Picking up a sound in a far off place, Kifter and Tarmon turned to look. Faint, like a haunting whistle on the wind, both guessed at its consequence. Half-expecting the Souls to return, charging in from another direction to catch them unawares, but by Hanor’s reaction, they had found others to haunt instead and were gone for good. Relieved, but Hanor’s feelings deserved respect. Indicating a calm response from the others before celebrations started, the boy’s reactions were most worrying. Grey and smothering, the fog was heavy as if to hide the terrors of this bleak turn.
“Hanor…!” Tarmon dared, uncertain what response he would get. The lad had simmered somewhat, snivels the only evidence of grief.
Cutting in, Bane ignored the Tard’s caution. Bending down alongside his friend, putting aside his own muddled life, he took hold of the situation. “Come on Hanor, let us walk.”
Following Bane’s lead, distraught, Hanor rose but could not look at anyone. Ashamed of his failings, even though his companions would not share such views, this was dreadful.
“Take your time,” Bane advised. Not even attempting to understand it, the fact Hanor was hurting was what counted.
“I will be… fine,” Hanor said. “I just need a moment.” Red eyes revealing just how much it had affected him, there were now two sets of victims, those who had been overcome and the Souls themselves. Sorrow washed through Hanor. Unable to detect them anywhere, the Souls had descended to Lower Realms, severing all links to The Freelands. Never did he think it would be this bad. Pausing before facing the others, he warned of what he could perceive. “We will not like what is up ahead.”
“What do you mean?” Tarmon needed clarification.
Wiping sodden eyes, Hanor did not care what the others thought. “They found others to overcome.”
Pursing lips, the Tard feared for those poor victims. “Do you know who?”
Shaking his head, Hanor felt sick.
“Will they return here?” The suggestion was a heinous one.
The distressed young man shook his head again. “Their opportunity to be redeemed has gone for now,” he explained, guilty of not doing enough. “Let us hope the Sacred will show mercy, and not prolong their darkness too long.”
“And what about those who have been attacked?” Hallen retorted, angry. The thought of others suffering as he had riled him. Appalled by Hanor’s pitiful display of sentiment, this was not right.
As if slapped around the face at what they had actually done, the comment only made matters worse. “I recognise that.”
“What should we do now then?” Kifter asked, keeping thoughts about Hanor’s creepy behaviour to himself. “There may be people alive.”
“There is only silence ahead,” Hanor disagreed.
Sparing a moment in tribute, Kifter continued. “Shall we check who they are?”
“Can we not go another way?” Hanor asked, opting for the coward’s way.
Thoughts of the victims being Tardanians from Tardoc needed confirming. “No, Hanor, we have to see what has happened,” Tarmon said. “It would be unacceptable for us to arrive at Tardoc knowing some have been lost.”
A reasonable point, “It will not be pretty.”
Disgusted by Hanor’s irregular conduct, Hallen cursed, making his feelings known. Those Souls did not deserve a flicker of compassion.
Setting off, expecting the worst at what macabre sight they were soon to see, a sullen quiet descended on the group.
Pointing ahead but to the right, “That way,” Hanor indicated.
Agitated, Kyboes sensed death on their trail. Large bushes and ground plants were a darker shade, the atmosphere now similar to the Valley. Walking for nearly half a short-turn, doubts surfaced as to whether they were heading in the right direction, but Hanor seemed resolute they were, so they continued. Up front with Tarmon, he looked rigid, every muscle taut. Stopping, Hanor’s reaction was contagious, the others halting too.
“What is it?” Tarmon asked, peering ahead. Nothing was discernible.
“It is just beyond that rise,” he said, like a petrified animal being led to its slaughter.
Wary, they pressed on, the gradual incline leading to a final crescendo. Reaching the top, they stopped, appalled. In front, lying in countless numbers amongst bush, tree and wild-flower, bodies were scattered as far as they could see. Twisted, misshapen bundles, some were in bushes whilst others sprawled across each other as if blown here by a mighty gale. Dark, unrecognisable faces were staring into the greyness above. Contorted, capturing the horrors of death, they were not Tardanians! Shocked, then who were these people? Hulking figures, not much smaller than Hallen, crisscrossed as if driven mad.
Leaping from his Kyboe, Hanor ran to a nearby tree to throw up. Bane followed for support, leaving Tarmon, Kifter and Hallen surveying the horrendous scene.
“I estimate over two hundred,” Kifter said, shocked by this.
“Who are they?” Hallen asked, never seeing the likes of them before.
Wide, coarse features with large sunken eyes were eerie in that terrified state. Black, patterned skin-lined vests covered chunky undershirts made from tiny ringlets of steel. Aggressive helmets with curving horns jutting from the sides were stylish yet set for war.
“They are… Dortians,” Tarmon said, disturbed.
“Dorts..., here already!” Kifter said, aghast. Checking Hanor before investigating closer, the lad was bent over holding his stomach. “How is he?”
“He will be fine,” Bane assured him.
“There are so many,” Hallen said, astounded. “And they are not here just visiting either.” Possessing wide bladed swords, some were sheathed whilst others gripped tight. Reacting to the Souls as he would have done, full of woe and panic, in desperation, many had slain their own brethren.
“Here for war,” Kifter said, equally troubled.
“What would we have done if we had come across them?” Hallen said, a beat thumping his heart. Desiring physical enemies rather than the spectres, but over two hundred of these fierce looking creatures was not what he had in mind. Previous condemnations of the Souls took on another slant. “Looks like They have done us a great service after all.”
“What do you make of this?” Tarmon said, searching the treetops above.
The Fife was swift to conclude. “This patrol is a forerunner of what is coming. The war has finally started.”
“And you, Hallen?”
“I see aggressive people eager for the riches of the south. I have heard life can be bleak up north, no doubt they seek warmer conditions.”
“What is that?” Kifter alerted them to a skinny shape sticking out from beneath a dead Dortian.
“Take a closer look,” Tarmon directed, peering around for other abnormalities.
Making his way over, the Fife skittered between carcasses, stopping just short of the thing in question. A knobbly leg and foot protruded from under an overbearing Dortian. When checking for its head on the other side, scrawny features gawped back, the creature’s skin charred-like as if burnt. No sign of life, it too had been overwhelmed. “I do not know what it is but… it is dead,” he called to those behind.
“Are there others?” Hallen asked.
The area was large, the corpses widespread. Leaping over a couple of bodies, Kifter made his way further out. “Yes,” he shouted, pointing. Another lay behind a bush face down, similar to the other but taller, its head disfigured and oversized. “And another,” he said, spotting a shorter, stumpy looking one off to the right. Lying on its side, it was no taller than his waist. “What manner of creatures are these?” he muttered, horrified. Where had they come from? Leaping up onto a rotten tree stump, he counted nearly three hundred bodies. Another hideous one lay half-hidden by a bush, huge by comparison to the others. Making his way over, nearing the boundary of the fallen bodies, he needed a second look at this one. Enormous, its unsightly face protruded from the other side of the bush. A tiny head atop such a large frame was frightful. Who could give birth to such malformed wretches? Shaken, he counted another fifteen when returning to the others.
“What do you make of it?” Tarmon was hesitant but inquisitive. Safeguarding the Fife’s inspection, he dismounted to take a look himself.
“There are a score of these vile creatures. They are not born as what should be natural,” Kifter said, disliking it.
“Twenty?” Tarmon was dismayed.
“What are they?” Hallen asked, looking for others amongst the dead Dortians.
“We call them… Gorl’s,” Tarmon said, the word bitter.
“Gorl’s! Why…Gorl’s?”
“We have named them after him.”
“Him...?” The Hite was slow putting the pieces together.
Tarmon did not answer, reflecting on something known.
“In Tarden,” Kifter answered instead, the topic awkward for his Tardanian friend. “They say words have power, names especially. Their Masters teach that words help create life. Talking about someone is supposed to empower them. Gorl is short for… Gorl-darl.”
“I do not see how names have power, but then I am far from knowledgeable.”
“I am sure the name Hallen has made many a person tremble,” Kifter joked.
“Now you are playing with me Fife.”
“As if I would,” Kifter toyed. Hanor was making his way towards them with Bane. Pale and not at his best, it was hard to know what to say. “Do you need to rest?”
“Not at the moment,” Hanor said, going to his Kyboe for a water skin. Nauseous, the lack of sleep was not helping.
Tarmon and Hallen made their way out amongst the dead, Hanor did not have the heart to join them. Such a waste, whoever these people were, they did not deserve this. Saddened at the loss of the Souls too, at least they could no longer attack anyone. Dejected, if only he had got the Stone out this could have been avoided. Stopping at what that meant, finally seeing straight, what if they had rode into these people?
Daring a closer look at those lying close by, he was thankful they were not innocent folk travelling through these parts. Here for war, many would have been slaughtered by these invaders, taking the edge off his turmoil. Even though the language of his heart did not look upon it in the same light, it was still a waste of life no matter what their intentions. Keeping quiet on the matter, the others disagreeing, he had already alienated himself enough from them.
“This is… horrible,” Bane said, standing beside Hanor.
“And a foretaste of the future,” Kifter said from behind, strolling forward whilst eating a few dried berries. “Proof that Brandor was right.”
“War does not make sense,” Hanor said. Dealing with the Souls was bad enough, a few hundred warriors intending to inflict harm was even worse.
“It is part of some people’s nature,” the Fife said, indifferent. “Especially if you do not have much when others do. My people face hardships, but we do not have that destructive inclination as these clearly do. We use our wits to survive and pay our way. I do not know much about these people, but it looks like they have become desperate.”
“Is that what this war is about?” Hanor asked. “Can we not just share what we have?”
“A sensible idea,” the Fife said. “But easier said than done. Take the Baltian nation to the south. They are what one might call... holy thinkers. Their whole environment is dedicated to the Sacred. They would not get along with the free speaking, ale drinking, coarse joke telling Hites who live in a much more luscious environment. If anything, the Balts love the harshness…, it keeps them focused on the Unseen. It would last but a short moment if they were to live alongside each other.”
“A bit like the Yarmorians,” Hanor said, accepting his point. Their high intelligence would outshine most people in The Freelands, and people like Hallen would not relate to them at all. “They actually constructed another world to escape those persecuting them. It seems this destructive nature is in a lot of people.”
“Most people are of a descent kind, so do not condemn all. If they were not, Brandor, and others like him, would be working so hard to protect The Freelands.”
“I suppose not.”
“This is still grisly,” Bane said, with no idea what this all meant.
“Death can come so quickly,” Hanor said. To think these people were alive a short-turn ago seemed strange.
“That is why we must put an end to this darkness,” Kifter said. “For it will turn all to its lightless ways.”
“I hope it is over soon,” Hanor wished into the future.
“We all do Hanor, we all do.”
Making their way back, Tarmon and Hallen remained vigilant for further clues to what this all meant.
“Our scouts have seen these vile creatures at the Northern Gap,” Tarmon said, when reaching them. “Which means the Dortians have joined the Dark One’s invasion.”
“What do you suggest?” Kifter asked. There were numerous options.
“I am tempted to return to Tarden to warn them of this,” Tarmon said, anxious. “Where were these heading, and what are the chances of us crossing others like them between here and Tardoc?”
“How far are we from the Five Passes?” Kifter enquired.
“I had planned for us to be there by nightfall.”
“What are the Five Passes?” Hanor was unfamiliar with the name.
“The Treman Mountain Range surrounds Tardoc in a huge curve,” Tarmon described for the two boys. “At this western end, there is a break in the mountain chain, and five passes cut through to the Flat Planes beyond.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No,” Tarmon promised. “There are pitfalls for the foolhardy, but the pathways are wide enough to warrant us safe passage.”
After Kifter’s promise about Boverns Crossing, Hanor could not be blamed for being hesitant. Trusting Tarmon, he was happy for them to decide which way to go.
“If this is just a scout party,” Tarmon said, sharing his thoughts. “It is a question of how close behind are the rest?”
“Are they close or have they sent patrols like this deep into Tardania to craft as much fear as possible before the main attack?” Kifter offered.
“This has sent a shiver through me,” Tarmon had to admit, unashamed.
“What options do we have then?” Hallen wanted to know.
“That depends if Tarmon is returning to Tarden,” the Fife said, looking at him.
“I am sorry for saying that,” Tarmon said, sincere. “My loyalties have to stay with this group. I was just reacting to this, that is all.”
Respecting his decision, relieved, Kifter explained the options. “Then to reach Tardoc, we either try for the Five Passes or go all the way around.”
“What do you mean, go around?” Hallen asked.
“We ride around the Treman Basin and enter Tardoc from the other side.”
“How long will that take?”
“About two turns,” Tarmon decreed.
“Two turns!” The idea did not sit well.
“That is, if we go to Tardoc,” Kifter said, proposing another route. “We do not know how long Brandor will be, so maybe we should head straight for Manter. If Tardoc is about to be attacked, then we do not want to get trapped there.”
“But what if Brandor has left instructions there?” Hallen said. Another three turns on the road, and more if they went to Manter; he had already made up his mind.
“He may have,” Kifter conceded. “But I am thinking of Hanor and the Stone’s safety.”
“Just the five of us guarding the Stone though is risky,” Tarmon said, tempted to keep to their original plan. “The Masters at Tardoc may know what the Stone is for. It may even be powerful enough to help repel an invasion.”
“I do not want to be caught by one of these patrols,” Hallen said, wiping a lump of mud from his boot. “I suggest we head for Tardoc, and give them the Stone.”
Kifter shrugged. “Each route has merit, Tardoc or Manter. We just need to make a decision.”
Surveying the dreadful scene, Tarmon turned to Hanor. “What do you think?”
Unexpected, the young man did not know. “I do like the idea of giving the Stone to someone who knows what to do with it. I was intending Brandor to have it, but I suppose a Master is just as qualified.”
“The Masters are,” Tarmon assured him. “Has that decided it then?” Kifter and Hallen nodded. “Then let us head for the Five Passes, and not stop until we get there. Time is now against us.”