James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian stared at the armed soldiers for a few seconds.

“I suppose we are,” he said reluctantly.

They spent the next few hours waiting, whispering to each other only when necessary.

Eventually the soldiers around the campfire began drifting one by one to their tents, soon followed by the pair of men who had been keeping watch on the road. The fire died down to little more than glowing embers, then was doused entirely by the last soldier to retire. A heavy silence fell over the camp, broken only by the occasional sound of the lone sentry by the wagon muttering to himself.

“They don’t seem too worried about being attacked,” said Davian, keeping his voice low.

Wirr nodded. “They’re Desrielite soldiers. I’d doubt even the bandits around here would be desperate enough to get on the wrong side of the Gil’shar,” he whispered back.

Davian rubbed his hands together nervously. “So how do we go about this?”

Wirr bit a fingernail. “I suppose we sneak up on the guard, knock him out, and try and get into that wagon before anyone else wakes up,” he said, sounding more uncertain than Davian would have liked. “Then we disappear back into the forest.”

Davian grimaced. “There’s nothing you can do with the Gift to make it a little less… risky?”

Wirr shook his head. “I thought about that, but there isn’t. The First and Second Tenets will stop me from hurting them, or binding them, or putting them all to sleep, or anything useful at all really. Best I can probably do is open that wagon door in a hurry, if we need to.”

Davian grunted. “We’re in trouble if it comes to that. We’re going to need as much of a head start as we can get.”

“Malacar’s a big forest, and I know how to cover a trail,” Wirr reassured him. “Unless they’re right on our heels, we should be fine.”

Davian acknowledged the statement with a terse nod, though he felt anything but fine as he gazed at the darkened camp. Still, they had come this far. If they could just make contact with the sig’nari, there would surely be a way out.

Without any further discussion, Davian and Wirr made their way around the edge of the clearing, Davian wincing each time his foot found a dry twig. Soon they were positioned as near as they dared to the wagon, fifty or so feet away. The camp was cloaked in darkness; there was only a sliver of moon tonight, and clouds moved sporadically across even that. In the dim light, the wagon, tents and sentry were little more than vague shapes against the darker backdrop of the forest beyond.

Wirr glanced across at Davian, who nodded grimly, trying to ignore his pounding heart. The men in their tents should be asleep by now. It was as good a time as any to begin.

They stole forward at a slow, crouched jog, approaching the wagon from an oblique angle, out of the guard’s eye line. Wirr had located a sturdy tree branch a few minutes earlier; holding it like a club, he slipped around the side of the wagon in front of Davian. There was a dull crunching sound, followed by a heavy thud.

Davian cautiously rejoined his friend and they stood stock-still for a few seconds, holding their breaths as they listened for cries of alarm from the tents. None came.

Nodding to Wirr, Davian crept forward, moving as lightly as he could. He ignored the motionless sentry, examining the door to the wagon.

The latch mechanism was sturdy, but seemed simple enough. He cast another nervous glance back towards the tents. Wirr raised an eyebrow at him, but Davian made a quick motion with his hands, indicating that everything was under control. No need for Wirr to use Essence just yet.

Barely daring to breathe, he undid the latch and slowly raised the thick wooden bar holding the door in place. It was well-oiled and slid upward easily, with none of the squeaking Davian had feared. He pulled the small door open and climbed the stairs, peering inside into the gloom.

If it was dim outside, the interior of the wagon was pitch-black. Davian stood at the doorway for a moment, squinting, gagging a little at the smell as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. He had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head against the roof once inside; he eventually knelt, nearly jerking up again when he discovered there was a pool of moisture on the floor. He wrinkled his nose, praying that it was just water.

He could just make out a figure slumped against the far wall of the wagon. It shifted and he realised that the prisoner was awake, watching him.

Davian crawled towards them.

“I’m here to help,” he whispered. “Ilseth Tenvar sent me.”

There was a long silence, and then the figure shifted again. The clanking of chains made Davian’s heart sink; he spun as fast as he could on his hands and knees, peering out the door. The camp was still silent.

He exited, crept around to where the guard lay, then hastily patted him down until he heard the faint jingle of keys. Davian grabbed them from the soldier’s pocket and hurried back into the wagon.

His eyes were able to adjust quickly this time, and he drew up short as he took in the condition of the man he was trying to free. Massive bruises covered his entire face with ugly discoloured splotches; one eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split in more than one place. Dried blood was smeared down the left side of his head and neck from an older wound, staining a tunic which had been torn so much that it was now little more than a rag. More bruises were evident through the tears in his clothing; the man’s breath was laboured, but he was watching Davian closely and at least seemed to be aware of what was going on.

As the two men considered each other, Davian absently touched the Vessel in his pocket, his finger brushing the metallic surface of the box. He paused. Near the manacle on the stranger’s right wrist, a glow had appeared - gone again in an instant, but distinctive against the darkness.

Davian put his finger against the Vessel again, frowning, ignoring the uncomfortable heat. The same light flared to life. He leaned forward for a closer look as the glow faded once again, then nodded to himself.

The wolf symbol was tattooed in thin, detailed black lines on the prisoner’s wrist. This was definitely whom he had been sent to find.

There were only three keys on the ring and the second one fit the keyhole. The lock fell open with a sharp click, and Davian thought he saw what looked like gratitude sweep over the man’s face, though it was replaced instantly by a grimace of pain as he tried to move his weight.

“Can you walk?” Davian whispered.

The man nodded; levering himself up through what looked like sheer force of will, he crawled towards the door. Davian helped him out of the wagon, wincing at the stranger’s condition. In the moonlight, the man’s injuries looked even worse. Davian marvelled that he still had the strength to stand.

Suddenly there was a shout from within the cluster of tents. Davian’s heart lurched.

Wirr, who was waiting for them outside, blanched when he saw the stranger’s poor condition but made no comment. “They know we’re here,” he said, tone urgent as other shouts answered the first. “We need to go.”

Davian looked at him, dismayed. “We’re not going to get far.”

“We have to try.”

Time seemed to slow as Wirr grabbed one of the stranger’s arms and Davian the other; they ran awkwardly towards the forest as soldiers burst from their tents, swords at the ready.

Deep down, Davian knew it was over. Had they been alone, they might have been able to disappear in the forest. Carrying the prisoner, they wouldn’t make it more than fifty feet before they were caught.

The man between them sagged onto Davian as Wirr dropped him, spinning to face the oncoming soldiers. He stretched out his hands; blinding white cords snaked forth from them, speeding outward. Davian steadied the injured man and then turned too, watching in mute fascination as the Finders on the soldiers’ wrists lit up a sharp blue.