Chapter 131
Diverging Paths
The high mountain air clawed at Rowan’s lungs. It felt unsatisfyingly thin. He’d been told before by others how high, high up in the mountains it could start to feel like you were trying to pull in a full breath through a cracked reed. Rowan felt that now as he struggled to keep climbing.
His pack pressed into his shoulders, Rowan had always been one to travel light be even now, the pack felt like ten times its weight. His green cloak permanently dusted with a layer of white snow. His muscles in his chest burned, and other minor injuries from his recent battles reminding him that his body was long past its limit. Yet he pressed on, eyes locked on Baroc’s steady form ahead the ocelix moving with the effortless grace of one born to these trails. Guiding Rowan along ridges he’d never have spotted on his own.
This high up the paths were narrow and winding, a mere suggestion of a trail snaking through jagged rocks and frozen scree, one misstep would send him tumbling into the fog-drenched ravine below. Nothing but rock, snow, and a layer of thick fog that shrouded both the summit above and the depths below.
“Left, right, left, right,” Rowan murmured to himself, his mantra matching each gruelling step. He pulled his pack tighter across his shoulders and pushed forward.
He followed over a rise and the icy air cut into Rowan’s throat like a blade. He was forced to stop, bracing his hand against a rock, his pulse hammering in his ears. His legs were screaming at him to rest, sharp pains were now lancing up his calves. But the mountain didn’t care; it would yield to no one unworthy.
“Rest?” Baroc was back at his side, growling the question.
Yes, gods yes.
“No,” he breathed. They couldn’t stop moving, not while the snowfalls were still light. If he stopped now he’d never start again. He knew that.
The wind howled constantly. It never fucking stops.
Rowan loved the mountains. He loved a hard climb. But this… this was torture. Yet a part deep inside him was exhilarated. Even though his mind knew how close death was chasing him up the slopes, he felt alive.
For three days and nights they climbed higher and higher into the passes. The snow often turned vicious, whipping like tiny blades of ice. This should be what Scont does with his icebreaker skills. A blizzard of tiny iceblades. They would huddle down for shelter, Baroc silent beside him, Rowan clutching his cloak tight. The ocelix’s endurance was something he couldn’t match, but he drew what rest he could from these brief stops, letting his muscles recover just enough to continue. Even at night, they climbed on, Baroc’s vision still sharp and keen in the dark to lead them.
The wind whipped his cloak and sliced through whatever warmth he had left. He imagined himself an anchor in that storm, stubbornly tethered to his purpose.
When he pulled himself onto the next ledge, Rowan paused, gulping air in ragged breaths as he looked back down the slope. And there it was, a shadow among the rocks below—the unmistakable form of the ferrax following them. It moved like liquid shadow over the rugged terrain, a monstrous body slithering with a smooth grace. Its fur glinted in the faint light, red and gold, like embers hidden in a dragon’s hide.
Rowan could barely believe its agility, watching as the beast navigated paths that had forced him to claw his way up on his hands and knees. Yet, there it was, as tireless as the mountain wind.
Ahead, Baroc’s ears twitched, and Rowan caught a glimpse of the ocelix’s eye as it darted to the ferrax below. It wasn’t surprise or fear in the gaze, but something else—a sort of knowing acceptance, as if Baroc had expected the creature to be there all along.
“We go,” Baroc rumbled. “We climb. He climbs.”
Rowan tore his eyes from the ferrax, squaring his shoulders toward the looming rockface ahead.
“How much further?” he asked, his voice rough.
But Baroc didn’t answer. He simply turned, his powerful frame moving forward, unrelenting as the climb. And Rowan, feeling every ache, every shiver, every pulse of his pounding heart, followed.
***
Tanlor’s boots scuffed along the frosted yard, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he scowled at Daegan beside him. “I’ll tell you where my brother’s probably at right now,” he muttered, hands stuffed into his cloak against the cold, “having a grand aul time, strolling through the mountains with the rangers.”
Daegan’s brow quirked, and Tanlor could tell he was holding back a smirk. “I doubt it’s all that pleasant,” he said.
“Knowing Rowan?” Tanlor grumbled. “I bet he’s loving every second of it. He’s always been like that—off finding some new crag to climb, some forest path to vanish down. He’s never been able to stay still. And never one to think twice about leaving behind a mess for someone else to clean up.”
“That why you’re so riled up? You think he’s shirking his duty?”
“You weren’t around when we were younger, Daegan. I would be training my arse off, and Rowan would be nowhere to be found. Up in the hills or running off with my father someplace.” He let out a humourless laugh. “It’s just… typical, is all.”
They turned the corner, Westmark’s cold stone walls looming above. The walls had been patched up by the stonebreakers in the keep. It was standing tall again. But still not strong enough to hold out the rak that will be breaking against it. They were returning from yet another conversation with Commander Kashin that had gone nowhere. He wouldn’t budge until the rangers came back with a report.
“He’s doing what he thinks is best,” Daegan offered.
“I bet he thinks that too.”
“Why does this bother you so much?”
“Because he always does this. He never stays put. Father used to say he was a ‘wandering spirit’ like it was some big compliment. Always said that Rowan ‘gets it’ whenever they’d talk about the forest. I get it, a bunch of trees, they’re nice. I get it. But you know what’s nice too. People. Family. You ever hear Rowan even mention his family. He’s got two sons. You even know their names, Daegan? No. I bet you don’t cause he never fucking mentions them. He’s too busy talking about fucking mushrooms he found in the woods.”
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“So that’s what this is about,” Daegan had a knowing smile on his face and Tanlor felt like punching it for how smug it looked on him.
“What?”
“You’re worried about your family. In Garronforn… and in Rubastre,” Daegan’s face was full of such frustrating understanding.
Of course that’s what Tanlor was upset about. There was a war going on out there. Rubastre was supposed to be safe. Garronforn was supposed to be safe. They were up here fighting the rakmen so that they could be kept safe. But now there were fucking Reldoni attacking his home.
Yes, he was scared. He was absolutely terrified. He wanted to ride straight for Rubastre and make sure that Danielle was safe. He prayed that her father was smart enough to withdraw her to Hardhelm before the Reldoni got anywhere close to Rubastre.
Tanlor felt a wave of regret, his frustration simmering into something different. “It’s like he doesn’t get it,” Tanlor continued. “I can’t just… leave. I’ve people depending on me. I don’t get to run off, go gallivanting down the next trail that catches my eye.”
“Maybe he just sees his path differently.”
“Maybe.” Tanlor’s eyes narrowed. “But there’s a difference between seeing a different path and walking away from the one you’ve got right in front of you. And that’s Rowan—always with one foot out the door.” He felt the resentment deep in him, a familiar ache he’d pushed down years ago.
“You know,” Daegan said, a mischievous spark in his eyes, “I seem to recall Rowan mentioning he wanted to go back to his family before you convinced him to come with us up past the Nortara Sheet.”
“You were in shock then,” Tanlor sniffed, the hint of a smile twitching at his mouth. “I wouldn’t trust your memory of that time.”
“Oh fuck you,” Daegan shoved him him playfully.
Tanlor didn’t know when it had happened, didn’t know exactly how it had crept up on him, but here they were. Somehow he and Daegan had actually become friends. Not just companions on a mission, or two people forced into a situation that required them to be civil. Despite himself, Tanlor actually cared about Daegan. Which was saying a lot. Tanlor didn’t really have any friends back at Rubastre.
There had really only ever been Danielle, she’d been his world. Everything else—acquaintances, any hint of real friendship—had been kept at arm’s length, a shield around the secret life they’d carved out together. But with Daegan, things were different, somehow easier. Maybe it was because Daegan was the first person who knew his secret. Someone he—to his surprise—actually trusted to keep it.
Tanlor and Daegan approached the training yard, their conversation fading. They were greeted by a flurry of movement and cheers from a small crowd that had gathered. At the centre of it, Tar and Puck were going at each other with an intensity that seemed to border on madness.
Tar, the now armless stonebreaker, manoeuvred with an agility Tanlor could barely believe. He’d lost both arms in that attack to free Rowan and the others only a few weeks back, yet here he was, dodging and weaving, manipulating the earth itself to form a shield against Puck’s relentless barrage. Puck, scarred and fierce, moved like a dancing flame, bursts of fire erupting around him as he flung blast after blast, the heat visible even from where Tanlor stood.
“They’ve been training hard,” Daegan muttered, folding his arms as they watched the display. Tanlor didn’t answer, only narrowed his gaze as he watched the lads clash. Despite their youth, they fought with the practised skill of veterans, better even.
Tar held his ground, stone shards flying in arcs around him as he evaded another of Puck’s fiery assaults. The crowd of soldiers cheered as he sent a wave of stone careening towards Puck, who countered it by blasting the stone to smithereens with a concentrated burst of flame. Bits of shattered glowing red rock and embers floated around them.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t want to face either of them in a fight,” Tanlor remarked.
“Nor would I,” Daegan answered.
“That’s why you should ask them to spar.”
“Worried you’d say that.”
“They know what’s coming. You’re getting good, but these lads, they’re moving up to being some of the best. You should start training with them. Learn to rely on skills other than that dagger,” Tanlor made a face looking at the dagger belted at Daegan’s waist, showing his dislike of the weapon.
“Fine,” Daegan agreed.
The sparring match ended with both of the lads grinning, breathing hard as they clasped shoulders. Puck’s burn-scarred face was streaked with soot, while Tar’s forehead gleamed with sweat. Some of the soldiers watching even clapped.
Tanlor had thought Tar would be bound south as soon as he could stand. Missing both arms, no way to wield a weapon. A cripple, though no one says it. But no—Tar was more stubborn than that. Cru had tried to discharge him, saying Duke Rivers would make sure he got the wounded soldier’s pension for life. Tar had refused outright. Still had fight in him, he’d claimed. If anything, the boy seemed more resolved than ever to get back in the fray against the rakmen.
He used stonebreaking for everything now. He’d form a fork and knife and use his edir to guide it to his mouth to feed himself, insisting he needed no assistance. He’d do the same with tankards of ale, and everything else he needed in his daily activity.
Whenever he had a spare minute, Tar was in the sparring yard, drilling with Puck. Any other man burned that bad by his own topaz would think twice before reaching for it again, but not Puck. He bore his burns like badges. Both lads, barely more than boys and already battle-worn before the war even truly started.
The dagger was still something Tanlor and Daegan didn’t actively discuss. Tanlor didn’t approve of its use, they didn’t understand it and while it was a powerful tool, its effects were strange and disconcerting. It was hard to pin all the changes in Daegan on the finding of the dagger alone. But all the same, Tanlor was mistrusting of it, he felt that Daegan should refocus his training on his sword and pistol. They’d all taken to using the waiting time in Westmark to train, even Yaref when not tending to the others, was sparring with other soldiers in the training yard. They all knew what was coming. And they wanted to be as prepared as they could be.
This was not missed by the Westmark men, the memory of the rak assault on their keep so recent in memory. To see the Twin Garde men so fiercely training, made them consider that perhaps there was a larger rak force up there, waiting for them.
“Have you put any more thought into what we’re going to do about the Reldoni battalion in Harriston?” Tanlor asked. “A thousand soldiers, only two days out from Bluewater Wall—that could turn the tide for us.”
“I’ve considered it. But you know what that means.”
“I do.”
“It’s a big risk.”
“I know.”
“You think I should try anyway,” Daegan raised an eyebrow, studying him, and Tanlor had to admit that he hadn’t always been one to back Daegan’s reckless plans. But this was a war on two fronts now. And they needed all the help they could get.
He nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got a plan.”
“Oh yeah?” Tanlor a hint of a grin on his face, surprising himself that he was eager to hear it. It had been Daegan’s plans that got them out of the cages in Twin Garde. Had got them Baroc on their side in the fight against the rakmen, and then ultimately rescued Rowan when all seemed lost.
“Yes, but we have to time it just right.”
A horn blast sounded, snapping both of their attentions to the gate. It was opened to reveal the returning rangers—bloodied, wearied, and with far fewer numbers than they’d left with. Tanlor’s stomach twisted as he rushed over, Daegan close on his heels.
“Rusk!” he called out, his voice sharper than he meant. “Where’s Rowan?”
Rusk’s face was a mask of exhaustion, his eyes dull but resolute. “Gone. Had to follow his own path,” he swung down off his saddle and began marching towards the central keep. Tanlor knew already from the man’s expression that he’d seen the truth of what was out there. He was bringing his report straight to Kashin.
“His own path?” Tanlor said, fists tightening and following after Rusk. “He just… left you?”
“And the rakmen?” Daegan was also trailing after the man.
“We were set upon by another party on our way back,” Rusk’s expression darkened, but he never broke stride. “You boys were right… there’s a bloody army of them, bigger than… bigger than I’ve ever seen.. And they’re coming here. And we don’t have the numbers to hold them back,” he glanced back then at Tanlor, “as for your brother he’s doing what he needs to do.” He marched then into the keep, leaving them outside.
There was no point following, Kashin would get his report without them.
“We should get ready to leave,” Daegan said. “Kashin will issue with the withdraw to Bluewater, he has to.”
“What the hells is Rowan doing?” Tanlor barked, his glaring at the open gate, and the treeline beyond it.