Adan and Kian’s knowledge of the trails and roads that snaked through the forest enabled them to outpace their pursuers in less than an hour. As boys, they had left the paths to explore the dense patches of underbrush. As young men, they had ridden through the woods in pursuit of a deer or smaller game.
In all his younger years, Adan never expected to find himself running through these woods, chased like an animal at bay.
Several farms and huts dotted the forest, the former dwellings of woodsmen and hunters. Now, as Adan and Kian rode past them, they sat empty and abandoned. Adan knew that the common folk of the area would have flocked to Farel at the first warning of an invader. In an attempt to find safety, they would have met their doom within the walls of the fortress.
When Adan and Kian came to the top of a small rise that overlooked the road behind them, they were able to see the plume of smoke still rising in the distance from the burned remains of Farel. They had stopped at this very spot many times to enjoy a view of their home from a distance.
“Let’s wait and see if they’re still following us,” Adan suggested.
Kian reigned in his horse without a word and turned around. His face expressionless, he stared at the dark column rising above the hills and trees. While Adan watched the trail below and listened for the sound of warriors behind them, Kian’s glance never once wavered from that black tower of destruction.
After several moments of silence, Adan breathed a sigh of relief.
“I think they’ve given up,” he said.
Kian didn’t reply.
Adan dismounted from the horse he had stolen and tethered the reins to a nearby sapling. The chestnut mare appeared thin and old, but sturdy. The horse had handled the ride well, and responded to Adan’s direction obediently.
Kian slid down from his stallion of the same color. His mount was younger and stronger, and although his flanks heaved and sweat coated his fur, he seemed ready for another gallop. After tethering his horse, Kian stood next to Adan, staring out over the familiar landscape.
They stood without a word, staring at the smoke as the sun climbed into the sky. No sounds of pursuit met their ears as they watched.
When the sun had reached its zenith, Adan sat down in front of a nearby tree and leaned against it. Kian simply knelt in the dirt, still staring at the smoke in the distance.
Adan’s mind was a blur of memories. Kind words spoken to him by Lord Hathian, or his wife Alayna, or the sight of Kian and Vallessa laughing together, or looking at one another with shy glances. They would never be married now. Kian would never sit in his father’s seat and have the chance to live up to the title his father held.
Adan wondered what their last moments were like. Had they fought back? Had they known before death that this was the end? Did any of them escape or survive?
Adan knew what Hugo did with his prisoners. But somehow, he also knew that there had been no prisoners this time. He couldn’t explain his certainty, but he knew that everyone in Farel was dead; everyone except him and Kian.
His hope had failed him.
The sun began to descend from its high throne in the heavens.
“We should find water for the horses,” Adan said, slowly getting to his feet.
Kian remained silent and motionless.
“I believe there’s a stream, not far from here,” Adan continued, untying the mare’s reins. “They may also find something to eat there.”
Kian nodded slowly, as if barely registering Adan’s words. He slowly got to his feet and moved over to his stallion.
Adan led them down the east side of the hill, making for a stream where he and Kian used to water their horses when hunting.
Kian’s empty eyes watched the ground as he followed Adan without a word.
After a short jaunt, they reached the stream at the bottom of a nearby hollow and allowed the horse to drink. Adan bent down and lapped at the cool water, while Kian watched in silence.
“You’re not going to drink?” Adan asked when finished.
Kian shook his head.
Adan’s instinct was to encourage Kian to drink, but he resisted the urge. He knew why Kian wasn’t thirsty.
After the horses had finished lapping greedily at the water, Adan and Kian allowed the animals to wander the hollow, scrounging for food among the brush. The two of them sat on a nearby log, watching the horses graze the sparse foliage.
“They’re gone,” Kian whispered.
Adan looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”
“I want to hope that they are somehow alive,” Kian continued, “and yet I know that they’re all gone.”
Adan looked away.
They sat in silence while the sun descended further and the horses grazed nearby.
Everything within Adan wanted to return home, to go back to Farel, but his home was gone now. They were set adrift, the world like an open sea, dark and treacherous, with no familiar island to make land on.
The afternoon crawled by.
Not until the red light of dusk was in the sky did Adan finally stir. He stood up and stretched.
The horses had wandered up one of the hillsides nearby. After bringing them gently back to the stream where he and Kian sat, Adan tethered them near the log.
The light from the setting sun reflected off of the scattered clouds above, bathing the hollow in red orange light. The running stream trickled softy and peacefully along its path, and the evening air felt cool and refreshing.
The tranquil calm of the hollow struck Adan as odd, as if the beautiful evening sat juxtaposed to the turmoil in his mind, a beautiful mockery of the reality and sorrow that this day had brought.
His world had been destroyed, but the rest of the world went on, heedless of his pain.
Adan’s limbs felt weak as he sat back down next to Kian, and he knew he needed to eat, but his appetite was gone. It had gone up in flames with his home and the people he loved.
“We really should eat something,” he said.
Kian slowly shook his head. ”They’ll never eat again. Why should I?”
Adan didn’t answer.
“They’ll never drink and feast at board again, they’ll never see an evening like this again, they’ll never have a good night’s rest again…”
Kian’s voice cracked and his eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll never speak to them again, I’ll never hold them again…”
Kian crumpled to the earth, a wail of anguish on his lips. Tears filled Adan’s eyes and he put a hand on Kian’s shoulder.
Kian wept until late in the evening, and Adan sat beside him in silence until the sun sank behind the hills, and darkness covered the earth.
Eventually, Kian collapsed from exhaustion, and Adan kept watch for the night, unable to sleep.
Kian would stir continually through the night and cry out familiar names. Sometimes he would wake, and his body would shake with silent sobs for a time. Adan’s grief was swallowed by the agony of watching Kian grieve for his family, as Adan had once grieved for his father.
Finally, in the middle of the night, Kian stirred and sat up.
“You should rest, my friend,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll sleep anymore tonight.”
Adan nodded, and slid down the log. He allowed his exhaustion to overwhelm him, and darkness to swallow his spirit.
Adan awoke to a bright light hitting his face. Emerald luminesce trickled down from above and gently stirred him awake. He peeked his eyes open and looked around.
He was in the glade again, laying on the same bed of leaves and flowers, and surrounded by birch saplings, birdsong and the sound of running water. He allowed the morning sunlight to wash over him before slowly sitting up.
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He heard the familiar sound of his father plucking the harp.
Adan jumped to his feet and ran toward the sound. He left the birch grove and entered the same garden he had seen before. He passed the large, green plants and the fragrant flowers until he arrived at the opening where a stream flowed past a large tree with red fruit, where his father sat playing his instrument.
Adan jerked to a halt when he saw the fruit laden tree.
He had seen this very same tree, and not only in his last dream. This was the same tree whose light had guided Adan and Kian through the Morkil.
Adan’s father stopped playing when he saw Adan, and the same smile of pride and love spread across that face that Adan had missed for so long.
“Adan,” he said again.
Adan took a step toward him. “You were right, father. It wasn’t my time to join you yet. I suppose it still isn’t.”
His father shook his head. “No. Not yet. You still have a task before you.”
Adan nodded. ”I think I know that now. Kian still needs me.”
They stood in silence, listening to the trickling brook.
“I still miss you,” Adan said after a long pause.
The sadness in his father’s eyes pierced Adan’s heart. His father looked as if he felt Adan’s sorrow as keenly as Adan did himself.
“And I you.”
“Do you know when I will finally join you?”
“It is not for men to know their end, unless that end be one they should dread. It is enough for you to know that you have done well, and I know you will continue to make me proud.”
Adan felt as if his heart would glow.
“Run on, my son.”
Adan’s father reached for the strings on his harp and plucked a single set of notes.
Adan opened his mouth to ask about the tree, but when he heard that set of notes the question froze on his lips. The sound of the harp strings reverberated through the shifting air and Adan realized he had heard that note once before as well.
The dream faded.
Adan’s eyes snapped open to reveal the low light of early morning in the sky above. Kian sat awake next to him, staring into emptiness. Early birds were chirping in the branches of the nearby trees.
The memory of his dream was still fresh in Adan’s mind. He thought back to his first dream in Undelma, and the tree whose roots his father sat upon.
How could I have dreamed about a real tree before ever seeing it? He wondered.
Then the reality of the day before crashed down on him like a violent wave, reminding him that his home was gone, and sapping the strength from his limbs.
The tears returned to his eyes and he wept as the bright light of morning began creeping over the green landscape.
He thought of Layla. He thought of Matilda and Fagus. What had become of Enys Island and everyone living there? Hugo had struck Farel so quickly and decisively, and the island was defenseless.
If Farel could not survive Hugo, he thought, then Enys Island is surely gone.
Which meant that Layla, sweet, innocent Layla, to whom Adan had made such bold promises to, was gone. If Adan had known when he spoke with her that they would never see each other again, he would have told her how he felt.
But now, it was too late.
Why? He kept asking himself. Why did this happen? First I lost my father, and Layla, and now everyone else. Everyone but Kian.
He shook with frustration and anger and his question turned outward, away from himself.
Why did you allow this? He prayed. What greater purpose could this possibly serve? Why did you let us live while everyone else perished?
These questions had permeated his mind before, and as before, they remained unanswered.
When Adan’s throat felt thick with pain, and his eyes dry, he rolled over and sat up to find Kian sitting still next to him, wide awake.
“I want to build them a cairn,” Kian said.
“What?”
”I want to build a death mound, as a monument for them. Since I can’t bury them.”
Adan understood. “Where do you want to build it?”
”On the ridge, where we used to stop and admire the city.”
Adan nodded. “We can take some stones from the creek, but we’ll have to hunt for more if we want to build a proper cairn.”
“I want it to be as large as we can make it,” Kian said. “A cairn among cairns.”
Adan slowly nodded. That would take them more than a day, at the very least.
“Let’s do it,” he agreed.
They stood without a word, and began constructing a drag litter to carry stones. The horses had wandered a short distance away and were easily recalled. They would use the animals to help haul the materials they would need.
Kian used the curved sword in his belt to fell several saplings and cut them to the proper length. They cut sections of their garments to tie the saplings together and laid the cut pieces of small timber on the ground, parallel to each other. They used two short logs to tie the longer ones together by laying them crosswise at either end, and left two long saplings on either side of the litter stretching out toward the front.
Then Adan removed a large section of his outer robe and used it to create a makeshift harness at the end of the longest sections of timber that could be dropped over the back of one of the horses. Kian used the remainder of his outer robe to tie a piece that could wrap around the horse’s chest.
The chestnut mare seemed nervous and reluctant to wear the makeshift litter harness at first, but after a few coaxing words from Adan, she allowed them to lay it across her back and tie the length of robe across her chest.
Then they walked her to the stream. Adan held the horse in place while Kian began lifting an assortment of stones out of the stream. He worked quickly, groaning and growling when he found a particularly large rock. When he began to slow down, he and Adan switched places. Adan gritted his teeth as he stepped into the cold water and began hauling more stones out and laying them on tied saplings.
When the litter was full, they led the horse slowly up the hill, following a smooth, indirect path to the top of the ridge. They decided on a large opening in the trees beside the trail, and began unloading the stones in a large pile.
By noon, they had made three trips to the top of the ridge. They worked on through the afternoon, alternating between the mare and the stallion. They gave each horse regular drinks from the stream, and they drank from its clean waters several times themselves, but they never ate all day long.
It felt good to work, to grow weary and sore as they lifted rock after rock. It felt good to be doing something for the benefit of those who were now lost forever. It felt good to silently remember and allow their grief to fuel them, and give them the energy to honor their people with a monument fit for a king.
They worked silently until nightfall. When the evening light had begun to fade, the pile of stones at the top of the ridge was as large as the largest cairn Adan had ever seen.
“Another day,” Kian said between heavy breaths, “and it will be done.”
They slept more peacefully that night, but Adan’s dreams were still troubled by visions of fire and death, and he was awakened by Kian’s cries and shouts in his own troubled sleep.
They arose early the next morning to begin work again. They ate for the first time since arriving at Farel, and finished the rest of the food they had taken from Undelma.
When they tried to put the harness on the horses, the animals refused to stand still and allow them to drape the litter over their backs. They snorted and bucked, trying to escape, first the mare, and then the stallion.
“They know better this morning,” Kian said. “They aren’t work animals, and they don’t want another day like yesterday.”
“What will we do then?” Adan asked.
Kian looked at the litter and then up the slope to the ridge. “It isn’t that steep, or long of a climb, and we can put less stones on the litter to make it lighter…”
Adan knew what Kian was thinking. He was considering dragging the stones themselves. It would be grueling difficult work, and they would likely get less done by the end of the day.
“I’m up for it if you are,” Adan said, straightening his shoulders.
Kian nodded. “Then we’ll do it ourselves.”
Their muscles were screaming by the time they brought the first load of rocks to the top of the hill. Once they reached the pile, they leaned against a nearby tree and stood still, panting and trying to regain their strength.
Adan’s mind wandered again, imagining the battle that had taken place between Hugo and the citizens of Farel. Was there any fierce fighting? Or did Hugo simply destroy the city with some strange device? Did the people inside know what was about to happen? What about Enys Island? Did they pass by the island, or did a smoldering crater now sit in the place of Suncragg Village?
An image of Layla, smiling at him, passed through his mind.
Adan growled and pushed away from the tree.
By nightfall, the mound was taller than the two of them. Adan and Kian had to throw the stones of the last two loads over their heads onto the pile.
The orange sun had already disappeared behind the hills, and the black plume of smoke still smoldered in the distance.
Adan and Kian stared at their handywork, backdropped by the western sky. They could still hear the horses treading through the trees below and whinnying.
Adan and Kian stood a moment as they had worked: In silence.
Then Kian drew the curved sword at his belt and held it up in the air in salute. Adan mirrored his action.
Kian began to speak. “I bind myself today, to the strong name of the Maker. I invoke the name of the Creator and ask Him to look down upon me, a humble servant of the Most High. I bind myself to the virtues of His Creation: The starlit heaven, the glorious sun, the whiteness of the moon, the whirling winds and tempests, and the free flash of lightning. I bind to me the power of the Divine Author to hold and lead, to watch and guard, and harken to me in my hour of need.”
Adan looked at Kian to see him standing straight and tall, staring at the sky above the death mound. Even in his sparse tunic, his disheveled appearance and his alien attire, he looked more lordly than Adan had ever seen him.
“I decry the works of evil, and the enemies of the Maker. I speak against the snare of wickedness and vice, and the lusts that war within men’s souls. I speak against the hostile men who have committed this great injustice, few or many, far or near, in every place and every time.”
Kian’s voice rose higher and higher, until he was shouting the words.
“I bind the powers of heaven to me against the spells and wiles of the men of Sithril, the evil craft of their wicked Priests and the knowledge that has defiled them and given them the power to do what they have done. I call upon the name of the Maker to ride forth in judgment against them and protect your servants. May it be so!”
He shouted this last phrase.
“May it be so.” Adan whispered next to him.
Then without a word, they turned away from the death cairn and walked down the hill to their campsite, never to return to this place again.