David shifted nervously atop his steed, running his hand through his short red hair. He was thinking about how to respond to the man riding at his side. He cleared his voice before replying to his comrade, “And I’m telling you, Lyial, that they are no mere deserters.” He said, his mousey voice barely audible over the beat of hooves. “Reman wouldn't just… run.” He added. The larger man scoffed and spit in reply.
“Not merely deserters, no. Traitors too.” Lyial replied, his voice gruff, the giant still full of bravado and thoroughly bellicose after six days of riding - six days of finding nothing of their lost comrades.
“You’ll recall we’re traitors now too.” A cold voice called out from in front of them. Lord Reiner Kron, or Captain Kron, depending on to whom one spoke. The young lord with sky blue eyes fiddled with the grip of his officer’s sabre absentmindedly as he rode at the head of their throng, his sharp features set dead ahead.. Lyial cleared his throat and spit again.
“Seems so.” The gruff man replied. David shook his head. It isn’t right, he thought to himself. Six days of pathfinding and not a damn trace.
“Maybe something got them, some beast.” A voice called from behind David. It was a high voice - high for a man anyways. David shook his head as if he hadn’t been thinking those selfsame thoughts moments ago.
Lyial laughed lightly. “Like what? Some mutant deer that feasts on the flesh of dead men walking?” He replied in an amused tone. A few of the others shared his laugh, though neither David or Reiner joined in the laugh. “The only thing that got them was cold feet and cowardice, Feanias, you’ll see that soon enough.” He added. The younger man leaned forward and whispered something to his horse, blond hair hanging down as he did so, though David did not hear what. As he looked over his shoulder he could see a small smile on the lips of the man, as if he had said something funny.
Reiner nodded, finally letting part of his thoughts be known. “Aye, it takes a bold man to march behind the Ancient.” Reiner said in a quizzical tone. “Yet, it seems that cowardice has not found them. For, brothers, does it not take a bolder man still to run from Him once one is known to Him?” He finished, thinking aloud, inviting someone to reply in disagreement. None dared. After all, they were musing indirectly about the young lord’s own brother. David shifted uncomfortably again in his saddle, as if Reiner’s words were meant for his own darkest secrets. Indeed - David had considered fleeing before, but surely none knew such a thing.
“It was the Wolves.” mused a cryptic voice from behind David. Riding alongside Feanias was the Conjuror Simmeon. He was the oldest of the group, and the only equal in rank to his fellow captain, Reiner. His face was wrinkled softly and his dark hair had sprinkles of pepper. While all five of the men were Veil Renders, none were so… touched by the otherside as Simmeon. Lyial scoffed.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Haven’t heard a wolf’s howl in weeks.” Lyial responded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, the true meaning of Simmeon’s words evidently lost on him. David swore he heard Reiner chuckle for the first time since he had met the man, though if he had, it was gone as fast as the wind blowing through their green and grey officers’ field kits.
“You dolt.” Reiner called out to the big man, amused. Of course a lord would know of whom Simmeon was referring. “He doesn’t mean wolves, he means the Wolves.” Reiner said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. David shivered as the autumn wind blew against him, though it were not the wind that put fear into his spine.
At the mention of the Order, David recalled the education he received many years ago when he lived a different life. “The Sacred Order of Saint Wolfrick.” David said quietly, looking at Lyial, who’s face only showed confusion. “You know… the order of witch hunters?” David said, trying to remind the man. Lyial only shook his head.
Feanias lightly cleared his throat to interject, “Not all of us received a lord’s education, gentlemen. Yet he is with us here regardless. Some of us had to learn the role of officer, as well as the grander affairs of the world, in a manner much more crude.” the young lord said in defense of the giant, giving a nod to Lyial who offered a kind smile in response. “Regardless, the Wolves are far too busy trying to contend with those demon worshippers in Teryn to come this far south.” Feanias added. Simmeon shook his head.
“We’ve spent the last year tearing a hole into the Veil the size of Raedon itself,-” the wise man pointed out, “-if you don’t think they could spare a few men to investigate such an anomaly, then you’re a fool.” Simmeon asserted in his mystical voice, rough from years of drill.
There were few times David recalled his childhood, but now was one of those times. Go to bed or the Wolves will find you, his mother (and teacher) would say to him. He scraped his mind, and not for long as, despite ignoring most of his history he did listen to the tales of the Wolves. The line his teacher had said was burned into his mind: “The Order fell from grace, exiled from Raedon and the greater Empyrium for allowing the Eclipse to occur. In their corruption they deigned to wipe clean the rest of the world of Sin, if only to see opened the gates of Raedon once again… if only to earn Her mercy.” This tale made him delve into just what the story tellers meant by “Sin”, through this he discovered tales of the Forgotten and the powers they offered… all as orchestrated by his dear mother. Taught by his own mother - a fabled witch of the south, a land rife with disdain for the New demigods of the North - he had learned the art of Veil Mending. But this wasn’t enough, to merely alter energy wasn’t enough. In finding the Ancient, David discovered an aptitude for Veil Rending: an art most profane: to tear apart the gifts of the Gods.
David was ripped from his thoughts as Reiner’s hand shot up in front of them, an open hand to signal an immediate stop. All of the men took hold of either sabre or flintlock, expecting combat after such talk of witch hunters and beasts, David himself unslung his carbine and readied himself. Reiner swung one of his legs over his steed and took to foot, running to a ditch where he seemed to be inspecting something. The men relaxed ever so slightly, surely a Cuirassier would not dismount if he saw a threat. That was, however, all but David. “What is it?” David called out, curious but fearful of what they might find. Reiner looked up at him, stone faced and frozen, and held up something David was not pleased to see.
A broken sabre, hilt leading to shattered blade.