David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“We’re saved!” Jaz said, jumping up and down in glee.

By the time that the soldiers approached the bonfire, their helms and mail gleaming dull in its light, Borenson and the children were ready to fall at their knees in gratitude. Indeed, Borenson planted his scimitar in the sand and knelt, as if to royalty.

The Bright Ones merely smiled. Fallion noticed a twinge along his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, something that he had associated once with the smell of evil, and he knew by that, more than by the lack of humanity in the men’s eyes or the bemused expressions on their cruel faces, that these were not the Bright Ones of legend.

Loci, Fallion thought. In all of them.

The men rode up, ranged around the campfire. The rangits leaned forward, their lungs pumping like bellows, snorting from the effort of carrying their inhuman charges.

“Are you folks well?” one of the Bright Ones asked, playing the part of the rescuer.

Fallion felt inside himself, tried to summon flames that would consume this man whole, but he felt empty, tired. The fire behind him suddenly blazed brighter, as if fed by a strong wind, but nothing more.

“We’re well,” Borenson said, “thanks to you.”

In all of the legends the Bright Ones were full of virtue. “May the Glories guide you and Bright Ones guard your back,” was a common prayer.

But where would these evil ones have come from?

The same place the strengi-saats did, Fallion realized: the netherworld.

“Come,” their leader said, eyeing Fallion. “We’ll take you to safety.” He urged his rangit forward a small hop, and Fallion smelled its breath-heavy and sweet, like some exotic grass, with undertones of hair and urine, much like a very large goat.

Borenson suddenly backed up a step, placing himself between Fallion and the stranger. He smelled the trap.

“Who sent you?” Borenson demanded. “What are you after?”

“We came to save the princes,” their leader said. “That is all.”

Borenson reached for his sword. His skills were legendary, but these men were bright Ones, and quicker than Fallion could see, one of them lunged forward, his long red lance plunging into Borenson’s gut.

Borenson dropped his sword, stood there holding the lance.

It was not a deep wound. Fallion suspected that only the tip of the lance, the first six inches, had penetrated Borenson’s girth. But it was a serious wound, one that could well be fatal.

The Bright One shoved the lance a little, and Borenson clung on for dear life, letting himself fall back rather than have the lance driven deeper into him.

Two rangits bounded forward, one of them heading straight for Fallion. He turned to run, and a lance drove through the shoulder of his heavy woolen cloak.

Suddenly he was lifted into the air, kicking and squirming, his feet well above the sand.

The knight lifted his lance point, and Fallion found himself sliding inexorably down the shaft, into his captor’s arms. He peered to his right, heard Jaz screaming and kicking as one of the Bright Ones seized him.

Suddenly the rangits turned, and they were bounding away, racing along the dark beach the way that the soldiers had come while the surf pounded in their ears, the smell of salt water heavy in the wind.

Fallion was devastated.

He peered back, over the Bright One’s shoulder, and saw Rhianna there by the fire, frantic, torn between her desire to follow, her desire to help the wounded Borenson, and her terror of the strengi-saats.

Fallion reached for his own blade, trying to wrench it from the sheath. His captor shook him so hard that the blade slipped from Fallion’s hand and fell to the sand.

“What about Rhianna?” Fallion pleaded with his captor. “What about Borenson?”

The man chuckled mirthlessly. “We must leave the strengi-saats some thing to eat.”

Rhianna stared at the retreating backs of the soldiers as the rangits hopped gracefully away, like hares on the run.

Not knowing what else to do, she went to Borenson and studied his wound. He was looking faint, sweating badly, and just holding his guts in.

Fortunately, there were supplies in the boat: a little food and water, some spare clothing, Fallion’s forcibles.

Taking a rag, Rhianna washed off his wound first with water, then disinfected it with wine. She found one of Talon’s dresses, altered to be big enough for Rhianna, ripped off the lower part of the skirt, and gave it to Borenson for a bandage.

The whole time, he just stared at her forlornly, panting.

“Crawl under the boat,” she told him. “I’ll keep watch.”

But he shook his head. “I’ll stay here with you.”

Not that you can do anything, she thought.

She picked up his saber and sat atop the boat, keeping watch.

I’ll last through the night, she told herself. And if I live till morning, I’ll walk south, to town, and find help.

She didn’t know how far town might be. Three miles or thirty.

I’ll run, she told herself. As soon as the sun comes up.

Rhianna heard growls and snarls in the jungle. A stray gust of wind brought the acrid scent of a strengi-saat. Borenson just lay in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness, getting ready to die.

After an hour, the fire began to burn low. Rhianna rushed away from the boat, out into the shadows, and got some firewood. A shadow followed her.

She turned to face it, sword gleaming in her hand, and then walked backward to the fire.

Thus she scavenged the area, forced on each trip to walk just a little farther than she had gone before. And each time that she left the fire, the strengi-saats became more daring and drew closer.

As the night waxed and the temperature dropped, she huddled near the fire for warmth as much as safety, saving her wood, nursing each tender coal. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and permeated her skin.

The most dangerous time came at moonset, when the great silver orb dipped below the mountains. Blackness seemed to stretch across her then, the shadows of the night, and strengi-saats hidden from sight snarled in anticipation.

She dared not go hunting for more wood.

Dawn was still an hour or more away. The stars had not yet begun to fade in the sky.

Rhianna heard growling and looked to Sir Borenson, who lay stretched on the ground, unconscious, his left knee in the air, his back twisted as if he were lying on a rock, seeking to get comfortable. His breath came shallow.

He’ll probably die in that position, Rhianna thought.

One of the monsters hissed, and Rhianna spotted a shadow on her left. She whirled to face it. There was no more wood. She dared venture no farther.

But she was ready for them. She took a log from the fire and set it under the gunwale of the boat, then threw her spare clothing atop it.

Soon the boat was ablaze, creating a bonfire.

Now we can’t use it to get off the island, a small voice seemed to whisper to her in despair.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. If I don’t live through the night, nothing matters.

So she planted her saber in the sand and squatted beside it, her back to the fire, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.

Her eyes grew heavy as she fought sleep.

Finally, she decided to rest her eyes for a moment, relieving them from the stinging smoke.

Only a moment, she told herself.

She closed them.

When they flew open, the sun was a pink ball out on the horizon, and the boat lay like the smoking corpse of some beast, its blackened ribs all turned to cinders.