James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

He sighed to himself. As much as he missed her, it was better that she was at Caladel, safe from the dangers he and Wirr were facing.

He looked around. They had reached the edge of the Malacar; open fields were quickly being replaced by tall, thick-trunked trees. Soon the road was canopied by foliage overhead, with only a few stray rays of sunlight slipping through the cover and reaching the road itself. Still, the forest had a cheerful, airy feel to it, unlike much of the menacing jungle they had been forced to navigate so far on their journey. The trees were spaced far enough apart that visibility was high, and undergrowth was minimal.

Davian and Wirr were chatting amiably, the sun finally threatening to slip below the horizon, when Davian frowned and came to an abrupt stop.

Wirr took a few extra steps before realising his friend had halted. “Tired already?”

Davian shook his head, reaching into his pocket and almost jerking his hand back out again when he felt the heat of the Vessel inside. Cautiously, he pulled the box out. It was like touching a stone that had sat too long in the sun; it was possible to hold, but only delicately, and even then he had to change his grip every couple of seconds to avoid the heat becoming too much.

He held it away from his body, trying to examine it. The glow was so bright now that the wolf symbol was impossible to make out.

“I think we’re close,” he said.

Wirr stared at the box, his expression troubled. “If you say so,” he said with a sigh. “Is it still pointing east?”

Davian squinted for a moment, then nodded.

“Then I suppose we keep going that way until it says otherwise.”

They walked on for a few minutes, the heat from the bronze Vessel becoming uncomfortable even through the rough cloth of Davian’s trousers. He was considering asking Wirr to hold it for him when they rounded a curve in the road and came to an abrupt, jarring halt.

Ahead, in a clearing just off the road itself, a group of soldiers in the livery of Desriel were setting up camp. At first glance there looked to be about ten of them, each one with the tell-tale glint of a Finder on their wrists. A couple of the soldiers looked up, noticing them.

“Keep walking,” Wirr said softly. “Worst thing we can do right now is look scared.”

Davian forced his legs to move, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. They had seen Desrielite soldiers before, but not so close and certainly not such a large group of them. Davian’s mouth was dry, and he felt a strange combination of chills and sweat. He knew the blood had drained from his face; he tried to keep his breathing even, getting himself slowly back under control. The soldiers were looking at them, but none had moved to stop them. It was okay. Just keep walking.

Wirr gave the soldiers a friendly wave as they passed and a few nodded in polite response, apparently satisfied they were simply travellers and posed no threat. Even in his terrified state, Davian couldn’t help but be impressed by Wirr’s poise. His friend looked as though nothing was amiss; he strolled, almost meandered, as if simply enjoying the warmth of the afternoon.

Thankfully the next bend in the road was only a hundred feet away. Within a minute, the soldiers were obscured from view once again.

As soon as the boys were certain they were out of sight, they stopped. Davian bent over with his hands on his knees, releasing a long, slow breath, then almost laughing aloud as relief washed over him. Wirr let out a similarly deep breath, holding out his hands out for Davian to see. They were trembling.

“You did well back there, Dav,” said Wirr seriously, façade dropping. He now looked as shaken as Davian felt. “You looked almost happy to see them.”

Davian laughed. “Me? I would have turned tail and run if you hadn’t kept your head,” he said, a little giddily. “Every fibre of my being was telling me to turn around, and you just strolled on past like you owned the El-cursed forest.” He rubbed his face, repressing what probably would have come out as a maniacal giggle.

Wirr clapped him on the back. “Well we’re past, at any rate.”

After taking sufficient time to recover their wits, they kept moving. Before a minute had gone by, though, Davian stopped again. Something was wrong; the warmth of the Vessel had begun to fade.

Alarmed, he dug into his pocket and pulled it out, examining the bronzed surface with narrowed eyes. Then he groaned, twisting the box in his hand a few times, vainly hoping he was mistaken.

“What is it?” Wirr asked.

Davian bit his lip. “It’s pointing back the other way.”

“Towards the soldiers?”

Davian hesitated, then nodded. “Towards the soldiers.”

Wirr let out a low string of violent curses that Davian had never heard him use before. Then he took a few deep breaths to compose himself.

“Of course it is,” he said calmly.

By the time the two boys had made their way back to within view of the soldiers’ camp – using the surrounding brush as cover – the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving only a dull pink glow in its wake.

They were no more than a hundred feet away, but the deepening shadows made for easy concealment so long as they made no sudden movements. From Davian’s prone position he could see the entire camp, which appeared neat and orderly. Most of the soldiers sat chatting and laughing around a small fire; a pair of sentries sat halfway between the fire and the road, their backs to the flames.

Closer to the others but still set apart, another man reclined against what seemed to be a small, covered wagon. As Davian watched, the man peered through a narrow window at the front of the wagon, saying something in a low voice and then spitting inside. A soldier by the fire who was watching him just laughed.

From the men’s demeanour, no-one thought an attack was likely. The pair of sentries were dicing, only intermittently glancing towards the road to look for signs of movement. The man by the wagon seemed half-asleep as he listened to his companions' conversation, stirring only to call out an occasional comment to them.

Still, it looked like someone would be awake the entire night. Whatever the Wayfinder was leading Davian to, it would be difficult to retrieve.

Wirr shifted beside him. “So what exactly are we looking for?” he whispered. “I can’t imagine the sig’nari would be keeping company with this lot.”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Davian. He frowned, scanning the camp. There was little doubt that the Wayfinder was pointing to something here – the heat emanating from his pocket had become uncomfortable again as they had drawn closer. Could one of the sig’nari really be hiding amongst a group of Desrielite soldiers? Or had the Wayfinder’s counterpart object somehow been found, or stolen, by these men? He tried not to think about the implications of the latter.

Wirr shifted position again, peering through the brush. “Perhaps in the wagon?” he suggested.

Davian squinted, trying to better see the wagon. It was solidly built, moreso than normal; it forsook the traditional canvas roof for one of sturdy wood, making it look like a large box on wheels. The only window seemed to be a small slit at the front, crisscrossed with thick steel bars that glinted in the firelight.

After a moment, Davian realised that a heavy wooden beam lay across the door, clearly to prevent anyone on the inside from getting out.

“You’re right,” he said, biting his lip. “Whoever we’re looking for must be locked in there.”

“Wonderful.” Wirr sighed but didn’t dispute Davian’s statement, evidently having come to the same conclusion himself. “We’ve come this far. I suppose we’re going to try and get them out?”