The journey across the bay unfolds over a week, blessed by tranquil seas. During this time, Gabriel's wound steadily mends, eventually healing to leave behind only a faint scar.
At first, the captain, a stern figure named Ekag, viewed the presence of children with clear displeasure. Yet, as time unfurls, they stepped into the void left by a diminished crew, showing a resourcefulness that gradually earned them a grudging respect.
One evening, as the ship sails through the sea, Ekag approaches Gabriel. He's perched on a barrel near the mast, his gaze fixed on a distant ship. The half-ogre captain lowers himself beside the barrel, his massive head aligning with Gabriel's.
With a voice deep and clear, Ekag rumbles, "I've noticed you've been sharing tales of my kind with the crew."
Gabriel nods, a faint smile on his lips. "They're curious about you. Grew up with bedtime stories of ogres snatching away naughty children."
Ekag lets out a heavy sigh, the sound like distant thunder. "Those I very much the kind of things people throw at me everywhere we go. I haven't come across another of my kin, but I suspect they're not the sort I'd like to encounter."
A soft laugh escapes Gabriel. "True, there are tales of ogres who prey on men. But there's one tribe in the Gilded Sands I dream of meeting. Ogre warriors, fearless hunters of great beasts since youth. They aided Fulgrim's fallen chosen in his desperate quest for redemption," he says, his eyes gleam with imagination. Gabriel pauses, collecting his thoughts before adding, "In all the stories I've read, half-ogres are portrayed as reliable allies. They're strong, certainly, but also honest and steadfast in their commitments. The kind of companions you'd want beside you in any adventure."
Ekag's deep voice holds a note of gratitude as he says, "Thanks. You're the first kids who haven't screamed and fled at my sight."
Gabriel bites back his first thought, which is to tell Ekag they've faced worse. Instead, he says, "We're probably not your average kids."
"You remind me of your father, always so grave and solemn," Ekag remarks. Gabriel's gaze shifts to the half-ogre, brimming with curiosity about their past connection. Noticing his interest, Ekag explains, "Appearances can be deceiving. I'm much older than I seem. It was I who accompanied your father to the Frozen North years ago, and ever since, I've been his favorite smuggler."
They stay quiet, lost in a mutual contemplation of the horizon, until Ekag breaks the silence as he rises. "We make port tomorrow night. Dress appropriately and leave that Nord blade behind in your cabin," he states firmly. Without lingering for a response, he strides towards the ship's helm, his eyes fixed on the approaching shore.
As dusk nears, the ship ports at a wide coastal village west of Falcrest. Ekag and his crew busy themselves, offloading bundles of pelts and swathes of cloth into the eager hands of village merchants. Amidst the bustle, Gabriel and Astrid take their leave unnoticed, slipping away from the ship as though they were never there.
Their task is clear, they are to meet with the man posing as Astrid's father. The description they'd been given was of a man in his early thirties, with striking black hair, tall and athletic.
Their eyes scan the faces in the crowd. Then, from a nearby tavern, a voice cuts through the air, yelling his name. "Finlay!" The name rings out, clear and commanding, drawing the attention of those nearby.
Glancing through the tavern's windows both see someone matching the description. His long hair tied in the back he lies on the bar, his gaze on a middle-aged bald man angrily stomping towards him.
Gabriel and Astrid exchange a quick look before slipping through the tavern's entrance. Finlay moves his gaze away from the man, finishing the pint of beer held in his hand.
The bald man stops just short of Finlay, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. For a moment, then entire tavern holds its breath, the only sound being Finlay's drinking.
"You've got some nerve showing your face here, Finlay!" the man bursts.
Finlay sets his pint down with calculated nonchalance, his demeanor unflinchingly calm as he opens his mouth. In a flash, the bald man lunges at Finlay, but his reflexes are swift. Finlay's twists his torso as his steps back, avoiding the man's grasp, smirking as he says, "That's the lack of agility that got us into this little disagreement."
"You call stealing my wife a disagreement?! I warned you, and you came back still!" the man yells, drawing a knife from his belt.
"So grave for a love that was never true. Aren't you risking too much for such a pitiful revenge?" Finlay proclaims, rotating to address the onlookers, his eyes finding Gabriel and Astrid's amidst the crowd.
A slash come Finlay's way, his body bending in reflex to avoid it narrowly. The man attacks repeatedly, his knife dangerously passing near bystanders as Finlay moves in the tavern. His movement are fast but clear to Gabriel who sees Finlay's expression morphing from smirking to bored.
Guiding the fight toward the bar Finlay grabs a cloth hanging on the bartender shoulder. With a movement of the wrist, he snaps the knife out of the man's hand, and with a kick swipes his weight-bearing leg. The man falls to the ground, his body sliding on the cobblestone floor.
The crowd gasps as Finlay hands back his cloth to the bartender. Without stopping he slides three golden coins, announcing, "A free beer for anyone here." His offer sees the tavern move towards the bar as he slides away, inviting Gabriel and Astrid to join him outside with his gaze.
Finlay leads them through the throng of people and into the quiet of a narrow alley. There, surrounded by high walls and the occasional drip of water from the roofs, he whispers, "Are you so young and unseasoned that you've already lost one on the way through the bay?"
Astrid's, whispers back, "Oswald was called to play a different role."
There's a flicker of movement as Finlay's head turns slightly, a quick glance over his shoulder. "So, 'Oswald' is Tobias true name?" The question hangs in the damp alley air, and with it, a shadow crosses Astrid's face, a fleeting look of guilt or regret before she looks away, her gaze finding interest in the cobblestones at her feet.
"What names do you go by?" Finlay probes further.
"Alden," comes Gabriel's firm response, with no hesitation in his tone.
"Alice," Astrid answers in an almost muffled voice.
Finlay leads them to the mouth of the alley. They emerge to find a cart waiting, its horses contentedly tearing at weeds, finding sustenance in the space where the dirt path collides with buildings. With a nonchalant motion, Finlay beckons them to climb aboard. "We ride without stop until we leave King's Passway," he informs them, "and spare me any complaints about the journey's length."
Gabriel, brushing off the remark, begins to inspect the cart's contents. His fingers gently lift the lids of crates, peering inside. Each crate is a treasure trove of alchemical ingredients, seeds, dried leaves, flowers, mushrooms, and minerals. To an untrained eye, it's a mere assortment of plants, but Gabriel understands the hidden value. In skilled hands, these could be transformed into a wealth of elixirs and poisons.
This discovery aligns with Katherine's intelligence. Finlay, affiliated with Vale's Merchant Guild, has a reputation for acquiring elusive items for those with deep pockets, mingling with the elite and influential. Yet, as Gabriel watches him, there's a palpable sense of weariness about Finlay, a suggestion of defeat that clings to him like an unseen cloak. His clothes, though fine, carry the scent of many nights lost to liquor and solitary brooding.
Astrid's concerned expression suggests she shares Gabriel's observations about Finlay. In a hushed tone, Gabriel murmurs to her, "This could be a façade, to lower others' guard."
"I doubt it. Mom had that same look at times, drowning her sorrows or fury in wine, all by herself," Astrid whispers back.
Finlay gives a gentle command to the horses, urging the cart forward with a casual flick of the reins. The wheels creak and the vehicle lurches into a steady pace, heading westward out of the village. He sits hunched, not once turning to look back at them, his gaze seeming heavy and locked onto the road ahead.
The town's chatter and the clatter of commerce fade into a tranquil silence as they roll past the last of the buildings. The path ahead is bordered by fields, slowly giving way to a dense forest.
There, amidst the sea of leaves, a vibrant tapestry of reds, oranges, and yellows, the imposing figures of white stone statues appear. They stand titanic, their grandeur undiminished by distance, piercing the canopy of autumn's embrace. The statues loom silent and majestic, sentinels watching over the land, and over their approach.
Hours pass in silence as they near the statues, slowly getting on higher grounds as the path only goes up. Along the wooded path, small makeshift settlements sporadically appear amidst the trees, a motley collection of tents and campfires. These are not the hideouts of bandits, but the meager dwellings of families. Their garments are threadbare, the fabric worn thin, betraying the harshness of their lives. They huddle around their fires, subsisting on whatever small game they can snare, their faces and bodies marked by the signs of sickness and other health issues.
Gabriel notices Finlay's eyes flicker towards him, a silent acknowledgment of his thoughts on these roadside encampments. But as quickly as the connection is made, Finlay's attention shifts back to the road ahead, dismissing Gabriel the unspoken question.
Breaking the silence that has settled like a shroud over the cart, Gabriel's asks in a low voice edged with curiosity, "You show little warmth for someone who's supposed to be an ally."
Finlay's reply comes without a turn of the head, his eyes still on the path. "Falcrest has just seen the end of a bitter feud for the throne, a succession conflict that pitted brother against brother," he explains. "Two years of undermining and strife have left the country's coffers and granaries hollow. There isn't enough for everyone."
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Gabriel nods, understanding dawning on him. "They seek refuge in Vale, then. But crossing King's Passway is not an option for them."
Finlay confirms with a hum. "Some with valuable skills wait in limbo, hoping Vale will deem them valuable. Others contemplate the perilous journey across the ravine," he adds, casting a sidelong glance at the encampments fading in the distance.
They leave behind the last of the makeshift homesteads, and the statues, illuminated by moon light, begin to dominate the horizon. The dense forest thins out, yielding to a vast clearing scattered with the stumps of felled trees. Ballistae stand vigilant behind ramparts at the periphery of an immense bridge. The statues themselves, grand armored effigies of Barne's ancestors, keep eternal watch over Falcrest. Their stone blades dig firmly on the cobblestone at their feet, as if to challenge any who dare approach.
As the cart approaches the bridge's threshold, a figure in armor, signals for a halt. The silver griffins adorning his pauldron signal his rank as a squire, a commanding officer. He strides confidently toward the cart, his silhouette flanked by another soldier. This one lacks any visible rank yet wears a breastplate that is meticulously embedded with a silver bear, signifying a different kind of prestige.
The squire steps forward with an air of self-importance, his voice carrying the condescension of unchecked authority. "What do you ferry into Vale this time, Finlay?" His tone is sharp, his eyes roving critically over the cart's contents. They linger momentarily on Gabriel, then Astrid, with an invasive curiosity. Beside him, the other soldier's presence is rigid, his hand resting deliberately on the hilt of his long sword.
Finlay, with practiced calm, extends a piece of parchment towards the squire. "Herbs," he states matter-of-factly, "a request from the Palliateers."
Without a word, the squire commands Gabriel and Astrid to disembark with a dismissive flick of his hand. He then climbs into the cart, prying open each crate methodically. His scrutiny is thorough, yet his features betray ignorance, a pretence of knowledge where there is none.
Observing the squire, Finlay offers a suggestion, "Perhaps you'd prefer the assistance of an herbalist?"
"I am perfectly capable of identifying these plants," the squire retorts too quickly, a hint of defensiveness in his snap. From within his helmet, the other soldier emits a hushed, disapproving sigh.
The squire slams the last crate shut. He hops down from the cart, positioning himself before Gabriel and Astrid with an intrusive lean. "Your cargo is legitimate," he concedes grudgingly, "but who are these two?"
"Alice is my daughter," Finlay replies smoothly, gesturing to Astrid. "And this," he adds, nodding towards Gabriel, "is a quarry for Ashencrown." He hands over two rectangular pieces of stiff paper to the squire, who scrutinizes them, his eyes darting between the papers and the faces of Gabriel and Astrid.
The soldier, breaking his silent vigil, questions Finlay with a hint of disbelief, "What compelled you, of all people, to retrieve the daughter you had in Falcrest?"
Finlay's response is immediate, devoid of hesitation. "Her mother's dead." As he speaks, Astrid's gaze drops to her feet, an underlining of his words. A brief, strained silence falls, broken only by a faint, choked sound from the soldier, his gaze momentarily drifting away.
With deliberate slowness, the squire returns the papers to Finlay, his movements stiff and reluctant. He then waves a dismissive hand towards Gabriel and Astrid, signaling them to reascend the cart. "Proceed," he commands, leaving with his escort.
Finlay put the documents back into his coat, and with a gentle tug, orders the horse forward. They begin their passage across the bridge, an impressive structure that spans the breadth of a ravine below. The churning river in its depths echoes to the bridge, the occasional debris creating resounding cracking sounds. It's a grand edifice, reflecting both the wealth and the defensive prowess of Vale. The imposing stones are a patchwork of grey and white, expertly cut and placed.
As they proceed, the presence of soldiers stationed along the bridge is palpable, their vigilant eyes scanning ceaselessly. These guardians stride the length of the bridge with purpose, their scrutiny extending not just to every soul who sets foot upon the ancient stones, but also to any who might dare the treacherous passage beneath. Their armoured forms are as much a part of the bridge as the stones themselves.
As they emerge from the shadow of King's Passway, Finlay does not stop them. He drives the cart onward, leaving the bridge and its sentries behind. The journey continues, the rhythm of hooves against the earth marking the passage of time. The landscape unfurls, a nocturne of silhouettes and moonlight, until they finally approach a village, nestled in the crook of a valley, just an hour from the bridge's end.
It is a late hour, and the village is swathed in the deep stillness of night. Most of its inhabitants have surrendered to sleep. Windows are dark, and doors are closed, the night air carrying only the whisper of the wind through the trees.
Yet, as their cart rolls along the village's main street a manly figure appears from the shadows. He opens the large door of a grange, motion them to go in.
Without hesitation, Finlay steers the cart towards the welcoming aperture of the barn. Inside, the grange is an expansive space, the scent of hay and wood mingling in the cool air. Finlay expertly guides the horse and cart into the shelter. The door closes behind them with a gentle thud, the man locking it from inside.
"Everything you're looking for is just beyond that mound there," the man's voice rasps, a rough timbre speaking of some past affliction, making each word seem like a labour. He gestures towards a considerable heap of hay that sits quietly in the corner.
As Gabriel and Astrid disembark from the cart, the man turns to a makeshift counter created from an upturned crate. He lifts two plates, steam rising from the hearty portions of potatoes and tender beef brisket they contain.
He approaches them with a slight stoop, extending the plates with a semblance of warmth that softens his gruff exterior. "On the house, little ones," he offers, the corners of his mouth lifting in a semblance of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Gabriel eagerly takes the plate, his hunger evident as he devours the food with an urgency born from days subsisting on nothing but dry rations. Astrid, however, hesitates. She holds her plate tentatively, her eyes darting from the steaming meal to Finlay and back again. She leans in, inhaling the steam rising from the plate. Suddenly, her eyes widen with recognition. "Stop, don't eat that," she warns Gabriel sharply. "He’s laced it with a soporific poison."
Gabriel, his plate now barren, feels a sudden tightness in his throat at Astrid's words. His eyes flicker rapidly between her and Finlay, a trace of panic rising. He hurriedly scrambles back into the cart, rummaging through a crate until his fingers close around a clump of leaves. He stuffs them into his mouth, chewing vigorously on the greenery, careful not to swallow them.
His gaze swings wildly from the man who offered the food to Finlay, seeking an explanation. "Why?" he manages to spit out between chews.
Finlay, seemingly unperturbed, retrieves a backpack from its hiding place behind the hay. "I was looking forward to a tranquil, restful night," he says casually, almost dismissively. "I didn't want you two spoiling that with your constant chatter and questions."
The air in the grange grows cold, the earlier hospitality now soured by suspicion. Gabriel and Astrid eye Finlay. The man who had welcome them moves to a small door. "I'm going back to work, goodnight," he says as he passes through the door, revealing a calm tavern behind.
The night goes on as they each settle in their own corner of the grange. The soft rustle of straw, the horses' breaths, and the occasional creaks of wood are the only sounds that punctuate the silence.
Gabriel, his senses heightened, settles with his back against the grange's cold stone wall, his eyes on Finlay. Astrid wraps herself in a blanket, easily closing her eyes beside Gabriel.
Finlay seems unconcerned with the tension his words and actions have created. He finds a spot near his belongings, almost immediately seemingly falling asleep.
As the night deepens Gabriel feels his eyes becoming heavier. Yet, each time he feels like he's about to fall asleep he's awakened by a twitch of his body, or a violent beat of his heart. The longer it continues, the faster his heart races, thumping against his chest and echoing in his mind. Every fibre of his body tingles, his muscles twitching involuntarily as of eager to leap into action. Lying back on the straw-covered floor, he stares at the dark wooden beams above.
The night stretches on, and Gabriel's minds is a whirlwind of heightened alertness. Every creak of wood, every soft step of the horse, event the gentle breaths of Astrid beside him seem amplified. He turns his head, watching the rise and fall of Finlay's chest, wondering if the man is truly asleep or merely feigning rest.
The minutes drag on, morphing into hours that pass with the sluggishness of a dream. Gabriel finds himself caught in the grip of a relentless cycle, dozing off for fleeting moments only to be yanked back to wakefulness. He hovers on the precipice of sleep, teetering at the edge of consciousness. Fatigue begins to cloud his thoughts, a dense fog of weariness enveloping his mind. Yet, his body is alight with energy, an insistent thrumming that begs for exertion.
Amid this battle between his body's restlessness and his mind's desperate plea for rest, a scream pierces the silence. A scream that is unmistakably feminine, its sharpness cutting through the stillness of the night. The sound seems to reverberate inside Gabriel's head, a distant echo resonating from the streets beyond the walls of the grange.
Gabriel edges upward, each movement deliberate and hushed. He is a shadow moving with quiet caution. He makes his way towards the door leading to the tavern, his hands gentle on the latch. The door creaks open with the softest whisper. He slips through the opening, easing into the dimly lit confines of the tavern. The man who had earlier welcomed them now slumbers in a chair behind the bar.
The tavern's interior is dotted with the slumbering forms of patrons, each sprawled in a tableau of spent revelry, the aftermath of the evening's excesses. He approaches one of the patrons, a figure draped across a table. At his side lies a bastard sword. With a careful hand, Gabriel reaches out and deftly relieves the man of his weapon.
Gabriel maintains his stealthy demeanor as he approaches the tavern's exterior door. He carefully manipulates the handle, opening the smallest gap through which he can fit. He slips through this narrow aperture, ensuring not even a draft of the night's chill air intrudes upon the tavern.
Shadows cling to the cobblestones as clouds veil the moonlight. To most, the biting chill would be a freezing pain, but for one born to the harsh climes of the north, it feels like home.
There, at the edge of the tavern Gabriel stops himself, thinking, why did he go out? It is just a scream in the night, he doesn't even know where it came from. Thinking it will help him fall asleep he decides to walk for a moment.
Tall lanterns line the streets, those who still shelter a flame cast long shadows that move with the clouds above. A stray dog trots with a wary glance, its form disappearing into an alley. Gabriel passes a forge its fire now reduced to a few embers. And the stables, where the soft snorts of horses are the only sign of life.
In the village square and along the main thoroughfares, a handful of soldiers patrol silently. Gabriel, keen to remain unseen, deftly navigates through the empty alleyways, avoiding their senses. As he weaves through the labyrinth of alleys, the once distant scream that had startled him from the precipice of sleep erupts anew. A clear, urgent cry that slices through the night.
Gabriel hastens towards the source. The screams, now laced with a raw desperation draw him to a constricted passage wedged between looming structures.
As he nears, the distinct sound of armored footsteps reaches his ears from the opposite end of the alley. Caution grips him, and he slows, looking from the corner.
Soldiers, their faces illuminated by the wavering glow of their lanterns, come into view. They stand over a harrowing scene, a body twisted and broken, the remnants of a white nightgown clinging to it.
One of the soldiers, overcome by the ghastly tableau, staggers backward. With a trembling hand, he lifts his helmet from his head and doubles over, succumbing to his revulsion. The sound of his retching splinters the silence.
Gabriel retreats from the alley, his instincts screaming that he should not be found near such a macabre scene. He glances at the buildings flanking him, and his blood runs cold. There, moving with an unnatural grace, is a figure, a human with limbs too long, scuttling across a rooftop with the eerie silence of a predator. It resembles a grotesque spider, contorting as it maneuvers in the darkness. The creature's garb, little more than tattered remnants, clings to its distorted form, heavy with blood that seeps and drips down the weathered tiles.
The creature approaches an ajar window, and with a fluid, sinister grace, it slips through the gap, adhering to the inner ceiling with disturbing agility. Gabriel stands rooted in place, shrouded in darkness, his eyes unblinkingly fixed on the window through which the nightmare has vanished.
Time seems suspended as he watches, the stillness of the night now a cloak for terrors unseen. Then, abruptly, a hand clamps onto Gabriel's shoulder, the grip iron-tight and unyielding. It arrests his motion completely, making him unable to turn around.