Chapter 7
The sun was well below the trees by the time the Keroko Militia had gathered the appropriate supplies needed for the journey north. Though he knew it to be the wiser choice, Vultrel disagreed with his father's decision to ride to Cathymel rather than attempt to rescue Arus. The king needed to be warned of the Vermillion Mages' resurgence, but if the militia marched for the desert immediately, Truce and his lackeys could be eliminated before they had a chance to organize an attack. The damage that Damien had inflicted upon the Mages' underground lair would have them digging out for weeks. What better way to force their surrender than to have an army of soldiers waiting on the other side?
Then again, the resilience of Truce and his men had been underestimated before. Kitreena and Damien had warned them about that before leaving. With the type of power Sartan wielded and the still unexplored potential of the implant, it was conceivable that the damage caused during their escape could be repaired faster than expected. What if the Keroko Militia marched into the desert while an army of Vermillion Mages, led by Arus and that bloody implant, marched for Castle Asteria? The possibility sent a shiver down Vultrel's spine.
Trader's Square was packed with villagers, most of them friends or family of militiamen. Repair work had begun on the buildings that had been damaged during the Mages' attack. Scaffolding lined the sides of several shops where charred thatch and wood was being removed and replaced. And though the majority of the battle had taken place within the square, some of the homes leading toward the shelter were also marred by blackened ash. Vultrel hoped the sight wasn't a sign of things to come.
Eaisan had erected a long tent near Ben Mantes' shop where Keroko's various merchants had donated an assortment of weapons, armor, food, and other supplies for the journey. Soldiers packed the tent from end to end, donning leather jerkins covered with steel plates, bell-shaped helmets and iron-backed gauntlets. Some strapped swords to their belts or backs while others hefted curved spears and heavy axes. To the left of the tent, horses from the militia's stables had been tethered with more being brought as villagers donated.
For Vultrel, it was all very surreal. He vaguely remembered similar events before his father and Dayne Sheeth had left for the war. It rattled his nerves a bit to be included in this particular outing, though in truth he hadn't actually told his father of his intentions. Neither he nor his mother would allow their son to join the militia at his age, that much was certain, but for Vultrel, Arus was just as much his best friend as Dayne was to Eaisan. And just as Eaisan would never have abandoned Dayne in a moment of need, Vultrel was not about to leave Arus to the wolves.
He'd already set aside a smaller leather jerkin, plated with wide steel bars across the chest, and a pair of riding boots. There was a spare helmet near the end of one of the tables that he'd been eying, but his father was standing not three paces away giving orders to several soldiers, and he didn't want to draw unwanted questions. If he could somehow get a hold of that helmet, he'd easily be able to blend into the rest of the militia once they rode. If he could find a horse of his own, of course.
When the first stars appeared, Eaisan climbed onto a supply box to address the crowd. Vultrel snatched up the helmet and headed for the alley beside the cobbler's shop where he'd stashed the other pieces he'd chosen. He emerged minutes later, slipping the domed helmet over his head so that only his eyes were visible. The crowd's attention was on his father, allowing Vultrel to blend in with the surrounding militiamen.
"From the Narleahan Outpost in the Lamonde Plains, we shall make for Castle Asteria," Eaisan was saying. "The journey will take approximately four days, barring any unforeseen developments, but I assure you that we will travel for as long as it takes, wherever our king may order us, until we have ensured Keroko's safety and security."
Veran Lurei was no doubt wondering where her son had gone. The note Vultrel had left on her pillow at home would explain everything, but he forced himself to push away thoughts of the tears that would fall when she found it. She would be hurt and frightened, but no one was going to make Vultrel just sit home and wait for news of Arus' death. If he didn't at least do something to help, he'd regret it for the rest of his life. The young man was his brother in every way apart from blood, and Vultrel knew that Arus would do the same for him.
"Never too small to be a soldier, eh?" Mathin Bere chuckled as gave Vultrel a passing pat on the shoulder. The old carpenter couldn't have identified him through that helmet; the comment was a general observation rather than a personal jab at his size. His words rang true, however. Vultrel was considered tall for his age, but he still stood a good deal shorter than the rest of the bulky militiamen. It was going to take some work to blend into the crowd.
Eaisan was barking out more orders. His usual attire had been replaced by a new steel cuirass and shining greaves, gilded along the edges to show his rank. His helmet and gauntlets lay in the grass beside his perch. "We'll ride north for an hour or so, then shift eastward. We will not make camp until I feel we've covered enough ground. At first light, we continue. Now, it has come to my attention that we do not have an adequate number of horses to accommodate for the amount of soldiers I've ordered. Those who do not have mounts will have to share with those who do. Any such soldier will be on lookout duty and shall be armed with a bow. I realize it's been a long time since we've seen any significant activity from the Mages, but I promise you, they are more dangerous now than ever before. As I said, they may already be on their way to the castle. Stay on guard, and remember we also have the usual dangers of the wild of which to be aware."
There were over four dozen horses lined along the side of the tent. The militia's numbers totaled in the seventies, leaving many without mounts. It was going to be difficult for Vultrel to secure a ride of his own, but as a watchman he'd be able to ride unnoticed in the shadow of another. It was the best option available to avoid the sharp eyes of his father.
"Saddle up, men! We ride!"
The militia threw up their arms with a boisterous cheer as Eaisan climbed down from the supply crate. Chaos ensued as the crowd scattered in a hurry, mounting horses and snatching up last-minute supplies. Weaving amongst the other soldiers still bustling about the tent, Vultrel came upon a long wooden stand lined with sturdy Keroko-made bows. Most were in fair condition, carved with precision and freshly polished. Leather quivers filled with steel-tipped arrows were lined up beneath them, each embroidered with elaborate designs in gold and white. Arthur Penning, the fletcher, hobbled over with a noticeable limp—he'd taken an arrow in his left knee during the war, an injury that never fully healed—as Vultrel lifted one of the bows to inspect it.
"That's a fine selection, lad." He carried a handful of arrowheads with him. "It'll do you well in a scrum."
"Do you have any spare strings for it?" The weapon was solid, a good weight with a fine curve.
Arthur nodded and went back to his desk. Vultrel had always been picky about the bows he used when hunting, and given that this one would serve to defend others as well as himself, it was important that he select just the right one. He found it easier to hold a bow steady when it had some weight to it, and the leather wrappings around the center were smooth and clean, providing for a firm grip. The fletcher insisted on stringing the bow for him—as if he was some sort of inexperienced rookie—and Vultrel tested the tension.
"That's a good choice, soldier."
Vultrel grimaced. Of all the bloody luck! Surely only the hand of the Maker himself would save him now. Eaisan's stern glower met him when he turned, and though all but his eyes were hidden by the helmet, his father's expression was like a roll of thunder before a frightful hurricane. He forced himself to relax his muscles and opened his mouth to apologize.
"Take good care of it," Eaisan said. "The lives of your comrades depend on it."
He knew. He had to know. That look in his eyes. There was no mistaking it. Vultrel h
ad seen that look aimed in his direction every time he even thought about breaking his father's rules. Eaisan knew it was his son under that helmet, yet he said nothing. He just stared quietly—angry or disappointed, Vultrel couldn't tell which—silent as Keroko Lake at dawn. He knew. Didn't he?
"Grab a quiver and saddle up, soldier. We're moving out."
Vultrel managed a salute, and Eaisan headed toward the horses. Had it all been paranoia? Eaisan wouldn't knowingly allow him to come along. It must have been Vultrel's imagination. It must have been. Generals needed to be firm with their soldiers. That's all that had happened. Eaisan thought he was just another soldier in need of guidance.
It took no time at all to find a soldier to partner up with; most men were anxious to have another set of eyes guarding their back. Raye Toffel was an energetic man, his bright green eyes sparkling under his bell-shaped helmet and a belly that spoke of a few too many drinks at the pub. His horse was a shaggy mare called Pepper, named for its black speckles. Raye was checking the saddle when Vultrel had timidly approached. He was quick to accept the suggestion of a partnership. "Sure, I'd be glad to have you ride with me. What's your name?"
Vultrel froze. It would take no time at all for someone to alert Eaisan if he gave his real name, but he hadn't yet come up with an alias. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he uttered, "Marc Cohen." Raye didn't seem to notice the hesitation.
"Welcome aboard, Marc!" He patted Vultrel's shoulder before turning back to his steed. "How long have you been a member of the militia? Your name doesn't sound too familiar."
Careful words were required here. "I've worked with the night watch, mostly." That included a number of posts across the village. "Patrolling for thieves, keeping the wolves out. That kind of thing."
"Really?" Raye glanced back at him before climbing into Pepper's saddle. "What segment? I have northwest duties until daybreak. Well, except when things like this come up."
He'd made Vultrel's bluff easy. "I patrol east-central. First shift."
"Eastern edge, huh?" Raye extended his hand to help Vultrel into the saddle behind him. "That's gotta be rough. I wouldn't want to be that close to the desert so late at night."
If only he knew just how much experience Vultrel already had with the desert. "It's not so bad. It's usually pretty quiet."
"Were you on duty during the Festival of Souls?" Raye led Pepper into a line of riders already headed toward the north gate.
"Unfortunately, no," Vultrel sighed for effect. "Wish I had been, though."
"Bah," Raye snorted. "Don't be hard on yourself for it. We'll have our chance to settle the score with those bloody goons."
"Well, we may—"
Eaisan's voice boomed over the militia, though he was nowhere to be seen. "As soon as we're out of the village, I want Eagle Formations to the east and west and Pride of the Lion in the center. Any soldier still without a mount had better team up with a rider now. We're moving out!"
Vultrel was glad he didn't find a horse of his own, given those instructions. Obviously, the rest of the militia knew how to interpret those formation orders, but he wouldn't have had the first clue of what to do. There seemed to be no shortage of details he hadn't considered when planning this ruse. He could only dodge just so many punches before the knockout blow would inevitably strike. Just stay alive, Arus. We're coming for you.