Chapter Seventeen: Stormfront

“Seven were the servants of the faceless Lord,

Seven were the generals to lead His horde.

Angramar the rider with the shadowy limbs,

Lady Lirinelle with the voice of sins,

Ataxis the scourge of the battlefield,

Saidon the swordsman with his blade unsealed,

Hrongar the giant with the fists of steel,

Aesma the preacher of the deathly deal.

Last but not least, Raginoth the Bright,

Unrivalled in arms, fallen of the Light.

Seven were the servants of the faceless Lord,

Seven is the number that will be restored.”

—Jayke and Worlem Grim, Tales of Faengard

“Relicts! The relicts are coming!”

Everywhere around them people stirred, crawling out of their tents with confused expressions on their faces, speaking in panicked tones. Some of the troupers had slept armed and fully clothed while others had changed into more comfortable wear. Regardless of the attire, all were alert and ready before Ein and Bran could finish rushing through the camp with their warnings.

“Get the horses ready,” Herod yelled to a group of troupers as he rushed past the tents, giving orders. He caught Evaine’s bleary eye and stuck a thumb towards one of the wagons. “My advice is to hop on, young flower.”

Evaine frowned. “What’s happening? What about Ein and Bran?”

“We’ll be in the wagon behind you,” Ein said, nodding at Herod. “There are relicts on our tail, and I expect the troupers could do with a few archers to help fend them off.”

Evaine’s expression crystallized as she looked around, taking in the urgency of the situation. The camp had turned into a whirlwind of activity in the last two minutes. “Let’s stay and fight,” she said, clenching her jaw, her hand moving to the hilt of her dagger. Her eyes burned with a cold hatred. “We should be able to win, right? We’ve won once already.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Garax had found his way next to them, arms folded across his chest. “We don’t know how many there are. There could be more than just Worgals and Celadons behind us. If there are Bloodmanes or other elites, things could get very bad indeed.”

“Besides,” Ein continued, “we don’t have the advantage of fire this time, or the Songweaver.” Above him, thunder and lightning pounded against the ground. “I agree with Listener Herod. Listener, do you think we’ll be able to outrun them?”

“Maybe,” Herod said. “We can’t tell for sure until we’re actually on the road. But if worse comes to worse, we can dump a few of our wares. Maybe even a few of our Aimless passengers, though I’d prefer not to.”

Bran swallowed and nodded. Evaine said nothing. The howls tore through the night again, louder. Everything was getting louder. The rain, the thunder, the panicked cries of the horses. Ein shut his eyes and gathered his thoughts.

“Come on,” he said, giving Bran a nudge. “Let’s not waste any more time. String your bow and meet me on the back of the last wagon.”

Bran looked dazed for a moment before floundering towards the wagon after Ein. “Why…” he mumbled. “Why is this all happening…”

“Why is the sky blue?” Garax asked. “Why is the grass green? Why does the Oathbreaker despise creation? Save the philosophy for later, boy. Aren’t you supposed to be the best marksman in Felhaven? It’s time to show your worth.”

Ein and Bran hauled themselves onto the wagon as it began to move. A band of four other troupers sat with them, three of them young men and one with a peppered beard who was obviously the veteran. The caravan set off, the horses picking up momentum, breaking into a gallop down the road. Rain and wind lashed across Ein’s eyes.

“These have got to be the worst conditions for shooting,” the veteran said. “You’d be lucky to hit a cow at three feet in this weather.” He offered a grim smile.

The other troupers were silent. Two of them had clearly never fought before and gripped their bows with white knuckles, staring quietly at their feet. Bran was in a similar state.

“Is there anything we can throw away?” Ein called out, fighting to be heard above the storm. Herod looked over his shoulder from the next wagon down. Aren had armed himself with a sling and was making his way to the back while Evaine huddled in a corner, watching.

“There are some plates and crockery in one of the crates,” Aren replied. “Father, can we use those?”

“They might slow down our pursuers in a pinch,” the Listener said. “But I’d prefer not to.”

A string of howls erupted into the night. Ein squinted at the sky as a black haze approached them, arcing over the treetops. He blanched when he realized what it was.

“Arrows!” he cried. “Take cover!”

The three troupers ducked behind crates and barrels while the veteran raised a large wooden board and covered himself, Ein and Bran. The majority of the arrows scattered in the wind and flew off in random directions, but a small portion embedded themselves into the wagon with audible thuds. No one was hurt.

“What the hell,” the man spat. “They have bows?”

His words were cut short as another howl split the air beside them, startling the horses. As the driver worked to bring them under control, Ein rushed to the other side of the wagon and peered into the forest. He caught a glimpse of a black shadow riding a fierce dark creature of some sort, weaving in and out through the trees. They rounded a bend, the carriage teetering dangerously on one side before finding its ground on a flat stretch of road.

“They’re gaining on us,” Ein yelled.

“I can see eight,” Bran shouted back.

The treeline fell away for a brief moment and the relicts came into view. Eight Worgals rode alongside them, fangs bared, carrying shortbows and curved blades, their mounts thirsting for blood. The Celadons trampled through the undergrowth with their stocky legs and straight horns, barking and screeching in tune with their riders. They raced after the caravan, travelling parallel to the road, edging closer and closer. Another group of Worgals appeared behind the wagon, blurry silhouettes in the distance.

The Worgals to the left loosed another volley. The troupers ducked behind cover as the arrows thudded uselessly into the side of the cart, a few stragglers flying overhead. Ein and the troupers fired in return. Their shots flew wide, but one of them pierced a Celadon through the eye and sent it and its rider plummeting to the ground.

The Worgals howled anew. Ein grabbed one of the crates that contained crockery and bashed it open.

“Help me,” he grunted. Bran reached in and brought out a trembling handful of cheap porcelain tableware.

“What do I do with these?” he asked.

“Throw them behind us. Try to hit the relicts if you can.”

They worked together and tossed the tableware at the Worgals, shattering them on rocks and roots. The Celadons roared in pain as they trampled across the jagged shards, but didn’t falter. All the while arrows came at the beasts in dribs and drabs, forcing them low to the ground.

“It’s not enough,” Garax yelled. “You need fire—”

A bolt of lightning struck the nearby trees, shaking the earth, blinding Ein and sending him sprawling onto the floor. He became deaf for an instant as the sheer awesomeness of the thunderclap ripped through his ears, leaving behind a high-pitched ringing that drowned out all other sound. He smelled smoke, felt warmth and the world spinning around him as he clambered to his feet, grabbing onto the side of the wagon for support. The squad of Worgals running parallel to them had been almost halved.

Looking back in the distance, he saw a burning tree lying across the road, trunk snapped in two smoking hunks. The Worgals behind them barked and growled, skirting around the fallen tree and back onto the road.

“Lauriel above,” Ein whispered, thanking the god of the sky. The lightning bolt had missed him by a fraction of a second.

A bark beside him drew his attention and he spun, still reeling, only to come face to face with the gleaming red eyes of a Worgal. It swung its shortsword at him, catching a glancing blow to the side of his head. The Celadon snarled as its rider rose and leapt across the gap, arms outstretched and reaching for Ein’s throat…

…just as an arrow struck it between the eyes, throwing it off balance. It tumbled to the ground behind them and rolled in the mud, coming to a halt far away. The Celadon turned back for its master, barking angrily. Ein spun around and saw Bran panting, a bow gripped tightly in his hands.

Bran swallowed and drew another arrow from his quiver, bringing it to his bowstring. It shook in his fingers as he struggled to nock it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Thanks,” Ein said.

They broke out onto a cliffside path that ran far above a gaping chasm. The Worgals behind them had made up the distance from the burning tree and were back on their trail, hounding them with ragged screams. The squad to their left had been reduced to four riders. They steadily closed the gap between them, forcing the caravan to the edge.

“We have to fight them,” Aren yelled from the wagon up ahead. “Or they’ll send us over!”

Ein looked out the side of the wagon to their right. It was a long drop below into the churning white waters of the Brackenburg. Rain had soaked through to his bone and his grip on his sword was wet and slippery.

“Bran,” Ein yelled. “Aim for the eyes. We can’t kill them but we can at least throw them off our trail.”

He switched to his bow and fired. His arrow missed and pierced the forearm of one of the Worgals. It dropped the sword in its hand, but continued to ride. Ein realized the relicts had all put away their bows, drawing their swords

“Bran!” he yelled again. “Are you listening? They’re out of arrows! We can shoot without having to worry about—”

“Ein, watch out!” Bran screamed, as the sky flashed.

The four riders fell away. In that moment a gap opened in the trees and a third squad of relicts emerged in a spearhead formation, charging with reckless abandon towards the centre of the caravan. A figure in black led them, tall and cloaked, the silhouette Ein had spotted weaving through the trees before—the silhouette that had been following them for the past few days.

It wasn’t Bran, Ein realized. The rider who’s been following us for the past few days—it wasn’t Bran. He should have trusted his instincts.

The rider donned a piece of the storm-clouds themselves, a cloak sewn from a thousand patches of shimmering grey. The cloak covered it from head to toe, revealing nothing of what lay beneath. Under its cowl was a mask, half-silver half-black, smooth and flat with no holes except for a single eyeslit. The mask resembled a crescent moon with an open eye beside it—the Watching Moon, emblem of the Oathbreaker.

The horse it rode was just as enigmatic, if not more. Not a horse, Ein thought. A demon. It was pitch black with crimson eyes and a wild mane, but that was where the similarities ended. The beast’s teeth were sharp and pulled into a snarl as it raced after them, its powerful legs rippling with blade-like spines. Its tail was a thin cord that ended in a blade-like scythe of bone, and it had two horns above its ears, curved like a ram’s.

“Angramar Urudain…” the trouper murmured.

Angramar, Ein thought in fear. One of the seven doombringers of Al’Ashar himself.

The Urudain were Faceless servants of the Oathbreaker, elite warriors handpicked by the demon god to lead His armies. They’d been exiled to Hellheim during the Great War, along with Al’Ashar and the Aldereich. Angramar was the only one that rode a horse.

Ein snapped his eyes to Bran, who’d begun to whisper prayers beneath his breath. He looked back to the rider as it raised its arm, thin and wraith-like, sleeve billowing in the wind, and lashed out.

A tendril of shadow emerged, trailing behind like a sleek whip, flexing across the ground between them and slashing across the caravan. Ein cried out as it struck in a splintering of wood, a shrieking of horses and people, a lurching that sent him tumbling head over heels across the floorboards and into the other side of the wagon.

“Evaine!” he screamed, but half the caravan was gone, flying off into the yawning chasm. Aren and Herod, Evaine and Garax, all gone. The remaining carriages veered out of control, skidding across the packed earth to the precipice. Angramar screeched and the Worgals charged, ramming the troupers off the edge, following them through into the canyon below.

“The Fire take me,” Ein swore. Their wagon was the only one left now, pulled by a group of horses gone wild with fear. They accelerated to a breakneck pace, chasing the side of the cliff, each jolt sending them flying off the ground.

“Wyd almighty, what was that?” the veteran trouper cried, looking over the edge. The screams of his people continued to echo along the walls of the chasm. “The relicts just killed themselves to break our formation…”

“Strength and will of no man living. Vicious spirit, unforgiving,” Bran said, as if in a trance. He coughed and spat over the side of the wagon.

“Terrifying,” the veteran echoed. “They have no regard for their own lives at all—”

“Look out!” one of the younger troupers cried. “Behind you!”

The veteran turned just as the Worgal behind him stabbed his back. His eyes were still open in shock when he toppled over the side of the wagon, falling into the relict and its mount. The Celadon lurched and swerved to one side. There was a loud crunch as its horn caught the spokes of the back wheel and snapped it, sending one corner of the wagon dipping downwards. Two of the passengers lost their balance and tumbled onto the ground, crying out in terror as the horses raced onwards without them. Ein could only watch as the Worgals trampled over them, slashing and goring and stabbing them.

“Evaine…” Bran murmured again. His eyes were distant. “Evaine… no…”

Ein ground his teeth, fighting down the rising sense of panic inside him. He wanted nothing more than to scream in frustration and jump off the side of the cliff to find her, but he forced himself to stay calm. There were three of them left—him, Bran, and one other trouper who had done nothing since the start of the pursuit. Their wagon was off balance and missing a wheel, the horses racing onward in a blind frenzy. A pack of ten or twenty Worgal riders hounded them, led by Angramar and his formless whip.

“It’s over… it’s over… it’s over…” Bran had his head in his hands and was staring at a spot a few feet in front of him. “Mother Anturia… merciful Cenedria… Wyd almighty, please let it be quick…”

The road dipped and they began to descend. The storm continued around them, roaring and shaking violently. Wind and rain were one, beating at the wagon without mercy.

“How far until we get out of the Sleeping Twins?” Ein demanded. The young trouper didn’t reply, so he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “How far!?”

The trouper threw himself to the side of the wagon and vomited. When he looked back, all the life had left his eyes.

“It wouldn’t be far,” he murmured. “At the end of this road there’s a bridge. That was the bridge we crossed to get here.”

Ein looked up. They were still descending. The mountains were far away now, a faint line in the distance. The road widened, giving them more breathing space away from the edge of the cliff. The horses took them further inland, racing towards the thinning trees, using the descent to increase their pace. Ein turned back to face the relicts and was surprised when he saw that they were falling back, surrendering more distance between themselves and their quarry.

“We might just make it,” he exclaimed. “They’re losing ground—”

“Oh no…” the trouper moaned. “Oh no…”

Angramar had drawn forward, separating himself from the rest of the pack. His mount shrieked, a sound like shrill daggers that dug into Ein’s eardrums. He covered them, grinding his teeth in pain.

“It’s over. We’re all going to die.” The trouper’s eyes darted left and right in terror. He was frothing at the mouth.

“An Urudain,” Bran said vacantly. “Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears, an Urudain.”

“Get ahold of yourself!” Ein demanded. “How do you know it’s the real thing?”

“It’s the Oathbreaker’s sigil,” the trouper rambled. “No one would dare bear it if they weren’t a servant of the Faceless Ruler.” His eyes darted to the relicts and then to the cliff beside them. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to die by the hands of a Faceless. Gods, I’ll be damned!”

He loosed a panicked cry and flung himself off the wagon, landing in a rolling heap of green and gold, his limbs twisting in a hideous crunch. Pulling himself to his feet, he floundered towards the cliff, slipped once on the mud, righted himself, screaming in pain all the while. Three Worgal riders broke away and pounced. With one last look of sheer terror behind him, the trouper threw himself off the edge. The rain drowned his screams.

“We should just kill ourselves now,” Bran said, staring at the spot the boy had jumped off. “It would be quicker and less painful.”

“No,” Ein said, shaking his head. “We’re not going to give up.”

Angramar flicked his wrist and the shadowy whip sailed through the air. The wagon jolted. Ein swung his sword in an attempt to cut through the tendril, half-kneeling on the ground for balance, meeting the harsh cries of the Worgals with cries of his own. The moment his blade touched the shadow it snapped cleanly into two, severed at the point of contact. Ein looked down at the broken halves of his sword and swore.

“There’s no way we’re getting out of this,” Bran said again. “Evaine and Garax are dead. The Wydlings are dead. It’s all over.”

“No.”

The trees broke and the bridge came into view. It was a narrow span of wooden planks that rose high above the gorge, stained black by the pouring rain. The Worgals howled as thunder boomed across the sky.

“What if we make it out of the Sleeping Twins?” Bran mumbled. “So what? They’ll catch us anyway. The horses can’t run forever. They’ll hunt us down and kill us, the Urudain.”

“You bastard,” Ein growled. “Are you going to throw away your life so easily? You don’t even know why they’re after us.” If they find Alend, it’s all over. Aedrasil will die and the relicts will run rampant across Faengard.

“I don’t want to know why.” Bran threw his bow onto the floor of the wagon in despair. “I don’t care about any of this.” He looked sadly at Ein. “I just want to go home.”

The shadowy whip lashed again and this time it caught Ein across the chest. A numbing chill spread through his body where it touched him, like a blanket of ice wrapped across his skin. He pulled apart his shirt and touched the wound. There was no blood, no mark at all. Just an overwhelming cold, and a sense of despair.

He’s right, Ein thought. Why am I even going to all this trouble? He wasn’t Alend’s son. Why did he even care whether the man lived or not?

And then his fingers brushed against the black box in his pocket, and he remembered Rhea’s warm embrace and Cinnamin’s excitement every time he came home. He remembered the forge, the days he’d spent with Bran and Evaine by the river, along the quiet streets of Felhaven. Founder’s Eve replayed itself in his head, the lights and the stalls and the dancing. He wanted to see fireworks like that again, one more time.

If only those days could last forever.

But those days were long gone. Even if everything fixed itself, things would never be the same again.

Ein stared into the pale mask of the Urudain and howled. A hotness surged through his body, causing the rain to steam from his clothes. Something snapped inside him and came surging out through his voice, piercing through the rain and the wind. He was throwing up molten lead from his throat, forming words and inaudible sounds at the same time.

On lightning I dance…

They passed the bridge, and as Ein’s body reached its breaking point, when he thought his skin would melt and his head would catch fire, when the steam on his clothes turned into smoke and invaded his nostrils, when the world became a monotone blur of storm-grey around him…

For the storm sings to none other.

The sky opened in an explosion of white and the world became silent.

Smoke. Smoke filled his nostrils, and he tasted the wagon beneath his lips. Everything was white and grey. His head felt as light as air. Waves of heat rippled through his body as he lay prone on the floor of the cart, his mouth incredibly dry. Something was burning, its crackling the only noise he could hear. Water ran down his face, icy cold and yet steaming hot at the same time.

He lifted his head off the ground. The bridge was gone, destroyed, obliterated. Nothing remained of it but two smoking piles of wood on either end. Orange flames flickered and fought against the rain. The Worgals stopped at the other end of the chasm and raised their heads to the sky, howling. The Celadons joined them.

Angramar stood at the edge of the broken bridge and watched quietly as Ein and Bran drew further and further away. He was the last thing Ein saw before all the energy left him and he thudded to the ground, throat burning, vision fading.