“How are you coping?” Hanor dared to ask, not courageous enough to actually look at Bane.
Kifter, Tarmon and Hallen had left to carry out various tasks after their evening meal, leaving the two boys sitting on the balcony in strained silence. Waiting for the others to return, it gave them a chance to cross the divide separating them.
Stalling, what could Bane say to justify his outburst earlier? The last time he had spoken to his best friend was before the bridge and its subsequent horrors. Losing all sense of time and direction lately, he just wanted to blurt it out, to free them of the pent up anguish. But with Nole gone, he found it difficult to talk without referring to their lost brother and companion. Angry for coming on this trip, passions did not ignite.
“I am… managing,” Bane said, unwilling to look across at him. Difficult as the meal had been, the two just sitting as extras to the discussions between the other three, what were they to do?
“I... I need your help, Bane.”
Unexpected, Hanor’s plea caught Bane off guard. Looking up, large brown eyes of his friend proved the depth of his need. Reaching out and clasping his forearm, guilt about his reaction earlier returned to condemn the reunion. “I am… sorry for screaming at you.”
“It is I who should apologise to you,” Hanor said, surprising Bane again.
“But you have not done anything. I am the one who has not been at your side like I should have been.”
Rejecting his point, “I have not acted properly since returning. My brother, your friend, is no longer here.” Pausing, it all seemed so hazy. “I know his death is important, but I cannot feel its impact. I have tried to feel the pain like you do but… there is just deadness inside. I should be happy at seeing you as well but there is nothing, not as it should be.”
Bane gripped his arm for reassurance. “I do not understand how or why either, but I reacted like a fool because I could not believe how calm you were. I wanted you to hate me for letting you both down.” A tear lined his cheek.
“We are both innocent,” Hanor said, supportive. Emotions were still lacking. “You should not blame yourself. I want to know what happened but… something inside warns me to wait. I have no recollection of the incident, so would it be right to ask you what happened… or foolish? I have accepted my illness, but this deadness makes life seem pointless.” Holding his gaze, the following question had to be asked. “Should I know the details now, Bane?”
Releasing his grip, Bane sat back, the need to express his grief easing. Such a simple question carried more weight than he could have possibly imagined. Memories of the shocking incident were clear, but could he relay the details without breaking down? Trusting eyes waited for a response, a cold temptation daring him to speak. Reading beneath the surface, Hanor’s desire to connect with the world gave Bane a glimpse of what he was suffering. Hanor could not feel life like he normally did. It was not just a lack of memory, his emotional state had been affected too. Doubting his friend would react even if he did share the horrific episode, but what if he was wrong? Such gory details would be like driving a blade into his heart. Shuddering, he could not do it. “No, Hanor. No…, it would not be a good idea.”
Sighing, the familiar pattern of wanting to know and then not jostled Hanor. Needing to believe his feelings would return in their own time, relief comforted him. “We should talk more over the coming turns. I need to know about our past, small details that make life worth living. They are what I am missing most of all.”
“We need memories for a sense of belonging,” Bane said, thoughtful, convinced he had made the right decision.
“Can we rebuild our relationship?”
“We must…, for Nole’s sake as well as our own.”
Their group, five in number, set out at dawn. The weather was favourable, and the air fresh. Entering the forest across the plane, the crispness moved with them. Deep colours ushered them onto their grim destination. Rich yellows and reds, oranges and purples decorated thick shrubs and climbing stalks. Wildlife skittered about, so too Fliryns in the treetops, ignorant of evil at their door.
Darting between enormous Woodell trees, trusting their new leader to take them to the foreboding Tomb of Tarkon, the familiar smell of Kyboe sweat soon filled the air. Soft poundings on the spongy forest floor duelled with hot pants of rhythmic breaths.
Little was said during those first few short-turns, anticipating what was to follow. Bane and Hanor rode side by side, smiling frequently to keep the mood upbeat. Purpose motivated them on to fulfil Brandor’s wishes. Tarmon said it would take a couple of turns to reach the Tomb, which meant lots of riding in between. He also recommended they savoured the peace whilst it lasted.
Passing through two picturesque glades, they stopped just past half-turn of the day at the third. Any breach in the tree line was welcomed, although grey clouds above were not. Resplendent colours of brush lost their shimmer at the prospect of rain. Sitting down on the grass, their kyboes chewing nearby, supplies packed by Tarmon were dry and bland, unlike the fresh delicacies enjoyed at Tarden.
Hallen and Bane started rummaging to the bottom of their bags for something else to eat. Tarmon was far from impressed. “We want food that is good for you and will last,” he said, putting away his water skin. “No suti-sweets or cakes...”
“Quiet Tarmon!” Kifter hushed, checking the other side of the glade. “Someone is coming!”
Before they could move, a rider broke through the trees, a male Tardanian who slowed upon seeing them.
Beckoning the individual forward, “He is a scout from the Northern Gap,” Tarmon said, not recognising him.
Approaching, cautious, the young Tardanian was relieved when recognising one of his brethren. “Tarmon,” he said, pulling up. “It is good to see a regular face after what I have seen of late.”
“My friend, I cannot place you, forgive me.”
“I am Finall, born of the Sen-pa line,” he said, dismounting.
“Finall…, greetings to you.”
“And I to you Tarmon, you are known throughout Tarden.”
“What news do you have, for that is why you are heading this way at speed is it not?”
“It is grave news,” he said, disheartened. “Numbers from the Rangle Mountains keep increasing, especially to the east. I need to see Caldon, Master of the Forces. There are too few of us to last a turn once that horde moves.” Calming down, concerns getting the better of him, “I am sorry Tarmon, but the Dortians are not alone. There are creatures of terrible size and form.”
“I know,” Tarmon said, already aware of the descriptions. “How many are there?”
“A vague estimate..., over ten thousand.”
Tarmon’s dismay was clear. “You had better be on your way.”
Obeying his superior, Finall remounted. “I do not know where you are headed, for it is not my place to ask, but… I would not journey much further north. I cannot say when they will move, but I fear it will not be long.”
“Your guidance has been noted,” Tarmon said, standing to the side to let him pass.
“May we meet again in better times,” Finall said, urging his ride on.
Tarmon agreed, watching him disappear into the bush behind.
A gloomy atmosphere descended on the group from such a powerful warning. Danger lay just ahead!
“We will not stop until nightfall,” Tarmon ordered, mounting and setting off, the need for haste understandable.
Halfway through the after-turns, large drops of rain fell from the leafy rooftop to their displeasure. Sheltered from the full downpour, oil-lined over-coats kept out most of the damp but not all. Lifting hoods for protection, it secured the dullness for the rest of the turn, a quick reminder that life on the road was not always pleasant.
Encountering nobody else for the rest of the turn, no surprises to test their purpose arose either. A large group of Chios did cross their path, promising the enemy was not in the region just yet. Dusk beckoning, a small clump of looping trees had managed to grow amongst the larger Woodell ones, and was ideal to shelter in. Plenty of cover in case any straying Dortian invaders were to pass this night, they were fortunate to find it.
Ducking inside to check the layout, Kifter returned a moment later. “It will do,” he said with a grin, looking up at Hallen. “It is small, but dry, just how you like it.”
Leading their Kyboes through the gap, the enclosed area was rare for Tardania, with space in the middle for a small fire. Large, leafy crawling plants were welcomed, granting comfort when lying down as well as food for their mounts. Unpacking, bags stayed strapped to their mounts. Without much room, it was to be a crowded night.
Setting out his stacking stones, Kifter added some bunchy powder to the neat pile of damp wood to get it going. Placing a fire-canopy over the top when alight, thin poles of smoke soon escaped through various vent holes, leaving the heat to radiate from its base. Simple but effective, the device gave the option of how much light was to be released. Not taking any chances, even at this early stage of their journey, Tarmon wanted it secured to its tightest position, wary of any undesirables heading this way. At its peak, metal bars unfolded when the six legs were pulled apart. Kifter set to work on a hot stew.
“Steady on the spices,” Tarmon advised, taking off his overcoat.
“Low on aroma, low on taste,” the Fife said, unpacking a large pouch of tasty herbs and spices. “I know a couple of recipes that will suffice over the next few turns.”
“Anything hot will do me,” Hallen said, stretching out his legs and arms. Cumbersome, the Hite’s huge frame seemed even larger in this enclosed space. His Kyboe was having difficulties getting comfortable too, disadvantaged by its size. “These limbs of mine need some medicine,” Hallen said, retrieving a long thin skin from his Kyboe. “Just a sip of Sasta to warm the spirits,” he said, taking a gulp.
“Not too much,” Kifter warned, aware of the drink’s addictive qualities. Declining the Hite’s offer, having spent many nights under its snare, this was not the time or place.
“Can I have a sip?” Bane asked, the damp and cold getting the better of him.
“Of course little Bane,” Hallen said, grinning. “It is strong, so be careful. The hairs on my throat have long been burnt away by its fiery bite.”
Taking the skin, Bane dared a sniff.
Rising to inspect the wooded area close by, leaving the others to unwind, Tarmon ignored Bane’s yelp, the resultant laughter behind frustrating. Conceding these folk were of a different breed, he granted them space for now, knowing the coming turns would be devoid of such cheer. Disciplined, as were all Tardanians, he could not afford to relax. When satisfied with the layout of the small wood, he returned to the others.
“You never fail my friend,” Hallen said, to Kifter’s pleasure, satisfied after eating the mix of roots and slithers of salted Mallen brought from Tarden.
Clearing away, the night had closed in whilst eating. Huddling around the smouldering fire for warmth, reds and golds flickered across thoughtful features. Taking care of personal duties before resting for the night, the cosy fire softened the atmosphere. It was Tarmon who spoke first.
“Tell us about your home, Bane,” he invited, startling the boy from his half-doze.
“I… err…, I am sorry, it seems… a long time since I was there,” Bane stammered, agitated. Resting on his elbow, he had to think hard just to remember. “Err… Manson is a… nice place. Not as grand as Tarden, but… simple.”
“Do many people live there?” The Tardanian asked.
“A few thousand,” he estimated, not comfortable with this attention.
“And what about the people, your friends and relatives?”
“They do not treat each other like yours do,” Bane explained, now alert. “Some are friendly, but others would not give you a moment of their time. I have not travelled far, so I do not have much to compare it with.”
“I have travelled much,” Tarmon continued, careful. “But I have not been to Manson.”
“It is a quaint place, but lively enough,” Kifter added but stopped, apologising when realising what Tarmon was trying to do.
“And what about the young ladies?” Tarmon asked, continuing after the Fife’s untimely interruption. “Are you in a relationship?”
“This is my kind of topic,” Hallen chuckled, protesting when Kifter kicked his foot.
Embarrassed, Bane scraped the ground with a stick. “No. Hanor was the one who attracted the girls. We used to play by the lake, Hanor, me and… Nole.” Determined not to stop, talking about it seemed to help. “There were girls who used to join us, to the disapproval of Hanor’s Father. But we did not care,” he said, far from proud. “We were not very disciplined, which has proven to be our downfall.”
“Discipline is good for you,” Tarmon said, agreeing with him. “We teach our young lessons to help them realise its importance. If taught at a tender age, they grow up not knowing the difference.”
“I have never been one for discipline,” Hallen said, matter-of-factly.
“And look how you turned out,” Kifter teased, unable to resist.
“Discipline brings control to a person’s life,” Tarmon explained. “Learning about integrity and respect; living life dominated by the lower desires can be very hard.”
“Hard but enjoyable,” the Hite interceded, chewing on a twig.
“That is a matter of debate of course,” Tarmon said. “But I am not about to dispute the wisdom of a large Hitorian.”
“Some discipline is good for you,” Bane acknowledged, interrupting their banter. “I can see that now.”
“What interests, apart from the girls, did you have?” The Tard continued.
“We used to… hunt, and have sleep outs like we are now,” Bane said, trying to recall circumstances worth mentioning.
“By Freemans Lake you mean?”
“Yes,” Bane said, looking at Hanor, hoping he would remember something. Grim, his friend’s gaze was blank even though attentive. “We mostly stayed at a local wood, hunting Rassers.”
“Rassers?”
Tempted to exaggerate to look impressive, Bane resisted. “They are small animals, harmless, and local to Manson.”
“I see. And what about your family?”
Bane’s personal life had been far from adequate. “I am an only child, and lived with my parents at Manson. I was a bit of a handful, so we were never close.”
“I am sorry for intruding.”
“No, it is fine, I know of others in similar circumstances. You learn to get on with life.”
“A wise reaction to difficult conditions,” the Tard praised. “How did you meet Hanor and Nole?” Getting round to the delicate issue, Tarmon supposed Hanor needed to hear it.
Bane was happy to answer.
“I was only seven full seasons old when we first met,” Bane began, thinking back to that precious time. “Hanor was six, and Nole five. My Mother used to work in the High-house for Hanor’s parents, which was great fun. One hot turn of the day, I was getting up to mischief as usual, running around the kitchens doing as I wanted. Under orders not to leave the kitchens, but that was too much of a temptation. I tried sneaking out whilst my Mother was not looking. When hearing a yell behind me, I ran along the corridor to get away. Unsure where I was, the person chasing was catching up, so I barged through a heavy door looking for somewhere to hide. Unbeknown to me, Hanor and Nole’s Father was introducing them to some important people from Manter. Not looking, I ran right into this large person, spilling red berry juice down his white tunic and trousers.” Enjoying the chuckles from his audience, Bane finished off. “I panicked, and snatched what I thought was a towel draped over Hanor’s Mother’s arm to wipe it. I only realised it was part of her dress when she stepped back.” Hearing laughter felt good, taking great delight when telling such stories to others. “What was I supposed to do?”
“I can see that youthfulness today,” Kifter smirked with a wink.
“No doubt it is one of many tales,” Tarmon said, checking Hanor for signs of recognition. The boy seemed to enjoy his friend’s recollections, but nothing more. Deciding not to press him now, “Perhaps tomorrow Hanor, something of your past may spring to mind that you can share with us?”
Wrapped up in a mental cocoon, Hanor only just heard his name, snapping him from his mood. Listening to Bane was great, but without any associations in his heart, it was like listening to a stranger. Resisting the rising gloom, he nodded. Tired, he left the others to talk amongst themselves, sleep the only real place he could find peace.
Washing down a hot brew when rising at dawn, the atmosphere of the group was high considering the unusual circumstances.
Playful, Hallen was full of himself as usual. “If you want to grow big and strong like me, you must remember to think big.”
“What do you mean?” Bane asked, loading his Kyboe.
“Do not settle for being just a small nobody trying to fit in where you can, be confident and determined. Accept only large portions of life, not just what you are given.”
“Like the large ladies you end up with,” Kifter teased, packing away his stacking stones.
“See, young Bane, our Kifter’s humour here might be termed small, not one to give pains in the stomach from too much laughing. Do not settle for mediocrity like he has.”
“You wound me,” the Fife toyed.
“Kifter…, I am trying to give important advice here,” Hallen said, winking at both Bane and Hanor. “By thinking big, you get used to minor itches.” Pulling Kifter’s hood over his head before poking him in the side, to the other’s irritation, the good-natured Hite returned to sharing his wisdom. “Remember, think big and life will give to you abundantly. This is what Hites are taught as youngsters, and look how big we become.”
Turning, he caught his face on a limp branch, feigning an attack. Beating the leaves with a couple of slaps, “See, not even trees can stand up to a mighty Hite,” he laughed, picking a few leaves from his long, fair hair.
“That is not the only time you have been beaten by a stick,” Kifter teased, finishing his own packing.
“Careful Fife, we have youngsters here. I knew it was there,” he said. “Honest!”
Easygoing and larger than life, Hallen’s playful nature helped the boys avoid too many worries for what could follow.
Rather annoyed by the Hite’s lapse ways, Tarmon led them out, concentrating on what had to be done. Checking the area before mounting, “We must ride hard today, so stay alert. I doubt the enemy will come, yet I cannot be certain.”
Increased tensions added fatigue as the turn progressed. A changing terrain added further worries, fewer colours blooming as they should. Pointing out its link to the yet to be seen Valley of the Dead, Tarmon’s discomfort was obvious. Less greenery climbed the trees or lined the forest floor, leaving larger patches of brown needle-seeds in their place. Similar to the southern regions of Tardania, the trees were more spacious here, with larger gaps between the mighty uprights. Foliage high above thinned, allowing more light to filter through. Even so, an eerie atmosphere developed.
Unruffled by the changing scenery, Tarmon searched for suspicious movements ahead. The threat from the north could arrive without warning. A gradual incline steered them towards higher ground, lifting their expectations to what lay over the brow. Comparable to when approaching a glade, a thin band of light appeared through the trees. The Tardanian eased their pace.
Content they were near enough, Tarmon stopped. Pulling in alongside, the others waited, searching the area in front. Difficult to define where the last trees stopped, the incline obscured their view, keeping the valley out of sight.
Turning to face them, a grim countenance confirmed the Tard’s concerns. “Up ahead, you can see a clear line to where life on the ground stops.” A few scattered bushes went no further than a small ridge that ran right across their path. “That is because of what exists in the valley. We will camp over there tonight,” he said, indicating the last sizeable clump of bushes just off to their right. “A word of warning for all. Just beyond that ridge, there is a gradual de