Ranger of the North, Book 2, Chapter 19

“Luck is in our hands tonight,” states Leina while cleaning her hands with water, scavenged from the dead slavers’ canteens. “They’re to the mines, just south of here.”

“Why bother capturing slaves here when the only region that supports the use of such labor is in the North?” Standing up from his place against a tree trunk, Rune brushes his backside before folding his arms over his chest.

“Just because a region does not support slavery does not mean that slavers will not do it anyways.” Leina beckons him to follow her back into the woods. “It’s not hard to break the law in a land where nobody will enforce it.”

Nodding at her last few words, he feels a smudge of hypocrisy; they stole a carriage filled with goods, what place had they to criticize slavers? “How are we going to rescue them?” he asks, following her on the uneven terrain.

“A Reaper is an individual deemed worthy of the responsibility of defending Erelith.” Leina pauses for a moment, perhaps to let the words sink in. “To be worthy, you’ll have to adopt some new skill sets, so today is your lucky day; you’ll learn the way of stealth from one of the best.”

“And where will I find them?” Rune asks with a brow raised.

“You’ll find them at your throat momentarily,” Leina retorts with a roll of her eyes and a shake of the head.

The further into the wilderness the two progress, the less moonlight that penetrates the tree canopy. The dialogue between them dies down as they focus on traversing the wild terrain. The journey of darkness, silence and difficulties only intensifies gradually - an eternity to Rune passing - before the faint glow of torchlight presents itself past the trees. As they approach a break in the trees to a clearing, the cracking of whips, tortured cries of the whipped, and the barking of orders flood the air.

“This has to be the place,” whispers Leina as she peeks past the trees, “or I’ll be damned.”

Looking through the trees, Rune’s eyes wander down a vast pit to find slaves labor away under the watchful eyes of overseers. Those who are not mining are moving carts full of ores, or constructing scaffolding to mine more. Those who are not able to endure the physical demand of their labor are writhing in agony from the menacing lash of the whip. Their agonized wails fill the night air.

“We must hurry,” implores Leina, “else our companions will share the same fate.” Leaving the cover of the trees, she disappears from view, silent as she merges with the shadows.

Only having the direction she left for some suggestion of what to do, Rune creeps into the shadows after her. Letting his eyes adjust, a different world emerges; the pitch darkness loses its grasp in some areas as the thin beams of light that penetrate the tree canopy strengthen themselves.

“By breathing in the air of the shadows,” whispers Leina, “they conceal you from those who do not, and reveal the others who do.” She points a slender finger at a sentry, leaning up against a large, steel gate - likely the one and only entrance into the mines. “It also gives us the strength to deal death upon the unsuspecting.” Picking up a stick from the ground, Leina takes a deep breath before snapping it.

Lifting his head, the sentry draws his blade, looking about for the source of the noise. “Glimatther, is that you?” he calls into the darkness. “Have you found the other two so quickly? What of our losses, have they been recorded?” Stopping just short of the shadows, he shakes his head. “Just another animal,” the sentry mutters, turning around to walk back to his post.

With a spontaneous burst of energy, Leina strikes. One arm coils around the sentry’s mouth as the other drags her dagger across the sentry’s throat. In rapid succession, she pulls the dagger back, and plunges into the spine of the sentry.

Without a struggle, the sentry collapses to the ground in a crumpled, bloody heap. A failed scream comes forth as a silent gurgle as he lays deathly still.

Wiping the blood off of her dagger on the sentry’s clothing, Leina also searches the body.

“What are you doing?” asks Rune. “Looting the dead is a bad omen.”

“Breaking honor-bound taboos gives me an advantage over my enemy.” Reaching into one of the pockets, she pulls out a single, plain key from the corpse. “Besides, sometimes a little frisking of the dead is a necessity to progress.”

“I see.” Rune watches the access to the pit, his off-hand clutching the hilt of Gwynt. If someone comes through those gates, it will not be alone. He would have to be ready for a brutal fight, should they be caught. The lamented cries of workers coerces him into a high strung state of mind; a fate worse than death is possible here. “And what of the body? Our chances are shot if they find it.”

“There will be no body for them to find,” says Leina, her hands wrapping around the wrists of the corpse. She looks up at Rune expectantly. “Well, you can either sit there and let a lady struggle, or you can make yourself useful.”

“Alright, alright,” responds Rune. Grabbing the sentry’s ankles, he helps lift the body. Following Leina’s lead, the body is moved to the edge of the forest.

“Drop it here,” orders Leina, her timbre faint, yet cold and calculative. “They won’t search this far for one body. They have little patience for the unordinary.”

Acquiescing, Rune sets the body down in the thicket bordering the trees. “Do you ever regret killing men and women like these?”

“I have just as much remorse as they have for the reason I do kill them,” offers Leina as a response. Wiping her hands after the disposal of the sentry’s corpse, she turns around, strutting back to the gate.

Following in tow, Rune examines the gate, searching for a mechanism to raise or lower the gate. Investigating where the sentry stood, he notices a small lever, carved out of wood. Impulse takes over as he pulls it down, and the gate noisily crashes down in rapid succession. The sudden spike in sound raises the hair on Rune’s neck, and makes him  recoil away from the lever, blade drawn.

A brief pause in the background sounds ensues before Leina steps into the open, hands on her hips. “Don’t forget; it’s curiosity that killed the cat.” Stopping at the gate, she looks at the ground, inspecting the grate the gate slipped down into.

“Leina?” Rune approaches her, placing a hand onto her shoulder. “What is it?”

“If there is any way to increase the odds in favor of our success, it would be us going in separate directions.” Turning back, Leina walks past him, towards the darkness. “I’ll find anohter way in. You’re going through here.”

“If you say so,” says Rune, watching her go as he sets Gwynt back into its sheath.

“Oh, one more thing,” Leina adds. “I… well, just don’t get caught.” Slipping away, she leaves Rune to press further on his own.

“Don’t get caught,” he mutters, “what great advice.” Maintaining a level of constant alertness, Rune progresses down a well-worn path that splits the abundant foliage of the forest. The cries of agony only increase in volume; is he getting closer, or are the cries just becoming louder from a distance? Rounding the corner, he is welcomed by the thin, bony carcass of a slave - or, rather the deformed remnants of a human - sprawled out onto the ground, likely worked to death. Stepping over the body with care, Rune finds himself sucked into a mob of slaves at work.

Unable to see past the unending horde of damned mortals, he can only each labor for their poor lives. Some mine, smashing the stone with poorly managed tools, others carrying off the smashed stone. However, it does not take long for them to realize the black sheep in their sick, weakened and miserable herd. Stopping their tasks at hand, they surround Rune, looking at him as something unreal in their realm.

One slave, emphatically decorated with more markings than the rest, parts the crowd as he looks Rune over himself. Before speaking, a series of coughs rattle his body. “You are not a thin-limb,” he states, “and you’re not a whipper. Introduce not yourself, but your reason for being here.”

“I--”

“You’re here for someone, are you not?” the slave asks, tilting his head.

Rune can only nod.

“I see.” The slave turns around, raising a hand to wave dismissively. “You shall not find them. Go away, thick-limb. They belong to this place now, as my people have. You’re still a free man. Your friends are no longer.”

“It’s my brother--”

“Go away! I am the chieftain, and you will not disobey my word!” Standing triumphantly as an enslaved man could, the chieftain glares at Rune as his voice grows louder. “Your brother is doomed to become a thin-limb, one of us. The fates have removed control of this from your hands; you can do nothing more.”

The tension rising between him and the chieftain adding onto his current troubles, Rune moves his main-hand onto Gwynt’s hilt. “My brother, along with my friends, will be leaving this place. With or against my efforts, that is your choice. But, know that standing against me will be standing against the edge of my blade.” His voice becomes louder as he states it more plainly. “Move aside, or I’ll cut a path through you.”

Silence plants itself into the bewildered mob with little warning before it infects all of them, spare Rune and the chieftain. “You come into our repurposed lives,” he begins, taking a step towards Rune, “and threaten us if we do not aid you in achieving our freedom from this misery.” Folding his arms over his chest, he exhales sharply through his nose. “Prove you’re worthy of our trust, that you can achieve that freedom, and you will have our answer.”

“Very well.” Letting go of Gwynt, Rune glances at the wretched slaves around him. “So, how am I to prove this to you?”

The chieftain offers a simple shrug. “There is no precise path through the fog of uncertainty; only a destination. Do what you will, find your way to rejuvenate our morale, thick-limb. My advice for you is to start by striking fear into the hearts of our overseers. Remind them that they, too, are mortal.”

“I can-” A heavy force crashing down on Rune from above knocks the assuring words out of his mouth, and the wind from his lungs. Falling to the ground, he lays still for an instant before rolling whatever had landed on him off his back. Lifting his head, his eyes meet the barren pair of a slaver, his throat a gory mess, the flesh divided by a single laceration.

The slaves erupt in a mixed chorus of cheers, murmurs, gasps, and even a few screams. “Silence!” the chieftain bellows, the slaves immediately complying to the curt order. “Thick-limb, get up. Who is this woman?”

“This woman,” says Leina as she helps Rune onto his feet, “is as capable of saving you the trouble of this Ar’taian swine reporting a possible rebellion as she is introducing herself.”

Regaining his breath, Rune looks up at her. “There’s plenty of ways you could have made an entrance without dropping a corpse on my head. But, this body could help disrupt the sense of security the overseers have.”

Nodding, the chieftain adds, “They will be discontent to find one of their own--”

“The ring!” one of the slaves cries out, “she has the ring, look!” Approaching Leina, he raises her right hand up to reveal a silver band wrapped loosely around her index finger. A single, golden stripe rungs through the center of the band.

“Hey!” Leina pulls her hand away, glaring at the slave. “It’s a nice ring, not like the bastard needed it in death.”

“...You killed the Dreadsman?” the chieftain inquires.  “There is no other way you could have obtained it from him.”

“Oh, no. Not me.” Leina places a hand on Rune’s shoulder. “It is this one who felled this ‘Dreadsman’ of yours. Watched him do it myself.”

Gasps and murmurs revive through the mob of captive-workers. Sinking down onto one knee, the chieftain bows his head. “This alone is extraordinarily difficult task. For defeating one who has claimed the lives of many of my people, I owe you my thanks, as do the rest of us. Please tell us your name, Dreadnought; you shall not be forgotten.”

“Well, I.. uh..” Rune looks at Leina, for some sort of guidance.

Shaking her head, Leina interjects. “Fame is poison for a Reaper.” She turns her focus to the chieftain. “I believe that, judging from this sudden gratitude, you’re willing to aid us in resolving our crisis?”

“I will offer what assistance my people and I are capable of,” the chieftain responds. “On one condition, of course.”

Leina folds her arms over her chest, raising a brow at the chieftain. “You have a lot of demands. What do you want now?”

“We want--”

“Freedom.” Rune turns his gaze to the chieftain, who nods in approval.

“My people used to dream,” says the chieftain. “Before our captivity, we had shamans. The people would tell these shamans of their dreams, for some form of guidance. When the slavers took us away from our home, they executed all of our shamans. It was to crush our spirit, leave us without guidance. My people lost their fighting spirit, and their ability to dream.”

“Then you shall dream once more,” Rune says, wielding Gwynt in his main hand. “You shall be free, either in life or in death.”

“Dream?” one of the slaves repeats.

“Yes.” The chieftain turns to face the majority of his slaves, raising his voice. “Dream! Rediscover your fighting spirit, and let us use it to shatter the shackles binding us to the oppression!”

Without warning, an inspired chorus of roars, cheers and chanting bursts through the air. The cries carry into the night air, surely halting the painful lashings of the overseers’ whips and the orders being barked at the slaves. Using their picks and stones, the slaves break the chains holding them to the site - setting themselves free - one by one.

“The newer slaves will be dumped deeper into this damnable mine, to carry resources the farthest,” the chieftain informs Rune and Leina. “We will work our way down. My people’s bodies may be weakened, but our spirits are indefatigable. Be it with our shoddy tools, or our bare hands, we will bring down every overseer who dared looked down upon us, and take our right to dream again by force!”

Standing in place - awestruck by the eruption of passion from the slaves, who seemed only moments ago eager only to die off - Rune watches the freed slaves flood further into the mines. “Will they stand a chance?” he asks the chieftain.

“I know many will perish before the moon’s passing.” The chieftain kneels down, wrapping his bony fingers around a large stone. “But, their deaths will give way to more dreamers. We will grow back. Like the trees here, our roots are dug deep into the earth, and it will take a more than a few swings with an axe to fell us. We will grow back, our wounds will close, our flesh and bone renewed.” With a brief grunt, he brings the stones over one of his various chains binding him. As fragments of stone scatter, so do broken chain links. “Go on, Dreadsman. My people would be honored to fight alongside you, as I will once I am free.”

“You don’t have to order us twice,” says Leina, “I’m itching to find our friends.” With one more firm tug on Rune’s shoulder, she walks down a wooden ramp leading into the conflict initiating below.

“May your blade bite deep,” the chieftain says to Rune, “into the flesh and bone of your foes.”

“It shall. Your people will be free souls by dawn.” Rune moves down the ramp after Leina. Already, the ground is painted with splotches of blood. The bodies of slaves are strewn about, the slavers a little harder to make out since their corpses are stripped. Wasting no further time, Rune steps over the bodies, his focus set on a large, wooden structure - and the battle engulfing it.

A shrill cry of pain rises above the rest of the noise, as one of the ex-slaves crumples to the ground. A saber’s thin, curved blade running through her back, the woman lets out one last agonized groan before she is silent and motionless altogether.

“I knew this day would come,” mutters a disdainful voice, “and it’s about time. I was growing tired of their screams, and the stench helped little.” Ripping the saber out of the body, a man - given away by his muscular physique and voice - turns his head towards Rune. Facial features concealed by sinister shadows harbored underneath a cowl, his eyes are the only things visible as their sapphire irises blares its own unnatural luminescence. “You should feel honored,” he says, stepping closer to Rune, “it’s not every day you get to look Death straight in the eyes.”

“You seem arrogant already,” retorts Rune. “If you drop your weapons now and plead for it, I’ll make your death quick and painless.”

The threat is only met with laughter. The man proclaiming himself as death lunges at Rune, his saber coming downward.

Raising Gwynt to parry the blow, an icy chill slithers along his lower torso, coming up and across his chest. When the chill is replaced with a searing pain, Rune grits his teeth, staggering backwards from the wound. Before he can recover, the man advances and slams his boot against Rune’s ribcage.

“You don’t stand a chance,” says the male. In his other hand is another saber, almost identical to the first, aside from Rune’s blood dressing its blade. “If you give up now, there will be no shame; you could never defeat the Wolf of the West.”

The laceration across his torso dulling down to a throbbing pain, Rune pushes himself back onto his feet. Something feels…. different. His heart is pounding harder and faster, cold sweat beading and gliding down his flesh. “The Wolf of the West has met his match this evening,” he declares, “you will not kill me off, after all that I have done.” Regaining his composure, Rune swings Gwynt at the Wolf. As one of the sabers moves to parry the oncoming blow, he pulls back, narrowly avoiding the same counter before attacking again. Thrusting Gwynt into the wolf’s abdomen, the sensation of the sabers piercing into his torso brings Rune mind-numbing pain, before darkness, silence and the cold of a void envelops his body once more.

The Southern Paw, Chapter 1, Part 1

Terzogue sits up, his eyes widen open, cold sweat dripping off his face. His heart pounds furiously, and it takes him several moments to realize that he has drawn his blade, and buried the talons of his gauntlet deep into the wood of . When he feels for the hand, he finds nothing there.

It was just a dream.

Setting his sword back in its sheath, he wipes the cold sweat off his face. He is not in the jungle, but in a small space in the back of a wagon. He makes his way past the the crates and sacks to the exit, pushing the flaps open to find an endless stretch of road in the wagon’s wake. The road splits dunes composed of golden sand, sharing the blistering heat beating down on the world from the heavens. Seeing as the wagon isn’t moving, Terzogue hops out. The sands shift and swirl, making a most unwelcome hissing noise. A mild wind tugs at the ends of ruby and sapphire ribbons wrapped around Terzogue’s head.

“So you’re awake.”

Terzogue turns his attention to a man sitting against a wagon wheel. After a few moments, he nods, approaching the man. “I take it we are close?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“As close as I can take you.” The man stands up, leaving the shade of his wagon to approach Terzogue. “It’s not just that I’m headed for the capital, but that, well, there’s a hundred places in the Realm of Darkness I’d rather visit than Staultista.”

“Only a hundred?” Terzogue grins at the man. “I understand, and thank you for taking me this far. Farewell, and safe travels.”

“Don’t worry about me,” the man says, “it’s you who I pray for.” Just as Terzogue turns around, the man snaps his fingers. “Here, take this.” He tosses a canteen to Terzogue, before grabbing the reins to the wagon’s horse.

Catching the canteen, Terzogue raises a brow. “I can’t pay for this.”

“It’s on me. In Siyerrod, water is life. I would hate to see your journey end in this forsaken corner of the world.”  Giving a dismissive wave, the man climbs back onto his wagon and turns the horses leading it around. He starts back down the way the wagon came, leaving Terzogue alone in the merciless desert.

Terzogue turns around, and gathers his bearings. His search quickly bears fruit, as his eyes set on towering masses further down the road. His stepping careful in the sand, he travels towards them. His eyes search his surroundings again and again. Any breath could be his last in these sands. The stories he heard of travelers being swallowed whole by predators burrowed under the surface come swiftly to mind. It was as if the desert itself longed for flesh, not just its inhabitants. The most dangerous threat, however, is other men and women.

Spotting something further down the road, Terzogue approaches it. A worn, wooden beam is planted into the sands. Chained to it is the rotting remains of someone unfortunate enough to experience the cruelty of Staultista’s criminals firsthand. Dried blood cakes the flesh around his throat, and grime coats his whole body. His killers did not even leave his clothes behind.

Shaking off the impression of the rotting effigy, Terzogue continues towards the city. Drawing closer, he can define the masses as buildings. Despite its size, the city seems to be a husk of its former glory. The details of every building are worn away by time and exposure to the bite of sandstorms notorious in Siyerrod. Once-tall remnants of a city wall leave now hinder no traveler.

Terzogue walks through where a portion of the wall has collapsed. Paying less attention to the city’s appearance, his focus now shifts towards those whom the city harbors. He continues onto the streets, finding a distinct lack of life. The cobblestone streets are uneven, in terrible need of repairs. The sound of glass smashing with a cry grabs his attention. Drawn towards the noise, Terzogue rests his main hand on the hilt of his sword. He would not risk being unprepared for a fight. He comes across the hunched form of a man, if one may call it that.

Countless burns reside on flesh that looks more like a thin cover for the skeleton inside. A few locksof blonde hair try in vain to cover the scarred flesh covering the skull. A pile of refuse sits before him, surrounded by shattered shards of glass.

Terzogue approaches the man slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but takes a step back and draws his blade as the man shrieks.

“Back!” Standing protectively over the pile of junk, he draws a crude shank. “This isn’t yours, no, no yours. This one told other one this, yes he did, and other one didn’t listen. He is a dead boy, yes he is!” He inches closer to Terzogue jabbing wildly. He stops when a sharp whistle comes from above. He looks up, his eyes wide. Before he can say a word, an arrow sinks into his thigh. He collapses, letting out a silent cry of pain as he stares at the shaft of an arrow, lodged between his ribs. With a few violent jerks, he eases onto the ground, unmoving.

Terzogue looks up to find the gleam of a metal arrowhead. His body tenses, as his eyes rest on the shooter, standing atop a balcony overlooking the streets.

“Relax,” the archer says, his aim unwavering. “That wretch had plenty of warnings, and I don’t need him being your first impression of our abode.”

“A little late to change that,” Terzogue says, remaining still. “I intend to cause no trouble here.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” The archer lowers his aim, though only slightly. “Why are you here? Travelers head to the capital, not this refuge.”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“You came to the wrong city, if you’re looking for carnal pleasures.” The archer chuckles. “Who is this woman?”

“Avaliel.” Terzogue stays on his toes, unsure what reaction he would get.

“Why do you need to see her?” The archer’s casual tone is replaced with a much more stern one.

“I cannot--”

“You can tell me, and you will, else my arrow will burrow into your skull to find the answer.” The archer’s arrow points at Terzogue once more. Not a word is said for a moment, and the archer snarls. “Poor choices, poor results.” However, before his arrow can fly, the balcony gives way under the archer. He falls into the sand with a soft thud, groaning softly.

Standing over the archer, Terzogue pins the bow under his boot. He glares at the archer, resting the fang of his blade against the archer’s cheek. He glances around, finding the corpse of the knife-wielding man, and nobody else. “If there’s another surprise I should know of, now is the time to tell me.” Kneeling down, Terzogue shows his gauntlet to the archer. “If you don’t, my talons will burrow into your skull to find the answer. Should you mistake me for a man of gullibility, then you are gravely mistaken.”

“Then what does that make you?” the archer asks, glaring at Terzogue.

“A man that will pretend that you threatening me never happened. I’m also the man who demands retribution for the endangerment of my life.” Pushing a talon against the archer’s forehead, Terzogue simply drags it across, leaving a long, thin cut in its wake. “I’ll ask one more time. Where is Avaliel?”

“Like I’d tell you.” The archer cracks a grin. “If you’re going to catch the Phantom of Staultista, you need to find her yourself. She could be anywhere, by now.”

“Then where will she go?”

“I will not waste more of my breath on you,” the archer snarls. “I recognize the clothes, how you hesitate not to inflict pain for your own sake, how stupid you are to think that I will know where Avaliel is. You’re one of those Oasean savages, aren’t you?” One of his hands drifts upward, towards his own head.

Recognizing that the archer is going for an arrow, Terzogue pins the hand and plunges his talons into the archer’s back, a howl of pain echoing throughout the empty city. “You’re trying my patience.”

“Go the way I came!” the archer says, desperation cracking through his voice. “It will take you to her, I promise!”

“Very well. Run. Get out of here.” Terzogue stands up, letting the archer get back onto his feet.

“Thank you,” the archer says over and over, slowly getting up. Without warning, he whirls around, a dagger in hand. Before he can even take a stab at Terzogue, however, he impaled by Terzogue’s sword. In shock, he drops the dagger, staring down at the grievous wound, wide-eyed.

“Fool,” mutters Terzogue, before ripping the blade out from its flesh sheath. He watches the archer collapse, gazing into the sky with his final moments. Then, as the life drains from the archer’s eyes, Terzogue sheathes his sword, taking a moment to look at the scene before him. It would have troubled him, to have both of these men die for nothing. But, in such a place as this, death may have been the only mercy they have had.

Update, now gluten free!

Hello everyone! I have been working hard on my writing, and I'm going to be posting more content this afternoon. I have come up with a schedule where I will post content on Friday, every two weeks, starting today. This will help me keep a constant deadline, so it's not a guessing game on whether or not there is more content posted. Just wanted you all to know, so pardon me while I get to work on getting that content delivered!

*NEW* The Southern Paw, Prologue

Heavy, ragged breathing mingles with the cries of the jungle. Specks of sunlight pierce through the thick canopy above, and glisten on the punished flesh of a man doused in adrenaline. Sweat mingles with blood flowing from a large claw wound residing in his shoulder, running down his arm to his glove. The once green moss takes a deep brown as the crimson taints the virgin plantlife.

“After him!” someone barks out in the distance.

The man frowns, and mutters a few curses under his breath. The injury is the least of his concerns. Moving swiftly, he weaves through the trees. They may be close, but he is closer. He would just have to last a little longer --

The barking of hounds snaps his focus, and he looks over his shoulder to catch a pair of the beasts on approach. The white of their maws nearly matches the white of the Ar’taian emblems on their collars. Without his blade, the man is vulnerable. As one of the war hounds lunges at the man, the man whirls around. Flesh tears, blood splatters on the ground, and only a pained whimper arises.

Releasing the fading dog, the man bares his gauntlet at the other beast; the sharp, stained talons on the fingers now dressed with a fresh coat of blood. As vulnerable as he may be, the man is far from helpless. As the other hound only barks at him, he turns around to continue running. The mutts are trained to give away positions, should anyone present a threat to them. However, the reinforcements coming after him is exactly what he is hoping for.

“Stay where you are, else I will recall the mercy my mood imposes!” The man who speaks is none other than an Ar’taian officer, given his fondness for orders. “Did you really believe you could escape, savage? Your god has abandoned your kind, and your primitive tribes.”

“It seems that a worshipper of the Whore of Ice would say that,” the man retorts, slowly turning around to face the officer. “That, and he would bring a cowardly measure of reinforcements,” he adds, counting at least twenty men.

“No precaution is too small, your kind has shown us that much.” The officer beckons to one of his men. They present a long, thin blade, decorative feathers dangling from the guard and hilt. The razor-sharp edge gleams in the patch of sun that breaches the canopy. “Sharp enough to sever bone, and strong enough to pierce shields. This weapon must be significant to you. After all, your culture -- if one can call it that -- believes that each warrior is wed to their weapon.” Wielding the blade, the officer grins at the man’s subtle display of dismay. “I wonder how it will feel, to lose something so dear to you.”

Showing no compromise of his confidence, the man folds his arms over his chest. “I won’t be the one losing something today.” An arrow flies right past his head. It sinks deep into the officer’s throat, preventing even a cry of pain as the shaft obstructs his windpipe. The delay in everyone’s reaction, as the officer crumples to the ground, is one all too familiar.

The one before all chaos breaks loose.

As one of the Ar’taians draws his mace, the rest of the world joins in the continuation. He runs towards the man, his battle cry echoing throughout the woods.

The man stands his ground, watching the imminent threat draw ever closer. He observes the fire burning in the Ar’taian’s eyes. It suddenly disappears, as leaves scatter into the air, and a warrior explodes free from his hiding place under the blanket of plantlife. Others descend from the trees, one landing on the Ar’taian and knocking him down. The warrior brings his club down, granting the Ar’taian a swift death.

“What are you waiting for?” another Ar’taian barks. “Kill them! Kill them all!” He readies his sword and shield, charging forth. Hesitantly, the others comply, following their comrade to battle. The guerilla forces clash with the Ar’taians with just a fierce determination.

The man picks up the mace of the fallen enemy, and looks for an easy opportunity. When the back of the Ar’taian bearing sword and shield is exposed, he plunges his gauntlet’s talons into the Ar’taian’s flesh. They dig in deep to keep the Ar’taian from recoiling away from the agony. The man raises the mace over his head, before slamming it into the Ar’taian’s skull. He draws out the talons as the Ar’taian collapses onto the ground, giving a twitch like that of a squashed bug.

As he starts ripping and smashing through the rest, the odor of something burning assails the man’s nostrils. He looks past the thinning ranks of Ar’taians to spot the manifestation of countless nightmares stomping through the jungle. From the maw of this machine horror, a ball of fire starts to grow.

“Pull back!” the man shouts, but before his words can have any effect, an ear-shattering explosions knocks the man down as flames bloom just above him. Leaves and embers dance together in the air. The sight is unfathomably beautiful to the man, who rolls onto his back, in a daze. A warm hand is placed on his chest, and he turns to look into the eyes of what must be one of the guerilla warriors. It is hard to tell, with how molten his flesh and blackened his clothing are. The burning warrior opens his mouth, letting out a cry of agony that overpowers everything else.

Update!

Good morning everyone!

I am just putting up a brief update to let you all know I am still alive, I have been rather ill for the past few days. It's been putting off my writing (not to mention my train of thought altogether), but as I'm recovering, content will start to pour out on a more frequent basis. And, I have been working on a new project (aside from Wolf of the West and Ranger of the North) that I intend to share with everyone as soon as possible.

Well, that's it for now. Hopefully the next post will be more content, and hopefully it will be soon!

Wolf of the West, Chapter 5, Part 2

“They’re waiting in there.” Chircter points to a small house; much more a shelter, if anything. Unlike the live, bustling streets during the daytime, the city is as quiet and lifeless as the docks. The vending stalls are empty, their merchants having packed their wares and left.

As Ryuden follows Chircter and Yanna towards the rendezvous, he looks down at his attire. Aside from the smell of time -- a mixture of countless aromas and odors -- heavy on the clothing, the garb is comfortable. Underneath the coat of black and crimson, a grey shirt clings to his form, yet proves limitless in flexibility. On the shoulder of his coat resides a patch; a feather of pure black reflecting the moonlight off its sleek surface.

“Wait here,” orders Chircter. He looks over his shoulder at Ryuden and Yanna. “Don’t want any accidents. They’re probably getting uneasy, having to wait for so long.” Pushing open the door slowly, Chircter slips inside the house.

As a few moments of silence pass, Ryuden grows wary. The silence is palpable, as if the entire world is holding its breath in anticipation of the pending. “Is it always this quiet?” he asks Yanna.

“It’s nothing to worry about.” Yanna clasps his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s understandable to be nervous on your first night with us. Never done something like this before?”

“Something like this,” yes.”

“What did you do?” She raises a brow. “Jump a traveler?”

“Something like that.” Shrugging off Yanna’s hand, Ryuden chooses not to push the discussion further in that direction.

“Let’s not waste time,” Chircter prompts, returning onto the streets. Following after him are three others of various forms; the first tall, the second bulky, the last frail.

“Who is he?” the tall one asks, disgust resounding in her voice. “When did we stoop so low, as to accept common riff-raff with knives into our fold?”

“Easy, sister,” the thin one says. “We do not know much of him,” he explains, gesturing to Ryuden. “Don’t tread down a path barefoot, just because the dirt looks soft.”

“I recognize the face,” the bulky one states. “Sorry for roughin’ you up before, lad, but business is business. Nothin’ personal. Anyways, I doubt he’ll be any hindrance to our plan, sister. Leave ‘im be.”

The tall woman folds her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “We’ll deal with this… issue later. We mustn’t delay the mission any further.”

“Then let us go over the plan once more, so we all know our roles.” Chircter points towards the silhouette of the spire against the moonlight. “There, the Onerian marshal is waiting to meet with the governor of Onat. Our client has informed me that the marshal intends to insert a new law enforcement policy into effect. It would permit officials to search private warehouses and transportation vessels without need of warrants or intervention on a higher level. This would essential sever the head of our underground network, since there is rarely a coin we’ve made that didn’t originate from smuggling. Needless to say, this policy must never reach the light of day.”

“How do we intend to stop it?” Ryuden asks. Undeniably, part of him is nervous. But, the excitement to apply his prowess for such a great impact easily overpowers his lesser demons.

“With cunning.” Chircter nods to the trio. “You three will deal with intercepting the governor and his escort. Yanna, you’ll be dealing with the Marshal. Take Ryuden with you, in my place.”

The trio of still-strangers depart down the street, the way Chircter had lead Ryuden and Yanna.

“Follow me.” Yanna leads Ryuden into the labyrinth of alleyways and substreets. After several moments of weaving through the countless twists and turns, she stops and turns around, showing Ryuden a frown.

“What is it?” Ryuden asks. Her unease makes his own doubled over.

“Not, it’s probably nothing. We’re near the tower, we just have to ascend, take care of business, and leave.” Yanna continues on, Ryuden in tow. She seems unphased by the stone colossus spiraling into the dark heavens when they finally leave the narrow passageways. Stepping into the open square, Ryuden stares up at it in awe, until Yanna tugs on his shoulder to garner his focus again. She reaches a pair of tall, oak doors leading inside. Pulling one of the doors open slowly, she peers in through the crack. “Stay quiet,” she whispers, “we want to get the drop--”

“On me?” a new voice says.

As Yanna whirls around to face the speaker, Ryuden draws his blade. He turns around to find guards pouring out of the surrounding buildings, blocking any obvious escape route.

Amidst the horde, a man pushes his way through, his offhand resting one the hilt of a concealed weapon. His sage cloak billows behind him, the golden embroiderment glistening in the moonlight. “Did you really think you would just slip by and cut my throat?” he asks, tapping his foot on the ground. In his hand is a piece of parchment. He grins, lifting it up for Ryuden and Yanna to see.  “Looking for this?” When no answer surfaces, he chuckles. “It has been a while since I’ve been involved with your line of work.”

“Sepon,” Yanna murmurs. Her quiet, fragile voice betrays sudden shift from confidence to a lackthereof.

Ryuden’s heart sinks.

“Yanna,” the man -- Sepon -- responds. Leaving the protection of his swarm of guards, he approaches Yanna, not paying any mind to Ryuden. He takes Yanna’s chin in his palm, forcing her to look up at him. “It warms my heart to know you have not forgotten my name.”

“Your name is that of a dead man.” Yanna shakes off his hand, looking away. “He fought to the last breath.”

“So you try to replace that man?” Sepon glances at Ryuden. “How cute. You even let him soil my clothes.”

“That’s enough out of you!” Yanna shouts, as she plunges her blade for Sepon’s torso. But, with a quick grapple of her wrist, Sepon forces her arm up and kicks his boot into her exposed side. As Yanna crumples to the ground, she gives a faint whimper.

Taking the opportunity, Ryuden leaps into action. His sword arcs downward, seeking to sink into flesh. It meets steel first, however; Sepon’s cutlass catching his attempt. Not wasting a second, Ryuden brings his body forward, his shoulder bashing into Sepon’s torso. The sudden force of one of the guards tackling him off his feet and to the ground knocks the wind out of his lungs. The struggle to breathe mingles with the sudden flurry of bludgeon blows barraging his limp body. The onslaught seems to go on forever, until it is finally stopped by voices shouting, and steel clashing.

“Get up!” Yanna pulls Ryuden onto his feet. She glances at his face, and grimaces. Supporting his body weight, she leads him into the tower. “You fool,” she mutters sorely, ignoring her own pain as she sets him upright against a wall.

“I’m the fool?” Ryuden croaks, not daring to move a muscle. Regardless, his body is wracked with pain. He watches Yanna close the doors, sliding a wooden latch to lock them in place. “I’m the fool for doing what you would have done? For doing our mission?” When Yanna does not reply, Ryuden continues. “What does he mean to you?”

“More than you can fathom, you blighted idiot!” Yanna snaps. “He is how we became who we are. He is why the Night Ravens are united, and why we do things the way we do. He is… he is the reason we all are leaders.” She kneels beside Ryuden. “I could not bring myself to destroy the husk of a great man.” Pulling a cloth from her pocket, she brings it to Ryuden’s face.

Frowning, Ryuden realizes how he can barely notice the sensation of blood pouring down his face. He probably would not have noticed if his crimson did not soil the virgin cloth. “I’m not faring well.”

“And I’m no liar. It’ll take a bit to fix you up.” Glancing over to the door, Yanna gets up. “A lot more than what I can offer alone. I’m going to join the others in the fray, and we’ll get you home when we shake them off.” Drawing his blades once more, she moves the latch and opens the doors. The sounds of the battlefield rush into the room as she rushes out, mitigated by the doors no longer.

His ears now audience to the sound of men shouting, steel clashing, flesh tearing and bone breaking, Ryuden is left in his agony. His attempts to stand up are countered by his body’s inability to do so. He would just have to sit and pray for Yanna’s triumph. Time passes by, and his eyelids grow heavy. The sounds of battle slowly die down, as he slips past the brink of consciousness.

***

“It isn’t mine!” snarls Ryuden. His back flush against the scarred trunk of a tree, he looks for some break in the ring of ‘brothers’ surrounding him. Tightening the grip on his blade, he readies himself for the impending death sentence.

“If it isn’t yours, then why did it rest if you?” Kelyn glares at Ryuden with scorn unhindered by blood. Taking a step closer than the rest, he only stops when the tip of Ryuden’s blade is just short of him. “Who is Valuda, Ryuden?”