Year: 3045 AGD
Month: Midwinter
Fourth Eighthday
Town of Verge
Stewart Cantel had been chasing after the Princess for over a month and a half now. His clothing was worn and stained, and as he strode into the town of Verge, he was fairly certain he smelled like a walking cesspool. Unlike a Protectorate town, Verge didn’t have any high walls to keep out the dangerous creatures that roamed the land. The town was wide open, and if he had a dozen soldiers with him he could raze the place in a few hours, but unlike the Dracair, such an action wasn’t the way the Protectorate operated.
The fact that the Dracair seemed to have pacified the lands east of the forest better than the Protectorate could maintain control of their own lands rankled him a little, but he supposed they didn’t have to worry about being invaded at any moment, either. Considering the last offensive expedition the Protectorate had launched was over a thousand years ago—and had ended in absolute failure—he understood their lack of concern.
Walking through the town, he realized that his shabby clothes and appearance fit in well. They might be alive and not in fear of imminent attack, but these people were not thriving. Everywhere he looked was another destitute soul simply going through the motions without any spark of enthusiasm. He had been down to the Docks District in Safeharbor hundreds of times, and while that was the most desolate place in the Protectorate, even those people had wanted to live life with everything they had; the people in Verge might as well already be dead. When he reached the center of town, he seriously considered helping them on that journey.
Broken, emaciated, and quite clearly dead, Sergeant Mcdowell’s corpse was propped up in a pillory in the town square. Everyone but the flies were giving the body a wide birth. It was clear that the body had been preserved by the cold air, as his hands were blackened with frostbite. The warmer air that had moved in over the last Eightday was not doing his old friend any favors, though. Cantel's first instinct was to march across the square and bust the damn thing open and give his old comrade a proper burial, but he knew that’s what the Dracair wanted him to do.
If they had captured the Sergeant and his body was still here after all that time, then he realized that the Vigilantes were either dead or out of action. Either way, he knew he wasn’t going to have the support that he had been expecting. He was fairly certain he was catching up to the Princess and her captor. Two days before, he had come upon the embers of a small fire, and he was fairly certain that he could travel faster than the Doppelganger could move the Princess.
The day was coming to an end, however, and he was more than tired. Perhaps if he got a room he could do something about his friend’s corpse in the night. At the very least, he could give the old Sergeant a funeral pyre.
It took them five days of travel to reach the outer boundaries of Death’s Edge Forest. From the looks of it, the boy thought it might take an hour to safely sneak into the town of Verge once night fell. Relentless and Dauntless had both made it clear that they weren’t leaving the safety of the forest. If he got into trouble and made it back to the forest they would help him, but it was too dangerous for them out in the open. Troublefinder was completely willing to go with him, but everyone else had made him finally concede that it wasn’t a wise idea.
They only had to wait a few hours for the sun to dip down over the horizon, making it dark enough for him to begin his journey. He said his farewells to his Quaelyne friends and moved into the fields. As he was nearing what he assumed to be the limits of her ability to send him a message, he heard Relentless’s voice in his head.
Be safe.
Turning around, he gave a small wave of acknowledgement and continued on his journey through the ever-darkening grass. He couldn’t see anyone looking in his direction from the town, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone watching. The twin moons cast their light onto the fields, causing his shadow and the shadow of anything else around him to multiply, making it even more difficult to notice anything moving unless you knew where to look.
He had just reached the town when he started to smell smoke. Another strange smell came shortly behind the smoke that was unlike anything he had ever smelled before. It smelled almost like cooking meat, but it was somehow sickly and wrong. Curious, he moved towards the center of town and could soon see the light of the flames coming from somewhere ahead.
By the time he was near enough to the flames to see what was burning, the stench was nearly unbearable. He realized as he saw the charred remains of someone trapped in some sort of "T" shaped contraption that what he smelled was burning flesh and hair. A large crowd had gathered in the square, all standing and watching the fire burn; no one seemed to even think about trying to put the fire out. It was a massive fire, and the boy thought that someone would have had to add something extremely flammable to the corpse to make it burn like that.
As big as the fire was, it was still a good stone’s throw away from the nearest building, so the danger of the fire spreading was fairly low. In the fire’s light, he saw a man run down the street on the other side of the square and then saw half a dozen forms following behind from the ground and the roofs that surrounded the square. By the time he made his way to where he had seen them run, however, they were long gone.
A man was standing on the corner of the square looking in the direction that the others had gone. His expression was downcast, and it was clear that he wanted to follow, but something was keeping him in place. The man looked towards the fire and nearly jumped out of his boots when he saw the boy.
“Victor?”
The voice that came from the form sounded much different than he had been expecting the man to sound, and the fact that the man knew his former name was disconcerting. Before he could decide to run, however, the man crossed the street and put his hand gently on his shoulder and led him down the street in the opposite direction the fleeing man had gone. For a moment, the boy considered running anyway, but the gentleness of the touch on his shoulder told him that this man was not his enemy.
He was led to the southern end of town, to a small house with a thatched roof that had seen better days. A shutter on one of the windows they passed was barely hanging on by one of its hinges, and the door itself was rickety. The man knocked on the door in a quick staccato before opening it and ushering the boy inside.
Having seen the outside of the place, the boy was fairly surprised to see that the inside was clean and tidy. Two more open doorways led to two small sleeping chambers. The left side of the room had a small table with a short bench on each side, and the right side held a small fireplace. In front of the fireplace were two nice chairs—the only decent furniture in sight—one of which was occupied by on older woman with a few gray hairs. The woman turned to greet the man, but her greeting died on her lips when she saw who was with him.
“Victor?” A male voice that had a lot of the same qualities of the voice that had come from the man, only with a slight rasp, came from the woman’s mouth. “What in the nine hells are you doing here?”
“That’s what I want to know,” the man said from behind him as he closed the door.
Staring at the woman for a few moments his vision blurred momentarily, and he saw a Grey Elf man sitting in the chair for a moment before the woman came back into focus. Realizing he might have just walked headfirst into a trap, he tensed up and began to look around the room for anything he could use as a weapon. His choices were not good. There was a long rod near the fire, but it was much closer to the person who was pretending to be the older woman. The only other thing he could see in the sparse room was a broom in the sleeping quarters to his left.
“Victor.”
The man’s voice said from behind him, and those gentle hands dropped onto each of his shoulders and spun him around before he could lunge for the broom. In front of him stood a Grey Elf, but unlike all of the Grey Elves he had met so far in his life, this one didn’t look like he wanted to spit in his face. His expression was soft, but worry lines lightly creased his forehead.
“It’s us, don’t worry.”
The way he said it made the boy realize that he was supposed to know who these men were, and they assumed that he would think of them as friends, or at least allies. The man seemed to realize that something was amiss within a few seconds of turning him around.
“What’s wrong?” the one near the fire asked.
“I don’t think he recognizes us.”
The boy heard the creaking of the chair as the man stood, letting out a line of curses out in the process.
“Great, just great. The one piece of good news we have gotten in months drops into our lap, and it isn’t even as useful as it could have been.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “Are you one Warren’s friends?”
“You’ve met Warren?” the Elf holding him asked.
“Yes, he and a man named Trenton are in the forest with the Quaelyne. Both of them are alive, but not in any shape to come help. They were both affected by the stuff the Dracairei put on their arrow tips.”
“Well that’s something, at least.” The Elf looked towards the fire to speak with the one who looked like a woman. “I saw Stewart Cantel running north with at least six Dracairei hot on his trail.”
“Damn, may the gods grant his soul the rest he deserves,” the voice replied. “That means there are only two of those bastards left to guard Rundig and Elandria, though.”
“Two of us, two of them,” the kind-faced Grey Elf said. “Good odds if we know where they are, terrible odds if we don’t.”
“Three of us,” the boy said. “I may not know who you are, but I do know that we were once companions. I am not able to do whatever it was that Victor could do, but I should be able to help in some way.”
“Well Za’erath, you hear that? You can take the memories out of the boy, but you can’t change his spirit.” The hand that landed on his shoulder was rougher than the hands of the man in front of him, but they also felt more delicate. When he turned his head, he saw the Grey Elf that he had seen in the brief flash of through the illusion of the woman near the fire. “Pleasure to meet you boy, my name is Za’kereth.”
The two men were nearly identical, though their expressions and bearing made it easy to distinguish who was who. Another thing that helped was that Za’erath was wearing a slightly lighter grey robe than Za’kereth.
“So, your parents thought, not only do they look alike, we should name them almost the same thing as well?”
They shared a look and then smiled at him.
“You know, we were told almost exactly the same thing by a boy who looked a lot like you a few years ago,” Za’erath said.
“I suppose I should take that as a good sign,” the boy said. “Maybe when I finally get those memories back we won’t be so different.”
“I have a feeling that no matter what you do, Victor will surprise you,” Za’kereth replied.
“I’d take that bet,” Za’erath grinned.
Trying to move the talk away from who he used to be, the boy turned the conversation back towards the task at hand. “So, there are two Dracairei left? Where are they?” He took a step back so that he didn’t have to keep swiveling his head between the twins.
“No idea…” Za’kereth said.
“…but it is likely they are somewhere near the building where they are keeping Elandria and Rundig.”
The two Elves began to argue over the different plans they could use, all of which seemed to not include him. He listened to them weigh the pros and cons for quite some time before he got tired of waiting for them to come to the obvious solution. Not only were they starting to bug him by their exclusion of him, but every moment they argued Stewart Cantel got farther away, or closer to death. Cypheria said Cantel was important to him somehow, and he wanted to know why.
“Hey,” he said, trying to get their attention. That didn’t work, so he started heading for the door, which did get their attention.
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“Where are you going?” they said at the same time.
“Well, I figured first I’d find a shirt that was loose enough to hide these manacles, and then I’d make it look like I was a street kid breaking into houses while everyone is in the center of town.”
“That’s crazy.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Maybe, but it will make at least one of them come out of hiding if they are watching the place, which will give you a shot at taking one of them out first. After that, you are on your own.” He gave them a few moments to process the idea.
“It’s still crazy,” Za’erath said.
“Yeah, but it might work,” Za’kereth replied. “Wait a moment; I think I have a shirt that will work.”
Za’kereth walked into the room that didn’t have the broom in it and dug around for a moment before returning with an old woolen shirt. It was too big for either of the men to wear, but he thought it might be able to fit the woman Za’kereth had been using as an illusion.
“What happened to the people that lived here? I imagine the images you were using were of them?”
“Right,” Za’erath said, completely oblivious to the hidden question that had been asked.
“No, we didn’t kill them,” Za’kereth winked. He did seem pleased that the question had been asked though. “We gave them some gold and helped them run away on the night when the rest of the squad was brought into town. Never do by force that which can be accomplished with a little ingenuity.”
“Or coin,” Za’erath added.
“Same thing,” his brother shot back before turning to the boy. “Alright, how are you going to do this?”
“I figured I’d sneak into another building in sight of the one they are being held in, grab a few things, and then move towards the target.” He looked at them. “I’m guessing you have a way to stay unseen long enough to get the Dracairei after he comes out or shoots me in the back?”
“Yeah, I can handle that much,” Za’kereth said. “I’d just like to say that we appreciate what you are doing, and if there was any other way for this to go down I would never let you do this.”
“I might,” Za’erath said, drawing looks from both his brother and the boy. “What? I can heal. Chances are I can get to him before his soul leaves his body.”
It was the middle of the night. Elandria had no idea what day it was; each day in here had begun to blur into the next. She knew that they were brought food and water every few days, but she was aware of little else. Rundig had at least gotten well enough to start building back some of his strength. Their rations made sure that he wasn’t able to regain much of it, but it was better than being nearly helpless. Sometime earlier, they had heard several doors opening and closing around them, and they could smell the smoke even above the fetid stench that permeated the cellar.
She had watched the activities from her little window for a while, but they were on the edge of the village and the foot traffic in this area had been extremely light for the entire time they had been imprisoned. After no activity at the window, she talked to Rundig for some time before they decided that whatever was happening didn’t seem to be affecting them. They had just lain down to sleep when the quiet footsteps approached their door.
From the sound of the footfalls, the person was either fairly light or an inexperienced thief with a light step. Rolling quietly out of bed, Elandria pushed past the rug that divided her side of the room from Rundig’s. From the look on the Dwarf’s face, he had also heard the noise. They heard the first bar slide free a moment before the “Thwack!” from a crossbow bolt hitting the door.
“Bad night to be out, kid,” The familiar raspy voice of their captor said.
“I’m sorry, I’m just hungry and looking for food. I didn’t think anyone would be out here,” another voice replied. Something seemed familiar about the second voice as well, but she couldn’t place it. Whoever the thief was, they were young.
“There’s no food here, kid,” the Dracairei replied. “Get out of here. This building is off limits. If I ever see you again, I’m going to make sure not to miss.”
“Yes, sir,” the voice said, and the soft patter of little feet receded into the distance.
“Stupid kid,” the Dracairei said, his voice muffled as he turned to head back to wherever he had come from.
Elandria let out her breath. That had been the closest they had come to escape in the entire time they were being held. Rundig made a tsk sound in disappointment as he lay back down. She was just about to move away from the door when all of the hair on her body stood on end. A crackle of sound was followed by a muted grunt. Several seconds later, a heavier set of footfalls approached the door. The second bar was removed from its place before a dull impact was heard.
“Idiot,” she heard a man mutter through the door.
The disdain in the voice was both familiar and welcome.
Another dull thud broke through the silence that followed.
“Anytime, brother,” Za’kereth whispered.
A scream of pain cut through the darkness and then stopped suddenly.
“Excellent.” The last bar slid out of place and the door began to open.
Elandria rushed forward into Za’kereth’s arms as the door opened and planted a firm kiss on his mouth.
The Grey Elf spat and pushed her off of him. “Any other time and I’d not complain about such a thing, but your breath smells like someone died, you taste like dirt, and you smell even worse.”
“It’s good to see you too, Za’kereth,” Elandria laughed. “I’m guessing since you aren’t on full alert and just casually strolled up to the door that the rest of the Dracairei are otherwise occupied?”
“Got it in one,” Za’erath said as he walked up behind his brother.
Elandria had to fight the urge to leap into Za’erath’s arms as well, but if what Za’kereth said was true, it was probably best that she didn’t. She knew the priest would be much kinder about it than his brother, but it was still something that you shouldn’t subject your friends to.
“’Bout time you boys showed up,” Rundig said. “I was beginning to think you had left us here to die.”
“We might have if Victor hadn’t shown up,” Za’kereth said. “Where’d he get off to, anyway?”
“Victor?” Elandria said, finally understanding why the voice of the young thief had sounded familiar.
“Knowing that boy, he’s probably hunting down the rest of the Dracairei, wherever they ran off to.”
“Stewart Cantel,” Za’erath said. “He came through town and burned the remains of the Sergeant.”
“So he is dead then,” Elandria sighed. “I had hoped that somehow he would be able to survive the cold.”
“I did what I could for him,” Za’erath scowled. “The stubborn old bastard wouldn’t let me do anything to reverse the obvious signs of frostbite though; he was afraid we’d be found out and not be able to mount a rescue if the rest of the squad came back.” His voice grew heavy. “I was thirty feet away when he died. Under orders to not do anything, I just let him die.”
“It was the right call,” Za’kereth said.
“No, it was the expedient call,” Za’erath replied. “And it is the last time I ever let someone I care about die when I know I can do something about it.”
None of them doubted the priest’s words.
“Enough yappin',” Rundig said as he pushed his way through the door. “We need to get away from this village before the rest of the Dracairei come back.”
“You are right.” Za’kereth moved aside and motioned for Elandria to exit the cellar. “Victor said that Warren and Trenton are in the forest with the Quaelyne somewhere. Apparently, there are some Quaelyne on the edge of the forest who will guide us to them if we behave.”
“Quaelyne?” Elandria asked.
“It’s the proper name for the Wolverines in Death’s Edge.”
Rundig whistled. “Not only does the boy show up out of nowhere to come help rescue us, but he has legendary killers waiting to help us return home. Remind me to buy him a pint when he’s old enough.”
“Yeah, about that…” Za’kereth began as he explained to them the little information they had on Victor’s lost memories.
Elandria listened to the story as they skirted the outer edge of the village. She couldn’t believe that Victor had already been through so much in his life. Part of her wondered if forgetting some of the things he had been through might be for the best in the long run. If he managed to make it back to them, she vowed that she would do what she could to make sure he didn’t have to suffer alone.
Well, this was a dumb plan. Stewart Cantel said to himself as he ran past the burning remains of his lifelong friend. He was fairly certain that at least five of the Dracairei were a block behind him, at most. Several crossbow bolts had been within inches of hitting him as he raced through the streets and out into the country. Once he hit the road he let loose every ounce of speed he had. The Dracairei might be heavily modified killers, but no one was faster than Stewart Cantel.
His eyes tracked each dip, rut, and rock in the road as he poured on the speed. The sounds of pursuit began to grow distant and he heard the steps stop for a moment. In the next moment, he rolled to the side, dodging a hail of crossbow bolts that tore through where he had just been. His eyes tracked the six bolts as they tore through the air in front of him. Alright, guess I have six on my tail, or someone has two crossbows.
Stewart ran until his legs began to protest mightily. He knew that the Dracairei were more than likely not far behind; his speed gave him the advantage, but they had stamina in spades. Looking back, he could just make out the vague outline of the six forms running on the road behind him. Knowing he had gone as far as he was likely to go, he turned left off the road and ran for the trees. Rather fitting that we’re going to die in Death’s Edge, he thought.
Once he reached the relative safety of the trees, he took a moment to catch his breath and let his aching muscles stretch out. It was probably his imagination, but he felt like the forest greeted him like an old friend, offering him relief under its eternal gaze. He pulled out each of his daggers, one at a time, their sharp blades reinvigorating him. Today might be the day he dies, but he would be damned if he didn’t take as many of those scaly bastards with him as he could.
Climbing one of the larger trees, he watched as the assassins slowly approached the area where he had entered the forest. A short, raspy discussion ensued. For some reason, a few of them didn’t think it was a good idea to follow him into the forest that was an anathema to their kind. The only words he caught from the conversation were the loudly hissed “…remember what happened last time?” However, it seemed that their need to kill him outweighed their instincts of self-preservation, as several minutes later they began to trickle into the forest.
Stewart Cantel had never been the biggest or the strongest, but he had learned at an early age that positioning and surprise would give him an edge that was difficult to overcome through brute strength. It wouldn’t be until after puberty that he had developed the speed to hold his own in a one on one contest with the other students in the Academy. That speed, combined with his strategic mind, saw him quickly rising through the ranks of the Protectorate until he had attained the highest station a military man could hope for.
There were two reasons he had set out on his mission to rescue the Princess. The first was that he knew that he was tenacious enough to get the job done, no matter what it took, and the second was that he was tired of having the lives of millions of people on his mind. He knew it was a selfish reason to go, but he couldn’t sit back and watch as more men and women died in a fruitless battle with an enemy they barely understood.
Over a hundred thousand lives had been lost in the months it had taken for them to push back the forces the Siniquitans had arrayed against them. After trying to read and remember a list of every name, he realized that the task was nearly impossible. There was a small chance that he could make it out alive, but it would most likely mean relying on the scroll that the Arch Magus had given him. If he survived, he would continue on, but if he died he wouldn’t have to hear the voices of the dead in his dreams anymore.
The first of the Dracairei slid silently beneath him on the ground, rousing him from his thoughts. Great time to get lost in your misery you sad old bastard. It was an unkind thought, but it nearly made him laugh, which would have certainly spelled his defeat. As the Dracairei fanned out below, looking for the slightest trace of his passage, he smiled grimly. Birds began to chirp to the north and he realized that the sun was beginning to crest the horizon to the east. He had run through the night, far away from anyone who could render him assistance.
Pulling two daggers, he threw them at the two Dracairei furthest back. Both daggers flew true, but one of the assassins seemed to sense the blade as it shot toward him and tried to dodge out of the way. The first dagger took the unaware Dracairei in the shoulder, sticking in to its hilt. Not quite moving fast enough, the second assassin was saved a wicked wound to the neck by taking it in the arm instead.
As soon as the daggers were out of his hand he had begun to move. He ran across the large tree branches, hopping from one to the other knowing that pursuit wasn’t far behind. The Dracairei heal quickly, though not nearly as quickly as their more martial counterparts, and it wouldn’t take long for either of those he had wounded to recover. However, every blow he made against them chipped away at their endurance.
One of the Dracairei was tracking him from the ground, trying to run ahead of him to slow him down so the others could catch up from the trees. He heard mad laughter as he flew through the air towards the Dracairei below a moment before he realized it was coming from his lips. The assassin’s eyes went wide as he turned to see a human sized missile flying at him with daggers extended. Had he begun to move before displaying his incredulity, he might have survived, but as it was the assassin only managed to dodge one of Stewart’s daggers, and only for a second.
His dagger bit in deep. He put all of his strength into holding onto it, using it and his momentum to swing around the Dracairei and plant his other dagger in the assassin’s neck. He let go of the first dagger as he and the body hit the ground and pulled his shortsword to lop off the Dracairei’s head. Once removed, he kicked the orb as hard as he could deeper into the forest and continued his escape north. Five to go.
Something tore through the cloth on his right leg and he felt hot liquid roll down his calf. As much as he hoped it was just sweat, deep down he knew it wasn’t. It was only a graze, but if even a little bit of whatever concoction the Dracairei dipped their weapons in got into the wound, it would only be a matter of time until they had him. Weaving through the trees, he managed to duck out of sight several times, slowing his pursuers who didn’t seem willing to come around a tree trunk and find him waiting. Smart of them.
Stewart wondered how long he’d be able to keep this up before they wore him down enough to kill him.