,” Isthil butted in, her voice cool–icey.
“I’m aware. Even Three has had some trouble locating him. The general, where is he?” Ten said.
“Somewhere in Ruvalth last I heard. Better be quick if you intend to see him,” Ieren said.
“Ruvalth…more traveling. Whatever, it’ll do,” Ten said, turning around to leave.
“And what of Dasellium? Don’t tell me you’ve still yet to make any progress,” Isthil called after him.
Ten stopped, shoulders tense, “You have no right,” he breathed, slowly turning around to face them, but before he could take another step, he stopped, loosening the tension in his body. “This is pointless. I’m leaving,” and before another world could be said, Ten disappeared, a flurry of wind replacing him where he stood just a moment ago.
“I’ve half a mind to kill the next veil I see,” Ieren said, stepping forward and grabbing the three children.
“You’ve half a mind to watch your tongue. You’re not long for this world if you bicker with every warrior you have to work with,” Isthil chided.
“And they’d do well to do the same. My benevolence has thin borders,” Draval muttered, clambering back onto his horse and snapping the soldiers back to attention.
At his signal, the army rode off into the forest, keeping their southern trajectory, albeit slightly altered from the direction Ten took. It took a little bit, but after a couple minutes, the last of the soldiers disappeared between the trees, footsteps slowly fading off into the distance.
When he was absolutely certain they had left, Wimbleton lifted his hand from Trenton’s mouth, the termite infestation immediately withdrawing like a winded sewing needle getting yanked out of his flesh. For the first time in a couple minutes, Trenton could breath, and his fading vision slowly returned to him. He had managed to quiet the pain of his own body, but damage had already been done. He’d need a day at least to rest and heal himself, a day he wasn’t sure they had.