The start of a bond, or return of a foe?
Only the one who must run can know.
Cimmeran ran until he developed a stitch so painful it felt as though someone had thrust a spear into his side.
He slowed and pounded heavily to a stop, his feet sending out small clouds of dust. He leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.
When the throbbing of blood in his ears had finally subsided, he looked over his shoulder anxiously towards Tulstan, but nothing moved on the road except heat-haze, rippling as though the air had turned to water.
Perhaps I didn't need that stupid horse after all, he thought. He wondered how far he had run. Tulstan was no longer visible on the horizon, but the Barlakk Mountains loomed as large as ever, in a great grey sun-sliced ridge that ran unbroken to the north and south as far as he could see. Dark clouds were gathering around the furthest peaks to the east. Around him was silence: the fields waiting quietly to endure another day of the sun's oppression.
At least I have a head start, he thought. He looked into the field to his left. It was empty, apart from a few clusters of sheep dozing in the thin shade of scattered trees.
If he cut across country he would be harder to track – and there were more places to hide.
With that thought in mind, he left the dusty road, waded through a ditch choked with long grass and thistles, and climbed over a split rail fence. Looking around quickly to make sure no one was in sight, he made a run for the nearest stand of trees.
Cimmeran spent the remainder of the day darting across the hot fields, keeping to the shelter of trees where he could. Every now and then as he ran, sudden spikes of unexplained panic would stab his chest, causing him to scramble for the nearest tree or bush. He would huddle there, sometimes for half an hour or more, his wide golden eyes peering back towards Tulstan, flicking across the dusty horizon for any sign of his pursuers.
But the Red Watch were nowhere in sight.
He made his way quickly across the countryside, heading south-west through the heart of the Coastlands towards Sunsee. At one point, he passed very close to a farmhouse. He dropped into a crouch behind a bush a hundred yards away and stared at the house cautiously.
Cimmeran's stomach was growling. He had not had any breakfast, or any dinner the previous night. He was also extremely thirsty, and his head felt light. He knew he was at risk of becoming seriously dehydrated with all this frantic running around in hot weather.
But the sight of people moving around inside the yard caused him to hesitate.
His hand strayed to the money box he had secured tightly to his waist with a salvaged piece of leather. He was in enough trouble as it was without adding trespassing and another count of stealing to his growing list of crimes.
But I'm so hungry! he thought miserably. And what did it matter anyway? The Watch were already looking for him. Things couldn't get much worse.
Resigned to that thought, Cimmeran rose very carefully into a half-crouch and hurried back the way he had come, circling around the farm until he reached a band of trees that shadowed the rear of the neat white cottage.
He paused for a moment in the dappled shade, pressed close to a tree, before creeping forwards as quietly as he could manage, and climbing over a weed-engulfed fence. To his fortune, there was a well here, and it had been used recently: a bucket of cool, dark water stood on the bricks, still rippling.
Cimmeran barely cast a glance around the yard. He ran to the bucket and began scooping up handfuls of water, almost choking in his effort to drink as much as possible.
"Hey!" a voice yelled suddenly.
Cimmeran did not even bother to glance up. Water splashed across the bricks as he bolted for the fence. He hauled himself over it, ignoring the splinters, and tore into the trees. He did not stop running until he was sure the only feet pounding the hard ground were his own.
Cimmeran continued on through the endless, sweltering day. He did not attempt to infiltrate any more farmhouses. Instead, he began searching for anything edible that was growing wild. Unfortunately, however, Cimmeran had very little knowledge of living off the land, and nothing he did recognise presented itself, though thankfully he found a couple of small streams to drink from.
Finally, weariness and the harsh sun beat him down and dragged at his steps. He stumbled into a stand of birch trees and collapsed. For long minutes he lay as he had fallen, feeling the hot ground pressed against his cheek and droplets of sweat rolling down his body beneath his clothes. He rolled tiredly onto his back and stared up at a quietly swirling cloud of midges, flickering like specks of dust caught in an updraft. His eyelids felt heavy and he let them close, feeling the heat and the darkness enfold him…
Cimmeran woke with a jerk. For a split second he thought something was wrong with his vision, until he realised that night had fallen.
He rolled onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position. He was surprised to find that he was wide awake, though his mind still felt foggy with fatigue. He gazed into the dark trees, wondering vaguely why he had awoken so abruptly.
His thought was answered by a gentle snuffing noise from somewhere to his right.
Cimmeran started and leapt to his feet. Panic flooded through him so powerfully he felt his head swim. Had the Watch caught up to him while he slept?
He staggered backwards into a tree: pain lancing sharply through his tortured legs. He couldn't breathe as he searched frantically for the source of the noise and found it – the large, black silhouette of a horse. Cimmeran clutched the tree and prepared to bolt despite the pain in his legs, and then he realised that the horse was riderless.
Sudden comprehension dawned. It was Ardance!
"You!" he gasped, unable to decide which emotion was more prominent: relief or disbelief. "What are you doing here? I thought I told you to bugger off!"
Ardance merely swivelled her ears and stared at him, her eyes like polished onyx in the darkness.
"Oh, I see," Cimmeran said nastily. "You got hungry, didn't you? Hah! Well, too bad! I don't have any food, and I wouldn't give you any even if I did!"
Cimmeran lowered himself gingerly to the ground. Ardance continued to watch him, as though waiting for something.
"What?" he said angrily. "Go on! Go away! I don't need you any more!"
Ardance nodded her head as if to say: yes, you do.
Cimmeran glared at the horse. He picked up a stick and threw it at her. "Go away!"
Ardance retreated a couple of steps, but continued to stare at him.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Cimmeran pushed himself to his feet once more and limped out of the trees onto a parched field. The ground still felt warm beneath the worn soles of his shoes. After a couple of agonising yards, he paused and turned.
Ardance walked quietly out of the trees behind him. Clenching his jaw in anger, Cimmeran increased his pace. After a few more yards he stopped again, swaying slightly, and looked back.
The horse was still following him.
Cimmeran spun and broke into a sprint. He didn't get very far. His abused legs refused to run another yard further, and folded up beneath him.
He fell heavily into the dirt and clutched at his burning legs in agony.
Ardance's shadow fell across him. He pushed himself up, panting and wincing, and glared at her. His eyes glimmered with tears of frustration and self-pity. "Leave me… alone!" he cried.
Ardance remained where she was. She lowered her head and began sniffing the ground, searching in vain for an edible scrap of grass. Cimmeran sighed in despair, and it was then that he noticed the reins were once again within his reach.
He stared at them for a moment, and then turned stubbornly away. "No," he said determinedly. "I'm not falling for that trick again."
He looked out across the moonlit field. A cool breeze stroked his face. His legs throbbed.
What are you going to do? a voice in his mind mocked. Sit here in this field forever?
Despondently, he looked back at the reins. Then he reached a hand out experimentally. He expected Ardance to jerk away again, but this time she did not. His fingers closed around the leather.
For a moment Cimmeran simply stared at the reins in his hand. Then he looked up at Ardance.
“You,” he said, “you… ARGH!”
* * *
Lord Requar and Starshadow Flint made camp in a band of tall pines which bordered an unharvested corn field. The air was fragrant and still beneath the closely interwoven trees. Each consumed their dinner in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
Flint picked up a stick and poked at the fire unnecessarily. Requar was sitting on the opposite side of the clearing with his back to a tree, his long legs stretched out before him and his Sword held loosely in his lap, gazing up at the shards of the moon that were visible through the branches.
Flint could feel his heart pounding abnormally hard in his chest. He was running out of time. They would reach Hillbank tomorrow night. And when they did, Flint would not be able to keep up this charade any longer. Requar would find out that he didn't have a dying sister. His lie would be exposed.
He swallowed nervously and glanced up. Requar had closed his eyes. Flint could not tell if he was asleep or merely resting. Or… a sudden, cold thought occurred to Flint. Was he silently performing some spell? Was he - right now – reading Flint's mind?
The campfire, though small, suddenly seemed far too hot. Flint kept his gaze fixedly on the flickering flames. No, he insisted to himself, fighting back his growing terror. No, if Requar knew Flint's motive he would have said or done something by now.
Flint watched the end of his stick glowing in the coals. I have to do it tonight, he thought.
He swivelled his eyes sideways, taking care not to turn his head. The Justifier lay silently beside him, gleaming in the orange firelight. It was not loaded. His quiver lay beside his right knee.
Flint shifted his gaze upwards, lifting his head very slightly so that he could just see Lord Requar under the brim of his hat.
The sorcerer still had his eyes closed, his head resting against the trunk of the tree.
Adrenalin mixed with fear pounded through Flint's veins. How long would it take him to grab the Justifier, load an arrow and fire?
A little of the adrenaline burned away. Too long. Much too long. But if he could do it quietly… if he could manage to wind a bolt on without Requar noticing…
"Tell me about your sister,” Requar said suddenly. “What exactly is wrong with her?"
Despite Requar's soft tone, Flint jumped so violently that he almost fell forward into the fire. His arm jerked reflexively, scattering coals into the pine needles.
Damn it! he thought. He wished the man wouldn't do that!
"Wh-what?" Flint stammered breathlessly. He had been so startled that he had forgotten what Requar had said.
"Your sister," Requar repeated patiently. "What is wrong with her?"
Flint's mind was racing as fast as his heart. He was glad he had spent the long hours travelling carefully devising excuses.
"She…" He gave what he hoped was a convincingly despairing sigh and bowed his head. "She has sun sickness."
To Flint's relief, Requar nodded slowly. "Sun sickness, I have treated that a few times before. Does she often work out in the open fields?"
"Uh, yeah," Flint replied. "Yeah. She's a farmer."
Flint listened to the booming of his heart, waiting for further questions and trying to anticipate what they would be.
“She should wear a hat and long clothes,” Requar went on. “Exposure to too much sunlight can be dangerous.”
Flint just nodded.
Requar looked at him. “You are doing a courageous thing, Flint,” he said quietly. “Not many people would seek out help from a sorcerer. You must care for your sister very much.”
Flint swallowed and looked down at the fire. “She… she's my little sister,” he replied. “She meant everything to me...”
That part was not a lie, and he realised his slip of the tongue immediately. His breath caught in his throat and he looked up, but Lord Requar had shifted position, legs crossed, leaning forward, an expression of sympathy on his face so genuine looking that Flint felt his heart twist a little.
“I have the power to save her, Flint,” Requar reassured him. “And I will. I promise. You have not lost her yet.”
An unexpected tide of emotion rose in Flint, constricting his throat. Unable to reply, he just nodded again.
Requar watched him for a moment longer, then slowly got to his feet. "I think I shall go for a walk," he told Flint softly, and nodded. "Good night."
"Night," Flint managed.
The sorcerer walked into the pines, invoking his camouflage spell and melting away into the darkness.
Flint was left alone in the clearing, staring miserably into the dwindling fire. The best lie, he thought, is the one that's a little too close to the truth.
* * *
The evening sky was choked with clouds. A stiff breeze brought with it the smell of rain, yet dust as dry as bone powder puffed up from the roadway as the horses' hooves slowed and stopped at the junction to the Great Ocean Road.
The officer leaned forward and peered down the gloomy, paved highway: first towards Sel Varence, then towards Sunsee.
"I don't reckon he came this way, mate," the officer's companion said.
The wind ruffled the officer's plume and snapped at his red cape as he straightened. His saddle creaked as he turned to look back the way they had come. After a moment he nodded in agreement. "If you ask me, he's fled into the Outlands. That's where all the crims go."
"Yeah," the second officer said disgustedly. " 'Cause they know it's beyond our Ju-ris-dic-tion." He spoke the last word in a sarcastic, sing-song voice.
The first officer sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Ah well," he said, sounding not at all disappointed. "Maybe those Freeroamers'll catch him."
There was a silence, filled only with the soft tinkling of the harnesses and the rush of wind in the trees. Then both of the officers sniggered.
"Those mongooses?" the second officer snorted. "They couldn't catch a bucket of snow in a blizzard!"
They both laughed, but the sound was lost in the wind.
"So, what d'you wanna do? Keep searching?"
The first officer glanced one more time down the deserted road. "Nah," he said. "Screw it. What's the point? That money's long gone."
They turned their horses.
Something huge and black shot across the second officer's left peripheral vision. He turned to see that his companion's horse was riderless.
"What the…?"
A piercing scream tore through the air, but was abruptly cut off.
The horses suddenly panicked. His companion's horse bolted down the road and his own reared. A sudden fear took hold of the officer, and he scrabbled for his sword.
No sooner had it shinged out of its sheath than something clamped around his throat and yanked him backwards off his horse.
Gasping in fright, the officer swung his sword madly, trying to hit whatever had grabbed hold of him. Instead, another hand snatched his flailing wrist and squeezed so hard the officer felt his bones crunching. A burning spike of agony shot up his arm and he dropped his sword and screamed.
It was then, through vision blurred with terror and pain, that the officer saw his companion. He was lying face down in the dust. Around him, dark, shining patches were splattered all over the roadway. The officer's breath quickened in horror and then froze in his throat. A huge, dark shadow rose from the fallen officer and turned yellow eyes like dimmed lanterns towards him.
A wave of ice washed through the officer and he struggled to breathe. The second creature still had its hand clamped paralysingly tight around his neck.
The first creature drew itself up to its full, terrifying height and moved slowly towards him. "Where isss he?" it whispered.
The officer couldn't speak.
The Muron raised a single, sinister black claw and pressed it to the skin right between the officer's eyes. "Where isss he?" it demanded more insistently.
The officer whimpered in terror. The claw filled his entire world. "Wh-ere is wh-o?" he choked.
The Muron's lip curled back. In a glimmer of faint moonlight, the officer glimpsed two rows of black, razor-edged fangs. The creature increased the pressure on its claw and the officer felt the tip sink into his skin. A trickle of warm blood rolled down his face. "Ssssimmeran!" it hissed.
"The Out-la-lands!" the officer sobbed desperately.
The Muron glared at him, its pitiless yellow eyes boring into his soul. "You lie," it whispered.
And with that it thrust its claw deep into the man's brain.
The second Muron released its grip as the first tore its fist from the gurgling corpse. Blood and gore oozed down its claws onto the roadway.
"We are clossse," the second Muron hissed, its voice barely audible above the wind.
The first Muron lifted its reptilian head as though listening to something far off on the breeze.
"Thisss way," it said, and the two shadows leapt silently into the air and disappeared.
On the road, nothing stirred except the dust and the feathers of two red helmet plumes.