Haeil was loving every minute of his time at sea. He seemed to have been made for a life spent before the mast. He made friends with every one of the crew, slept in their quarters, pitched in with all work aboard ship, and dined with the captain in the evenings. All in all, to the young ex-assassin, it was sheer heaven. The wind in his hair, the salt on his lips, the spray on his face as they crested great rollers, even the ache in his muscles and the burn of the ropes on his palms. He loved, savored, it all.
Many of the crew wore strips of cloth wrapped around their hands. On his third day aboard, Haeil found out why. The young ex-assassin was up in the crow's-nest atop the mainmast.
"Haeil!" Captain Arrion bellowed up to him. "Join me at the helm, lad!"
"Yes, sir!" Haeil called down. He clambered down the rigging, then, thirty feet above deck, reached out and caught a rope put there for the purpose of sliding down to reach the deck faster.
And slide Haeil did. It was his first time, and it was exhilarating-- and painful. As the coarse rope slid through his palms, burning pain erupted in Haeil's hands. Hissing, he dropped the last five feet to the deck, and stood bowed over slightly for a moment, clutching his hands as blood bloomed across his palms. Cursing himself for all kinds of idiot, Haeil squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain away. He only opened them when he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. He looked up into the bright green eyes of First Mate Lamark. Amusement danced in the dark-skinned First Mate's gaze as he took Haeil's hands and bound up the raw wounds with strips of cloth the like of which was wound around his own hands.
"Tried it without the padding?" Lamark asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Yes." Haeil muttered, dropping his gaze to his boots. Lamark chuckled as he tied off the cloth knots.
"Well, we've all done it at one time or another." The First Mate said. Tapped the bindings on his own hands. "That's why we wear these. Keeps our hands from ending up like yours."
"So that's what those are for." Haeil grumbled. "You couldn't have told me sooner?"
Lamark laughed and slapped the young assassin fondly on the back, causing him to stumble forward slightly.
"All you pups learn best through experience." He replied, before striding off to berate an idle crewman. Haeil sighed, then chuckled slightly. Headed up to the helm-deck where Arrion waited for him. The captain was studiously avoiding looking at Haeil and not smiling as Haeil halted on the aft deck and saluted Arrion.
"Sir?" Haeil queried.
"Come look at this, lad." Arrion said, gesturing to a peculiar device set beside the rudder-wheel. Haeil stepped over and studied it.
It looked like a triangular stone lying in a bowl of water. The bowl was set in a gimbal, staying level even through the movement of the ship.
"Watch." Arrion instructed with a smile. He turned the rudder-wheel first one way, then the other. The point of the triangular stone changed direction both times, spinning first for'ard, then toward the stern. Haeil watched, wide-eyed.
"What is it?" He asked. Arrion chuckled at the wonder in his voice. Clearly, the boy had never been to sea before.
"'Tis a sea-compass, lad." He replied. "A wind-rose in the flesh, if you will." He winked.
Haeil gaped at him a moment.
"Truth?" He asked. The assassin had never held a compass in his hand before. He was used to navigating by sun and stars, and whatever maps he could get his hands on.
Arrion laughed. "Truth! The tip of the stone always points north. You can see by its direction now that we are sailing east."
Haeil studied the sea-compass for some minutes, and Arrion even let him take the wheel for a time, allowing the younger man to test the device. The captain took great joy in teaching someone the craft of sailing as helmsman, especially as that someone was enthusiastic about learning the skills.
So the days passed in grueling work and laughter and banter during daylight hours and even more laughter as well as fiddle music and singing in the evenings. Haeil loved studying the stars during his night watches, loved drinking the wind during his times as lookout up in the crow's-nest. After a time, it seemed as if he had always been one of the crew.
And for three weeks, all was calm.
And then a sail was spotted on the horizon, just as a squall came sweeping in from the south. The wind picked up, causing the waves to toss the little Wind Rose about like a toy.
"Sail!" Cried the lookout, up on the top of the main mast.
"Can't make out her colors, sir!" He called down to the captain. "I need a second pair o' eyes!"
"I'll go!" Haeil volunteered immediately. He scampered up the mast like he'd been born on the ropes, his cloth-wrapped hands pulling him up the rigging as quickly as he could move them.
Haeil joined the lookout at the top of the mainmast. Grabbed a thick rope and tied himself off, as the gale-force wind up here threatened to throw him to the heaving waters below. Haeil lifted his face into the wind. He could get drunk on breathing it, he thought. Then he shifted his gaze to the portion of horizon to which the lookout pointed.
As the southern squall swiftly blotted out the sunshine, Haeil narrowed his eyes at the white blotch of sail of the ship way out there. She was flying her colors openly and gaining on them fast. She likely had a Wind mage aboard her, Haeil mused. He squinted, and could just make out her colors.
Kathiran.
He double checked just to make sure. She was Kathiran for sure.
Haeil drew a mighty breath into his lungs and shouted to the captain below,
"She's Kathiran, sir! She's coming up on us fast! We can't outrun her!"
"Then we'll outgun her." Muttered Arrion, knowing Haeil couldn't hear. He set his jaw and readied himself for the fight to come. He'd sworn to get the assassin safely to Syrdrin or die trying, and it seemed that he would be battling privateers and weather to do it.
"Beat to quarters!" The captain bellowed. "Full sail!"
And the crew swarmed onto the main deck and up the masts as the war-drums sounded out.
***
Kedemar, lord of Kenrath, heir to the crown of Gibethon, stood alone atop the high battlements of Fellvale Keep, looking down the pass into Kathiare. He watched the vast Kathiran army make camp in the valley below him. The majority of them would never make it past the keep if he could help it, but no mountains were ever truly impassable. A few companies had already made it over and were wreaking havoc on Fellvale Keep's supply lines. If they kept that up, soon Fellvale would be cut off altogether. Kedemar and his men would be left to starve or surrender, and the young lord didn't have enough men to sally forth and fight his way out. He was trapped, almost.
Part of him wondered if Dath had done this on purpose, left him here to die on a doomed assignment. But the young lord discarded the idea. Dath would never do that. The king was hard pressed in other areas, having to send his men to garrison the coastal cities against Mendenlau's incoming fleet.
Well, Kedemar decided as he watched countless Kathirans march into the valley, he'd just make the best of it. He would not betray Dath again.
He would hold Fellvale if it killed him.
***
Haeil quickly scampered down the ropes back down to the main deck and stood for a moment, nearly lost in the sudden rushing bustle of a ship readying for battle. He was unsure of what to do or where to go as the men around him battened down anything not already secured and loaded the cannons.
"Haeil!" Captain Arrion called. Haeil turned to see the normally smiling man wearing a grim face and light armor. The captain nodded at the approaching enemy ship.
"We're in fer a bloody one, and no mistake." Arrion said. Haeil followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes at the fast-approaching enemy.
"Can we hope to win?" Haeil asked. Arrion answered,
"I've outmaneuvered larger before, and escaped. But they never had a Wind-mage. This'll be a close one."
"What can I do?" Haeil asked, turning to face him. Arrion regarded him almost sadly. There was fondness in his gaze, but also a sorrow that told Haeil that the captain did not expect to make it out of this battle alive.
"Get yerself below decks and hope for the best." Arrion replied. Haeil shook his head in refusal as the wind whipped his hair around his face. Said,
"With all respect, no, sir. I will not leave you all up here to fight and die on my behalf."
Arrion gave him a grim smile as the first big drops of rain pattered down.
"Good lad. Then make sure you have the weapons you need and take your battle station."
Breathless, the crew watched the enemy ship race ever closer, waiting for when it would be in range of the cannons.
***
From atop the ramparts of Fellvale Keep's gatehouse, Kedemar watched his blood-father stride up the path to the castle. Gavin carried a white flag of truce, and that was the only reason Kedemar didn't order his anxious sentries to shoot Gavin on the spot.
"May I speak?" The assassin called up, halting before the gatehouse. Though he carried no weapon, he did not seem concerned about the five crossbows trained on him.
"You may." Replied Kedemar coldly, gesturing for his men to stand down.
"But, m'lord!" The garrison captain protested. "We can't miss! Letting him live will bring us later grief. He--."
"No." Kedemar said. "I will honor the white flag of truce."
"Surrender, Kedemar!" Gavin called up, ignoring their discussion. "You have no hope of holding out against our might!"
"No, Gavin!" Kedemar laughed mirthlessly, leaning his forearms on the wall. "I will not surrender!"
"'Gavin'?" The assassin queried the use of his name, his expression blank, but something akin to sorrow flickering in his dark eyes. "Not 'father'? Does not a son owe his father some respect?"
"You may have sired me, but you are no father of mine." Kedemar's voice was pure ice. "And if all you came here for was to demand surrender, your task is fruitless! I will never surrender!"
"Then you will die, and your men with you!" Gavin snarled, suddenly angry.
Kedemar replied, suddenly tired and resigned, but no less resolute.
"Then I will die." He agreed. Gavin's face became as stone, but for a muscle in his cheek twitching. Then he burst out,
"Do you think I want to kill you, Kedemar?! Because that is what will happen should we take this keep with a fight! Surrender, curse you!"
Fire lit in Kedemar's eyes at his father's words.
"Surrender yourself!" He shot back. "I will hold this keep against your filthy hoard or I will die trying!" The young lord suddenly grabbed a crossbow from one of his men and leveled it at Gavin.
"Get out of here now, Gavin, before I shoot you where you stand!" Kedemar threatened. Gavin went red with rage, wringing his white flag in his grasp. Then he spun on his heel and retreated back down the path.
Upon reaching the Kathiran camp, Gavin gathered his officers in his large command tent. There was a table in the middle of the room, holding a map. It was upon this table that Gavin firmly planted his hands, palm down. He looked down at his hands, breathing hard. Curled his fingers into clenched fists.
"Ready the men." The assassin ordered his commanding officers, without looking up. "We start the siege of Fellvale at dawn. I will give that insolent pup one more chance to surrender. If he refuses, then we will starve them out. There will be no mercy from me after. Now get out of my sight!"
The men's eyes widened and they scrambled to leave the tent, leaving Gavin cursing under his breath. Gavin had been known to kill when he was angry and every man there knew the assassin's reputation.
The officers hurried to carry out the assassin's orders, striding through the noisy, smoky camp, their voices ringing out stridently through the cold, thin mountain air. The camp became even more busy, if that were possible, as the soldiers readied for war. They honed weapons, checked gear, polished armor, and assembled siege engines.
Inside Fellvale Keep, Kedemar's Two Hundred were doing the same, albeit without the siege engines.
***
The Kathiran ship closed quickly with the little Wind Rose, but under Captain Arrion's orders and his crew's skillful hands, the Wind Rose's sails fell and rose, and the little ship was brought quickly about until she faced her larger enemy and was driving right at her. The Obsidian ship meant to ram the larger vessel. The Wind Rose's fore-cannons fired. The lead shot smashed into the enemy ship's hull as she struggled to turn as quickly as the Wind Rose had.
Haeil could now see the Kathiran ship's name.
Ebony Shade, it read.
Haeil's heart rose in his throat, his palms grew slick with sweat. But he gripped his sword with determination. He may be no gunner, but if they were boarded, the Kathirans would regret it.
And then there was a blinding flash from the Ebony Shade's hull. A rolling thunder a second later.
"GET DOWN!" Arrion shouted at Haeil, throwing himself at the young man. They crashed to the deck together, Arrion shielding Haeil with his own body. And then countless cannonballs crashed into the Wind Rose.
***
Gavin had sent a messenger up to Fellvale Keep to parley one last time with Kedemar, had waited for hours for that messenger to return, and now had sent a second to see what was taking the man so long to return.
The assassin watched in frustration as a horseman galloped back down the path from the keep. His second messenger, and with a crossbow quarrel in his shoulder no less.
"Where's my messenger?" Gavin growled at the horsemen as he skidded a stop beside the assassin. The man shook his head as he dismounted, clutching his shoulder as blood streamed over his fingers.
"Your son shot your messenger." He said, gritting his teeth in pain. "Wouldn't let anyone close enough to retrieve the body. Shot me too, when I tried."
Gavin cursed. Dragged his fingers through his blond hair. Uttered yet another foul word, cursing his son, his own men, this mission, and the whole world in general.
"Attack." He ordered his officers. Turned away and strode off to find his horse.
***
Kedemar watched them come in the cold, pale light of a dawn in the mid-autumn. The Kathirans' numbers were too many to count, not that the young lord wanted to. They came with siege ladders and catapults, and Kedemar's Two Hundred nervously watched them advance up the pass. The men's mouths grew dry with fear and, they shifted nervously as they surveyed the vast host before them.
"Hold fast, men." Kedemar told them, showing no concern himself, his face calm, his stance relaxed, steadfast. His men took their cue from him, becoming still, resolution entering their eyes and steel straightening their spines.
They watched as ten catapults were set in position, winched back, and loaded. Kedemar's men tensed, bracing themselves for the barrage to follow.
"Steady...!" Kedemar ordered. Then the first stone was flung at the keep.
The massive boulder sailed over the outer wall, well over the heads of the defenders. It smashed to pieces in the empty courtyard below. Nine more like it followed, none hitting any of Kedemar's men. One stone struck the wall below them. One more crashed into one of the towers set along the wall, and shattered. Kedemar and his men were showered with sharp stone chips. One sliced across Kedemar's cheek, leaving a thin, bloody slice. He ignored it. Pebbles pinged off of armor and rattled on the ramparts.
As the Kathirans below marched toward the walls, siege ladders in tow, another volley of stones was launched at the keep.
This time, one of the boulders did smash into one of Kedemar's men. The young lord held himself stiffly and tried not to think about the sounds of impact or the shattered body lying in the courtyard below.
The Kathirans marched within range of the men's longbows.
"Archers!" Kedemar filled his lungs and shouted in his battlefield voice. "Nock and draw!"
There was a rattle of arrow shafts sliding out of quivers, then Kedemar roared out,
"FIRE!" And a deadly cloud of one hundred barb-headed, armor-piercing shafts hissed away. They struck deep into the Kathirans' ranks, and dozens of the enemy fell. A second volley of arrows was right behind the first, and wreaked just as much destruction among the enemy before they could get their shields up. Then the defenders had to duck down below the ramparts as the catapults' range was adjusted and a barrage of stones smashed into the walls and towers.
Siege ladders thunked up agains the walls. Beneath a volley of boulders, trying to keep their heads down and pick off the Kathirans below at the same time, Kedemar's men attempted to push the ladders back off the ramparts. Succeeded with some. Kathirans clambered up other ladders and there was desperate fighting for a few moments on the catwalks. Kedemar was in the thick of it, cutting down enemy after enemy, protecting his men, repelling the invaders.
Finally, the last ladder was kicked off the ramparts and the last Kathiran on the catwalks was slain. Kedemar and his men had a brief respite. Canteens were passed around the ranks, and the young lord dispatched a soldier down to the courtyard to drag the shattered body out of the way and out of sight.
Pale and slightly green, the hardened soldier carried out his orders. Then it was time to form ranks again as the Kathirans renewed their assault.
The battle was fierce that day, with men lost on both sides. But the Kathirans took the far greater casualties. Countless of their numbers lay strewn in the pass, riddled with arrows, or were heaped below Fellvale's walls where the defenders had tossed the enemy slain over the ramparts.
Kedemar had lost three men. But they were good warriors and friends, all of them, and he missed them sorely. There was Leo, the man hit with the catapult stone, and the first to go down. Tymythee and Fanlor had both been struck down by Kathiran swords. Kedemar mourned them all with tears, once he was alone. He and his remaining men drank to their fallen comrades once the sun went down and the Kathirans retreated for the day.
More battle was fought over the next few days, fierce and bloody, with the Kathirans taking the most casualties. And yet more of the enemy kept coming. They seemed to be endless.
But Fellvale was strong and repelled everything thrown at it.
***
As the hurricane-force winds gusted and whirled Arrion's little ship sideways, the cannonballs raked the Wind Rose along her hull, broadside. The helmsman-- not Arrion-- was hit immediately. He slumped over the rudder-wheel, his chest a bloody, gaping mess. The foremast was hit, cracked, then toppled to lean over the starboard rail. The Wind Rose listed over, her situation not helped by the fact that her rudder was now pinned into one position. Three crewmen were pinned beneath the heavy bulk of splintered log and canvas sail.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Despite the cannon shot still whizzing by overhead, seven other crewmen leaped to lift the mast off their comrades, and off the starboard rail as their little ship began to roll over into the sea.
Haeil shook the ringing from his ears and wriggled out from Arrion's restraining arm. The young ex-assassin dashed for'ard, soaked with the driving rain, dodging lead shot and flying wood splinters all the way. One bit of flying wood nicked his hairline, leaving blood trickling down his temple, but he ignored it. Right ahead of him a cannonball decapitated a crewman. Haeil's stomach lurched, but he kept going, even when another cannonball whistled through his hair.
And then he was at the fallen mast. He joined the crew in chopping the ropes restraining it. Taut, wet lines snapped as they were released from the mast. One rope whipped up and lashed Haeil across his forehead. Blood spilled down into his eyes, mingling with the rain. But he merely wiped it away with his arm and continued working.
One, two, three heaves, and the fallen mast was dropped over the side into the sea. Wind Rose rolled back upright. Arrion staggered to his feet, shaking his head free of pain and fogginess.
"Load the fire canisters!" He bellowed, staggering to the helm and hefting the dead helmsman off the rudder-wheel. The crew leaped to obey as Arrion took the wheel.
"Fire?" Haeil asked, staggering onto the helm-deck. He mopped blood from his face, tore a wet strip of cloth from his tunic and bound up his brow with it.
"Liquid fire." Arrion answered grimly. The captain spun the wheel, bringing his faithful Wind Rose about so that her broadside cannons once again aimed at the Ebony Shade.
"Steady!" Arrion roared. He waited until Wind Rose had crested a wave. The little ship hovered there on the top of that white-capped monstrosity for just a moment. A moment was all Arrion needed.
"FIRE!!" The captain bellowed out over the raging gale.
The Wind Rose's cannons fired.
Hit.
And the Ebony Shade began burning.
***
In a mountainous forest, a circle of wagons was stationed for the night deep in the pass leading up to Fellvale Keep. A merchant caravan coming from the lowlands of Gibethon, bearing much-needed food and supplies.
A few sentries patrolled the outside of the circle, but the wagon masters and the guards not on duty slept, blissfully unaware of the Kathiran patrol sneaking up on them. A hand darted out of the shadows of the surrounding trees and grasped a sentry over the mouth. A long blade followed a second later, thrusting through the unfortunate guard's chest. The sentry fell with a gurgling, muffled scream. Kathiran soldiers poured out of the darkness, led by two assassins.
The alarm went up, startled sentries crying out when they were stabbed or when they turned and witnessed the deaths of their companions. Half-alseep guards and wagon masters rolled out of their beds, grasping for their weapons.
But too late. The little camp was overrun, and, in the midst of the battle, the wagons were set aflame by a torch-bearing assassin and a few Kathirans carrying oil casks.
In the confusion, one of the wagon masters managed to drag himself into the cloaking shadows beneath the trees. There he lay, panting as his blood stained the leaves beneath him. He'd tried to defend his comrades and taken three stab-wounds to the torso. He'd tried, too, to douse the fires that greedily devoured his livelihood. Had attempted to strike down the assassin setting the flames. The assassin had spun at the last second and driven his blade into the wagon master's ribs and his torch into the side of the poor man's head. The wagon master had fallen, stunned. Came to his senses a little while later and dragged himself away from the battle.
Now, as the battle died down, the unfortunate man, last survivor of the caravan, gathered his strength and began to drag himself down the pass toward Fellvale Keep. Lord Kedemar must be informed of what had happened here tonight.
As the wagon master dragged himself painfully through the trees, going in what he hoped was the right direction, and trailing blood all the way, soft footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves behind him, and then beside him. Looking sideways, the wounded man saw the boots and swirling, black cloak of an assassin. He crawled onward, despair drowning his heart, expecting to be finished off at any moment. The Kathiran spoke not a word, merely walked beside him, matching his pace. A sword dangled from the black-clad man's hand.
The wagon master gasped desperately onward, coughing and choking as blood bubbled up his throat.
"Leave him!" The second assassin called from behind them, and the wagon master halted and turned to look. The assassin beside him, too, stopped and looked back. Then he gazed down at the wounded man. Hesitated a second before striding back to his companion.
Not knowing whether to be grateful or not, the wounded man resumed crawling onward, a few feet later staggering to his feet and stumbling off into the night.
***
Kedemar stood atop the main keep battlements of Fellvale, blinking sleep from his eyes. He’d been called out of bed at this late-early hour to witness— what exactly? He peered through the darkness of night at an orange glow in the distance. Obscured by mountains and forest, it was nearly impossible to tell what it actually was, besides a fire. Dread pooled in Kedemar’s gut.
"What is happening exactly out there?" He asked the sentry standing next to him. The man swallowed.
"I don't rightly know, milord." The sentry replied.
“Milord!” Called another sentry from down by the gatehouse. “There’s a man here, milord, begging to be let in! He’s in bad shape, milord!”
Kedemar’s dread grew.
“Bring him in.” He ordered. A few men, alert for any deception, unlocked the wicket gate in the outer wall and brought in the newcomer. They took him before Kedemar, who, by this time, had made his way down to the courtyard.
The newcomer was in rough shape. Looked to be a caravan wagon master, and was covered in soot and burns. Had a few blade wounds as well. He sagged between two of Kedemar's men-- men who looked pale and haunted as they supported the wounded wagon master.
Kedemar opened his mouth to speak, but the wounded man beat him to it.
“The supply caravans, milord, they burned them.” He gasped out, before falling unconscious. The two men holding him up almost dropped him, as he immediately became dead weight.
The blood drained from Kedemar's face as the gravity of their situation settled in.
"Get him to the infirmary." He ordered hoarsely, nodding to the wagon master. As they dragged the unconscious man away to the keep, Kedemar turned and brushed past his men. Strode to the stairs and mounted them, stepping swiftly up to the catwalk. He stared out at that faint, orange glow in the distance. His fingers clenched the parapet and his knuckles turned white with the force of his grip.
Oh, One-Who-Made-The-Stars, where are You? Have You forsaken us? Please, One, let us hold fast. Give us strength and sustenance, or we shall perish.
Thus Kedemar prayed silently, his lips moving slightly as he fought despair.
***
As fire began to consume the Ebony Shade, the roiling waves tossed her closer to the Wind Rose, and grappling hooks soared from her deck to thunk into Wind Rose's rails. The men from the Ebony Shade swarmed over and fierce fighting ensued on the decks of the wildly pitching, little Wind Rose. Haeil was, in an instant, in the thick of it, using his deadly skills to defend his crewmates. But there were too many of the enemy.
It was slash and stab and parry and parry and slash again, as rain lashed them and wind tried to knock them over. Men fell all around Haeil, and each battle-brother of his that died was a dart of grief and rage in his chest. So he fought on, determined, steadfast, seemingly indefatigable.
But no man can fight forever. Especially when you are fighting both man and nature.
The Wind Rose's crew tired, Haeil tired, Arrion tired. Still they fought on doggedly.
But they had too little numbers, and, in the end, numbers told.
The tiny crew of the Wind Rose were cut down to the last man. Arrion and Haeil fought back to back for a few moments, surrounded, before the good captain fell to a thrust in the chest. Enraged, Haeil cleared a circle around himself with his blade. The enemy crew backed off, leaving a piled ring of their dead, unwilling to engage him.
And then the Wind-mage stepped forward.
The grey-haired man must have come over after the combatants, and the wind that made the men stumble seemed not to affect him. The mage stood on the foredeck of the Wind Rose and raised his hands.
The already gusting air swirled even harder around Haeil. Entered his lungs through his mouth and nose, and literally stole his breath. Haeil fought panic, mentally fought to catch hold of the wildly whipping, magical wind-tethers, fought against the rising winds to reach the mage and strike him down. But the winds pushed him back and down. Tore his blade from his hands.
Haeil's vision tunneled as he ran out of air. He staggered to his hands and knees, still fought to reach the mage.
But then the world went dark.
And Haeil's body slumped to the heaving deck, as Kathirans leaped to the capture.
***
Without the supply trains, Kedemar's little force was stranded in Fellvale Keep. But at least they hardly had to fight battles anymore. Gavin had decided that he was losing too many men trying to take the keep by force. He pulled his forces back, content to destroy supply lines and starve Kedemar out.
But the lack of battles meant they could conserve their strength, to a certain degree.
Gavin tried to treat one more time, and was turned away.
For the young lord's part, he refused to surrender to his blood-father, preferring instead to die with his command. As food and water ran low, he cut rations to half, then a quarter. And though none of his men complained, he knew they grew more and more concerned as they grew weaker.
At last, not knowing what else to do, and knowing at the same time that the way was too narrow to get all his men out in time, Kedemar snuck two of his men out by the secret passage to the Fellvale Tunnels.
"Tell King Dathran what has happened here." He ordered them, giving them enough rations to make it to the capital if they were careful. They nodded, unwilling to leave their comrades, but went anyway. They knew that they were their lord's only hope. They also knew, though nobody chose to say, that any coming aid would be far too late.
So Kedemar and his remaining Two Hundred subsisted on rapidly dwindling supplies. The winter snows came and provided them with some water, but not enough. The keep was too protected by the surrounding mountain pass to get much snow. Then the weather turned bitter cold, and even the snows stopped. Kedemar was forced to watch his men weaken with malnourishment and dehydration... and cold.
And then, a short time later, all provisions were gone. No food. No water. No wood. It became a race to see if they would starve to death or freeze to death first.
One overcast winter day, Kedemar made his rounds and spoke with his barely-alive men at their posts. His empty, shriveled stomach twisted as he talked with them, and he knew, somehow, that today was going to be the final day of the siege. By the setting of the sun everyone in the keep would be either unconscious captives to man or weather, or they would all be... dead.
Kedemar posted himself on the keep's steps, sword in hand. Too weary to stand, he sat on the cold stone, fighting the urge to sleep. He watched, numb with cold and grief, as, one by one, each of his men slumped, collapsed, crumpled at their stations. Every one of them, unconscious, succumbed to cold and dehydration, and lack of sustenance.
Soon, Kedemar was the last one awake. Soon, he was fighting iron-weighted eyelids.
Soon, he too fell asleep, hardly knowing, and not at all caring, when he slumped sideways on the freezing stone steps. His sword slipped from his frozen grasp. And he knew no more.
Then he woke-- surprised he could still awaken-- to the sound of a battering ram on the front gate.
But he was too weak to move.
***
Haeil woke slowly, groaned, and groggily lifted his head to behold-- the Wind Rose?
He tried to move, his head pounding like there was a hammer-man inside of his skull. Realized he was standing upright, tied securely to the mainmast.
Tugging slightly, fruitlessly, against the ropes binding him, he looked around. His eyes widened in surprise.
The men around him weren't his crewmates. The man at the helm wasn't Arrion. And then he remembered.
Arrion was dead. The whole crew was. Arrion had died trying to keep his oath. The Ebony Shade had burned and the Wind Rose had been captured by the Kathirans.
Grief filled Haeil to the point where he wished he had joined his comrades in death. But he alone survived. And he hated it. Hated that they had died for him, that their blood had been spilled on his behalf. And for what? He was a captive now, with no escape in sight.
"Cap'n!" A crewman near Haeil called. "The prisoner's awake!"
The man at the helm looked up, left the wheel, and strode down to the main deck to stand before Haeil. An older man, with greying hair and scholar's robes, followed him down the aft stairs and took his place behind the captain. Haeil narrowed his eyes. The man in scholar's garb was the Wind-mage.
"Where are you taking me?" Haeil asked, stealing the initiative. The captain studied him for a moment, expressionless, before answering.
"Well, I suppose it won't hurt anything to tell you." He replied at last. "We're bound for Kathiare. The northern mountains, to be exact." A cold smile flickered across the captain's face.
"Enjoy your stay aboard." He said. Haeil's heart sank as the man turned away.
"Put him under again." The Kathiran captain ordered before walking away. The mage raised his hands and the wind swirled into Haeil's lungs once more. They stole his breath...
But this time he was ready. He may be bound and unable to move physically, but his mind was free!
He reached out mentally, searching for the threads of magic that tethered the wind. And found them!
The young ex-assassin knew how to break magic. He'd done it before, with the black compulsion on the assassins' brand on his forearm.
Mentally he grasped at the wind-tethers. Caught them. Held them. They were wild, nearly un-tameable. Nearly threw him off. But he fought them. With his mind he grabbed them and twisted and pulled with all his might.
The mage gritted his teeth as he sensed what Haeil was trying to do. The mage fought back, his face slowly turning red. He was powerful, but not as disciplined as Haeil. The young ex-assassin smiled grimly even as he was suffocating, and locked gazes with the furious mage. He gave the magical tethers a great heave mentally.
The wind-tethers were strong, but in the end... they were rent asunder.
Air rushed back into Haeil's lungs and he gasped the salty spray with triumph and gratitude. Thanked the One and silently sang His praises.
The Wind-mage staggered as his magic was broken. The man fell to the deck, unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. The Kathiran captain turned, halfway up the aft stairs, furious as he processed what he was seeing.
He gestured to a nearby crewman, barking a guttural order: the words sounding like,
"Knock him out."
Could have just as easily been "Take him out."
The crewman strode toward Haeil, drawing his sword as he came. Haeil caught his breath and swallowed. He lifted his chin and met the man's eyes. The assassin would show them all that he was not afraid to die.
Myra's face and remembered kisses flashed through his mind along with a stab of regret.
The crewman stopped in front of Haeil and raised his hand. And then the sword pommel slammed into the side of Haeil's head.
Haeil's head snapped to the side and down as blinding pain crashed through his skull.
And then there was blessed darkness.
***
Too weak to do anything more than lift his head slightly, and wavering in and out of unconsciousness, Kedemar was forced to watch and listen as the gates of his fortress were smashed inward. With no opposition, it was quick work for the Kathirans. The gates splintered inward, and enemy soldiers poured through and immediately began checking bodies for signs of life. Found it in almost all the fallen Two Hundred. Kedemar's men were quickly bound and carried away toward the keep. The soldiers carting his men didn't even spare Kedemar more than a glance. Just stepped over or around him as he lay on the keep steps.
Gavin strode through the gates, surveyed the courtyard for a moment before locking eyes with Kedemar. The assassin walked up to his son. Kedemar glared up at his blood-father and found the strength to curl his fingers around the hilt of his fallen sword. Tried to lift it. Couldn't.
Gavin merely kicked it out of his hand. The weapon rang on the stones a short distance away.
"Going... to kill... me?" Kedemar whispered, his lips dry and cracked. His tongue was swollen with dehydration and his throat felt almost too thick to breathe. He could not feel his toes or his face, although the fingers that Gavin had kicked stung.
Gavin stared down at him with an unreadable expression and replied,
"Not yet."
The assassin knelt on one knee and lifted Kedemar's head into his lap, putting his canteen to his son's lips. The young lord wanted to fight him, but knew he couldn't afford to. Didn't have the strength. Needed the water.
Already, his eyes were drooping shut again, and his numb-cold skin tingled back to life where Gavin's warm hand touched. With the last of his strength, Kedemar greedily parted his lips to catch the precious water. He managed a few drops of liquid before the world faded from his ken once more.
***
Haeil spent most of the remainder of the sea-journey bound to the mast of the Wind Rose, sick to his stomach from concussion. That blow to the head was harder than he had realized, and anything they forced down his throat, his stomach heaved right back up. He couldn't keep anything down. Not food, not water, nothing. He spent his time moaning and wishing he were dead, and eventually everyone left him alone.
The Wind-mage died of the wounds he had gained through having his magic broken. His body was tossed overboard. Haeil watched the unceremonious burial, and wished he were joining the mage beneath the waters.
Miserable, cold and wet and wildly nauseous, all Haeil wanted to do was die. The Kathirans wouldn't even untie him from the mast. The young assassin lost feeling in his feet after a while. He chose to sag against his ropes, not caring when it restricted his breathing.
But gradually his head cleared and his stomach settled. The Kathirans fed him again-- nothing but dry bread-- and gave him some much-needed water.
And finally they reached the coast of Kathiare.
"Land ho!" Called the lookout from up in the crow's-nest. Haeil lifted his eyes to the perch, remembering when it was his from which to drink the wind. Then his gaze went along with everybody else's to the rugged line of green filling the horizon. The winds were strong, and they made good time up the coast. They reached a wide, north-bound river. Sailed up the river, hauling in to shore and disembarked when the rising mountains decreed that they could sail no further. They had found a way-house, the little building sitting off the short, stone jetty and occupied by someone who had clearly been waiting for them.
"What took you so long?" Groused a stocky, swarthy man, standing from his seat on the verandah of the way-house and making his way down onto the jetty. Behind him, in a small corral beside the way-house, a throng of sturdy horses grazed on sparse grasses.
"The sea is fickle and not commanded by any man." The Kathiran captain replied to his land-bound countryman as the deckhands tossed the swarthy man mooring ropes.
The Wind Rose was tied off to the jetty. She bumped gently against the stones, pushed by the river's current.
The crew untied Haeil from the mast, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, weak from days upon days of not using his limbs. The Kathirans had no pity. A crewman thumped Haeil on the head again and the young assassin was dragged off the ship. They hefted him onto a horse, mounted up themselves, and headed out without even a meal. Haeil sagged over the saddle-horn as the crew took him deeper into the mountain forests. He spent a miserable week in the saddle, soaked with snowmelt, shivering with winter's cold, severely concussed, and wishing he could die. When it turned bitterly cold, he was sure he was going to lose fingers and toes, maybe even a whole hand or foot.
But the men took pains here to make sure their prisoner had a place by their evening campfires. It seemed whoever had ordered his capture wanted him alive and whole. Haeil wasn't sure whether to be grateful or to plead for a quick death and an unmarked grave out here in the wilds.
But, at last, they came to a little fortress in Kathiare, not far from the Gibethonian border and Fellvale Keep.
And there, in that little fortress deep in a Kathiran forest, King Medenlau the Bloody waited.
***
Gavin spared Kedemar and the survivors of the young lord's Two Hundred. Though prisoners, the Gibethonians were healed of their wounds, nursed back to health, fed and rehydrated.
When Kedemar opened his eyes again, it was to stone walls and a barred door. He was in a small room somewhere in Fellvale Keep-- he vaguely remembered touring this part of his keep, but hadn't been back since as it was tiny servants' quarters and no use to him or his men. The young lord was lying on the scratchy straw mattress of a low cot. He tried to sit up, made it halfway. He was so weak, hardly able to lever himself up on his elbow for more than thirty seconds. He thumped back down on the cot, panting. His hands were tied tightly in front of him, and those ropes were in turn bound the frame of the cot. But it was not an uncomfortable position when lying down, and for that he was grateful.
A key rattled in the lock of the door, and a second later the portal creaked open. Gavin peered in.
"Oh, good. You're awake." He greeted his son without emotion.
"Wish I were in a grave instead." Kedemar replied bitterly, turning his face to the wall, away from Gavin. The assassin stepped inside the room and nudged the door shut with his foot. His hands were full with a tray upon which were set a shallow bowl of what looked like soup, a tankard of water, a jar of ointment, some clean rags, and a bowl of steaming water.
Gavin sat on the bed and set the tray beside himself. Kedemar was tempted to bop the tray with his foot and send it to the floor. But he doubted he had the strength.
Gavin reached over and untied his son's hands from the cot. Got an arm under the young man and helped him sit up. Kedemar sat upright, leaning on the assassin, loathing the contact.
For his part, Gavin said nothing but what he needed to, and was all business as he worked. First, he put the cup of water to the young man's lips, and Kedemar drank greedily. His father removed the cup all too soon, but Kedemar was too tired to protest. Next, the assassin took Kedemar's hands, one at a time, dipped a rag in the steaming bowl of water, and gently bathed the frost-burns on his son's cold-scarred hands.
Kedemar hissed in pain as the warm rag touched his wounded fingers. There was definitely disinfectant in that water. The young lord remembered its sting all too well. He tried to pull away, but Gavin's hand tightened on his wrist.
"Let me work." The assassin said. Still hissing and sucking in sharp breaths at every touch of the rag, Kedemar relaxed and tried to turn his mind to other things.
Like, how to get out of this situation? He had to admit, it seemed impossible. He was well and truly stuck now. He didn't think there would be any escape this time.
The thought filled Kedemar with despair, and, when Gavin held a spoonful of watery soup to his son's lips, the young man turned his head away. He refused to open his mouth, refused to take the mouthful of nourishment.
Gavin's hand landed on the far side of Kedemar's face and turned his head back. Kedemar met his blood-father's hard, dark stare with his own bleak gaze. Something flickered in the assassin's eyes then. Gavin opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was,
"Eat."
"No." Kedemar whispered. Gavin's face tightened.
"Open your mouth and eat, or I will force-feed you." Gavin threatened.
"I thought you were going to kill me." Kedemar replied wearily, tired of games.
Gavin sighed in frustration, plunking the spoon back down into the bowl of soup.
"My orders were to take you alive." He growled. "So eat, Kedemar, curse you!"
"What if I don't want to be taken alive?" Kedemar asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had nothing to lose here, so why not throw it all away? Insults and antagonism on his part could not hurt him at all.
Gavin's grip tightened on the spoon, betraying his annoyance.
"Eat." He ordered his son. "Or I will force it down your throat. Nobody cares whether you want to be taken alive or not. You are a prisoner here and you do not give the orders."
Kedemar sighed, too weak and tired to fight anymore. And that soup smelled awfully good...
He finally parted his lips and Gavin quickly slipped the full spoon into his mouth.
The broth spilled across Kedemar's tongue, hot and salty and good. His body cried out for more, and he couldn't have denied it even if he'd wanted to. He swallowed, and tears filled his eyes. It was the first food he'd had in over two weeks.
Gavin lifted another spoonful, and Kedemar lifted trembling hands to grasp the assassin's wrist, trying to hurry that liquid life into his mouth.
It was a good thing that Gavin showed restraint, because Kedemar wouldn't have. His hunger had been awakened, and now demanded nourishment with a vengeance.
Gavin allowed Kedemar ten more spoonfuls of broth before he pulled his wrist out of his son's weak grasp. The assassin set the soup and spoon out of reach as Kedemar sagged against him. The young man was filled and oh so hungry at the same time. And oh so weary as well.
"More." He whispered, lifting a hand robbed of its usual strength.
"No." Refused Gavin, lowering his son back down onto the cot.
"Please." Kedemar half-sobbed. Gavin regarded him almost kindly.
"Later." He promised. "Anymore now, and you'll make yourself sick."
Kedemar knew that. He also knew he wanted more food now.
"Please." He pleaded again. His breath sobbed in his throat as Gavin re-bound his wrists to the cot frame.
"Later." The assassin promised again, standing and taking up the tray. He moved toward the door.
"Please. Now." Kedemar whispered, tears leaking from his eyes onto the scratchy mattress.
"No." Gavin replied softly, then left the room and shut the door behind himself. Kedemar was left alone again, but he didn't care. He soon knew nothing more than dreams and slumber.
When Gavin came back, he woke his son with a hand on the young man's shoulder. Kedemar startled awake, then relaxed when he saw who it was. He hungrily eyed the steaming soup his blood-father had brought, and didn't complain as Gavin tended his wounds. The young lord was able to eat a little more than ten spoonfuls of soup this time, and drank three-quarters of the cup of water.
When Gavin went to leave, Kedemar stopped him with two words.
"My men?" The young man asked.
Gavin halted, turned and looked at his son.
"Alive." He replied.
"All of them?" Kedemar pressed.
"All that we got to in time." The assassin answered, then exited the room, leaving Kedemar to breathe thanks to the One for his living men and to mourn his fallen.
Half a week passed, and eventually, Kedemar was able to sit up and eat and drink on his own. His frost-burns began healing, and he lost no body parts. But he was still so weak when the Kathirans heaved him onto a horse and bound him there. Thus all his men were treated, and the Kathirans took them over the border into Kathiare. It was all Kedemar could do to stay in the saddle, even being bound to it. It was a tremendous effort to turn his head to look back at Fellvale Keep as they rode out. Grief rose up in him.
"I'm sorry, Dath." He whispered. "I failed you. Again."
After a grueling, three-day ride, Kedemar and his men reached a keep in the mountains of Kathiare. The little castle was all but hidden in a forest. The sight of it brought back memories of a similar stronghold in Kenrath, and Kedemar shuddered.
Inside the castle courtyard, the Kathirans cut the ropes holding him to the saddle and pulled him off. He stood, swaying, but on his own two feet. And for that, he was grateful.
Kedemar was dragged inside the main keep, and separated from his men. The guards marched him down into the bowels of the castle and into a small cell with doors opposite ends of the little room. There were two wooden, straight-backed chairs, back-to-back, in the middle of the cell; the place was empty of any other prisoners.
The only other things in the cell were a table on which sat a simple hourglass, consisting of nothing but two glass bulbs set in a wooden frame.
The young lord was forced to sit in one of the chairs and the guards held him down-- not that he was fighting them. He didn't see any point in that.-- They bound him to the sturdy chair with thick leather straps: Chest to the back of the chair, wrists to the arms of the chair, and ankles to the wooden legs. He tugged experimentally at them after the guards left, but there was no give in the leather.
So he waited for something to happen. Dozed some. Woke abruptly and couldn't see, only hear, as the door on the other side of the cell opened and someone was dragged in and thumped down in the chair at Kedemar's back. The newcomer was swiftly strapped in, and then the guards retreated and the prisoners were left alone.
"Hello, Kedemar." A familiar voice startled the young lord.
"Haeil?!" Kedemar cried, straining to see over his shoulder. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing as you." Haeil replied. "Trying not to die." He grunted slightly as he tested the strength of his bonds.
"What happened?" Kedemar asked. Haeil sighed sadly.
"My ship was captured by Kathirans." The young assassin spoke softly, grief evident in his tone. He would have said more, but just then the door in Kedemar's view creaked open and King Mendelau the Bloody stepped through.
The Kathiran king regarded his prisoners coldly, a smile on his face and malice glittering in his black eyes.
"Well, well." He purred. "What I wouldn't give to see Dathran's face right now."