The Seeker's Wrath, page 11
Kalltor settled down, alone. The fjord lapped gently at the shore, the rhythmic hush of the tide pulling at his mind, dragging his thoughts elsewhere.
Across the village, still bound to the mast, Sartise watched him.
He saw something in the way Kalltor’s head hung low, something distant, unreadable. For all his victory, for all his power, he looked hollow. His eyes drifted, unfocused, as if searching for something that refused to be found, and his breath came slow and shallow, like a man unmoored from the very purpose that had driven him.
And for all the hate Kalltor had built toward Sartise, he knew one thing for certain.
For this plan to work, Sartise needed to stay alive.
10
Deyra was the first to see Rumani’s Forest, its tall pines and frost-hardy beech trees towering over the plains. Somewhere beyond the dense woodland lay Ruesviasie’s River, the crossing still a day’s ride. In the North, it was known as Fedelm’s River, named after the northern explorer who first unearthed its wealth in gold, precious metals, and crystals. Now, the veins upstream had thinned, their riches siphoned southward, funneled into the ever-hungry coffers of Aurenvia Tollitch.
Each mile dragged beneath them, stretched by unspoken debate. Saylong argued for the safer path further downstream toward Carrestine’s Crossing, where the bridge was wide, the road firm, and the water tame. The chariot was a burden, and he knew Mideas would struggle in uncertain terrain.
Deyra, however, was resolute. She had grown tired of the open road, the endless miles stretching ahead. At least now, the stares came with curiosity, not suspicion. Travelers admired the chariot, their gazes lingering on the gilded frame, the powerful warhorses, the strange sight of a boar nestled in its confines. She pressed for the forests northward, where the trees would shield them, where they could hunt, where she could breathe. The dried meats had grown scarce, thanks in part to Gurrlan, who had ripped into a leather pouch stored in the chariot and devoured a full day’s supply.
Saylong relented. She knew the land. By now, he knew when to trust her instincts.
That night, they camped just south of the forest beneath a sky dusted in stars, the scent of pine thick in the air. The fire crackled softly between them, casting long shadows, stirring half-forgotten memories. For a moment, there was peace.
Just before dawn, the horses jerked their heads and stamped the ground, snorting hard as tension rippled through their flanks. Saylong woke first, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Deyra stirred moments later, reaching for her axe before she had even fully registered the disturbance. But as they scanned the dark, there was nothing. The forest loomed silent, the silvered light of Nyx barely illuminating the treetops. Still, Deyra kept her sword close as she settled back down. Closer still was the battleaxe at her side.
Morning came early, with first light filtering through the pines as forest sounds stirred to life. They rode into the trees at a careful pace, the chariot wheels jostling over uneven ground. The road was narrower than Saylong had anticipated, rough with gnarled roots and stray stones. The Korvan warhorses handled it well enough. The chariot groaned under the strain, rattling with each dip and rise. Gurrlan voiced his displeasure with a deep grunt, shifting his weight, the frame of the chariot creaking beneath him.
Saylong sighed. ‘We should let him out to walk.’
Deyra leaned forward in the saddle, reaching for the reins to slow the horse. Her fingers brushed the leather.
The forest ahead was still. Too still.
A sudden hiss cut through the air. Not a cry. Not a warning. Just motion and speed. The arrow struck her high in the chest, slamming into the muscle near her collarbone and punching her sideways in the saddle. She cried out, one hand clutching the wound, the other scrabbling for the reins.
Blood was already running.
A second arrow whipped past her head and splintered against the trunk of a tree just ahead, shards of bark exploding into the air. The third missed. She didn’t see it. Only heard it sinking into the dirt behind her as her horse veered, skittish beneath her weight.
Mideas reared, a sharp cry slicing through the trees. The chariot jolted as he tried to bolt, its weight resisting the surge. Deyra’s grip on the embedded arrow held a moment too long, and the sudden tension tore her from the saddle, flinging her onto the rough ground.
Saylong reacted instantly, swinging off Telilus and smacking the stallion’s flank to send him into cover. His sword was half-drawn when an arm locked around his throat from behind.
The cold kiss of steel pressed against his neck.
Saylong twisted, slamming an elbow into his assailant’s ribs before the blade could bite. The grip loosened just enough. He wrenched free, turning his sword into an offensive stance just as the man lunged again.
A strangled, furious snort sounded from behind.
Gurrlan was trying to escape the chariot.
He thrashed inside the chariot, tusks slamming against the frame, hooves scrabbling for purchase. He was stuck. The rig had never been built for a beast his size.
Deyra had her own battle.
Three men approached through the trees, their swords drawn, their grins sharp with bloodlust.
She was down on one knee, her breath ragged. Her left hand gripped the sword. Her right hung limp at her side, the arrow still lodged deep in the muscle. The pain flared with every movement.
Her axe was too far. She couldn’t reach it.
They laughed. They taunted.
Saylong’s attacker recovered, lunging again. This time, Saylong met him with cold steel. The clash rang through the trees, metal striking metal in a furious burst. Saylong twisted his blade, slashing deep into the man’s forearm. His opponent reeled back, cursing, and stumbled into the trees.
Behind him, Gurrlan scrambled over the chariot, hooves skidding as he tumbled over the frame. He landed in a heap, shook himself off, and charged. He hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, scrambled upright, and charged.
The first attacker turned just in time to see death barreling toward him, but it was too late to react. Gurrlan’s tusk drove into his thigh, tearing through flesh and muscle in a single brutal thrust. The man shrieked as he went down, his blade slipping from his grasp.
Deyra seized the opening, but she was slow. The pain in her chest dragged at every movement, her right side clumsy and weak. The second man turned on her before she could strike.
Saylong was already moving.
He darted behind the chariot, moving swiftly past its frame and into the fray. He closed in as the third attacker faltered—then turned and fled into the forest like a coward.
The second man, still locked in combat with Deyra, sensed movement at his flank and turned, but too late. Saylong was already closing in. His eyes flicked between them, and in that instant, he saw the mistake. Outnumbered, he faltered, then turned and bolted, vanishing into the forest before either of them could land a final blow.
Gurrlan was still goring the first attacker. The man had stopped screaming. Blood pooled around his body, dark and thick against the forest floor.
Deyra staggered back, her balance faltering. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground, landing hard on her back. Her chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, her head lolling to the side. Her face was pale, sweat slicking her brow. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady trickle from where the arrow jutted just beneath her collarbone.
Saylong was beside her in an instant, dropping to one knee, pressing his palm flat against her uninjured shoulder to keep her still.
She barely noticed him.
Her gaze was fixed beyond him, unfocused, her lips slightly parted. A tremor passed through her fingers as they twitched at her side.
Saylong followed her gaze.
Gurrlan hadn’t stopped.
The man, or what remained of him, lay crumpled beneath the boar’s massive weight. Flesh hung in ragged strips where the tusks had gouged deep, his ribs exposed beneath the torn remnants of his tunic. Blood pooled around his mangled torso, his lifeless eyes staring upward in unseeing horror.
Gurrlan’s breath came in heavy bursts, each one steaming in the air, dense and unrelenting. He dug his hooves into the churned-up soil, his bristled back rising and falling as he loomed over the corpse. There was no hesitation in him, no flicker of restraint. Only the raw, unrelenting instinct to protect. Saylong had seen men die before. Had seen battlefields littered with the dead, with bodies left broken in the mud. This was pure horror.
A low, rumbling exhale pushed from Gurrlan’s snout, nostrils flaring as he lifted his head. His small black eyes found Saylong’s. For a moment, he only stood there, blood dripping from his tusks, his flanks heaving. Then, slowly, he approached and turned to Deyra. He nudged at her boot, his bloodied snout pressing against the worn leather.
Saylong snapped back to her, pressing harder against her shoulder. ‘Stay with me.’
Deyra’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled weakly against the dirt, then went still.
Saylong’s hands were already moving, reaching for the arrow. The wound was severe, deep enough that every second counted.
‘You’re going to be fine.’ He wasn’t sure if she heard him.
Her lashes fluttered. The unfocused look in her eyes hadn’t faded.
He wrapped his fingers around the shaft. Blood slicked the wood.
Deyra’s body tensed.
Saylong exhaled, steeling himself.
And pulled.
Several hours had passed. The two horses were tethered to the trees, their breaths steady, their ears flicking at the sounds of the forest. Saylong had built a fire, wrapping Deyra in furs, his hands moving with quiet efficiency. Gurrlan remained at her side, his massive body curled beside her, snout resting near her arm. He had already lost one master. He would not lose another.
Saylong knelt beside her, pressing a bundle of crushed fern roots to the wound. The blood had slowed, but not stopped. He grimaced at the sight, at the fragile rise and fall of her chest.
He leaned in close, his voice a whisper against her ear, a thread between waking and the dark.
‘The flesh is not the light. It carries it. The body is not the soul. It holds it. And the blood—your blood—does not leave this world alone. It carries you to Tvaris, to the Light, to the essence of what was and what will be. Your breath is not gone. Your essence is not spent. The light still stirs within you. Let it rise. Let it return. Let it.’
He exhaled, his forehead briefly pressing against hers.
‘Let it hold.’
Saylong’s voice was quiet, steady. ‘You do not force it. You do not command it. You listen.’
Deyra stirred, her breath shallow.
‘It is not your hands that heal. It is not your will. You are only the conduit. The light moves through you. Tvaris moves through you. You open the door, and you let it flow.’
Her fingers twitched.
Saylong’s hands hovered over hers. ‘Feel it. Not the pain. Not the wound. Feel what lies beneath it. The thread. The warmth.’
She tried. Only the pulsing throb of pain answered, the raw ache in her chest. Saylong’s forehead pressed to hers. His voice was barely above a breath. ‘Breathe. The body is not just blood and bone. The Light is there. It does not abandon.’
Deyra exhaled. The ache pulsed again. Beneath it, something flickered with a faint warmth, a pull, as though something unseen was waiting.
Saylong did not move. ‘Let it rise. Let it return. Let it hold.’
At some stage during the night, she woke, though only slightly. A cough rattled from her chest, weak but present. Both Gurrlan and Saylong stirred at the sound. That, at least, was a good sign. She groaned.
Saylong muttered instructions, guiding her toward her own essence, helping her find the thread of her gift, the same one that had saved her once before. He squeezed her hand. She barely felt it before slipping back into the darkness of sleep.
By morning, the fire had burned low. Saylong stoked the embers, feeding them back to life as he ate in quiet, ever-watchful. Gurrlan remained at Deyra’s side, refusing his food, his massive form pressed close as though guarding her from whatever ghosts still lingered. Saylong understood his concern. The road lay only a hundred feet from their camp, far enough to avoid unwanted attention, but not so far as to be safe from opportunists. Thieves, if they were bold enough, might return. And if they did, they would have to reckon with Gurrlan’s fury.
Deyra coughed. It was a small sound, but enough to make Saylong stop eating. He was at her side in an instant.
He whispered the healer’s prayer again, the words slipping into the air like threads of something unseen. A tether. A call.
She stirred, her face tightening in discomfort, a groan pulling from her lips. Her eyelids fluttered.
‘Gurrlan?’ she whispered.
The boar lifted his head, pressing his snout gently against her leg.
She coughed, a dry, painful sound, then exhaled sharply and closed her eyes again.
‘Let it rise. Let it return. Let it hold.’ Saylong uttered the words softly, again and again, squeezing her hand in a slow, rhythmic pulse.
The afternoon sun had begun its descent when she stirred again. Her breath came easier now, though still heavy.
‘Gurrlan?’ she murmured.
The boar was already there, nuzzling into her side, his warmth steady and loyal.
Her left arm shifted, fingers threading into his thick fur. She tried to sit up, but the moment she moved, a sharp groan left her lips, her body failing her.
‘Stay there,’ Saylong ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. ‘You’re not ready to move yet.’
‘You gave us quite the scare.’
She exhaled, her eyes meeting Saylong’s.
‘I felt it,’ she said. ‘It was there.’
Saylong nodded. ‘I see it. What was once a dull light is brightening. You’re beginning to understand it.’
Gurrlan pushed further beneath her arm, his snout sniffing at her face. She weakly shoved him away, a small laugh escaping.
‘Ok, ok. I’m fine,’ she reassured the beast.
His tail wagged furiously.
She wasn’t fine. She was still weak, still wounded. Yet she had progressed remarkably. Her gift had saved her. It would still be several days before she could fully use her right arm again, but she would heal.
Saylong handed her a waterskin, watching as she drank before gently inspecting the wound.
‘You wanted to take the forest road?’ His tone was dry, judgmental.
She smiled faintly. There was no thanks. She had made it clear she wouldn’t be humbled into saying it. Even so she was glad he was there. Glad Gurrlan was there. The boar, as if sensing her thoughts, finally gave in to his hunger, devouring his untouched portion of food.
‘We’ll need to stay here for a few more days. You’re not ready to move.’
She frowned, already protesting. ‘We need to get north—’
She tried to rise. Her body failed her again. She collapsed back down with a sharp breath.
Saylong’s expression didn’t change. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re healing. Let your gift do it. We’ll keep training it. Just a couple more days.’
Over the next three days, tension lingered as travelers passed along the road, their gazes wary yet uninterested in the camp. None had drawn close. Perhaps the thieves had taken stock of their wounds and thought better of returning. Caution would be needed now more than ever. The river crossing was still to come.
Deyra was walking around the makeshift camp, though still burdened by the weight of her healing wounds. Her strength had returned enough for movement, and when the drizzle came, she embraced it as if the falling water itself carried renewal.
To Saylong, she had changed. The light within her had grown, no longer a dim flicker but something steady, something certain. She was glowing now, almost as bright as Gurrlan.
A good healer is worth their weight in virtue. Not gold, nor silver, nor anything men could hoard. They were more than menders of flesh. They were stewards of the Light, guiding it, shaping it. The gift was not for the needy. It was not for those who simply begged for its power. It was for those who carried the Light forward, who would bear its burden and let it burn.
By the fifth day, she said she was ready to move. Saylong was hesitant. She was healing, but not healed. Still, she had convinced him. They could waste no more time. They needed to get north.
He had tried to argue. Had told her she would be no good to the North if she arrived dead. But she had only laughed, shaking her head.
‘You don’t need me for your vision, Saylong. The North needs you.’
There was something different in her voice when she said it. Something certain.
They crossed Ruesviasie’s River and moved northward, slower now, as the terrain shifted beneath them. The air had sharpened, colder, the forests thinning into open tundra. Trees stood scattered, dark spires against the widening horizon, and the ground beneath them hardened as they passed into the prairies of the North.
Five days later, they saw the Madita River, the great channel that marked the boundary of home. And beyond it, the smoke of chimneys, the clustered thatched roofs of the villages of Madita. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of hearth-fire and pine resin, something familiar.
Murmurs stirred as they crossed the river, hooves squelching through mud-soft banks before finding firmer ground. A hush fell over them; the weight of return had arrived.
Their pace through the village was slow, deliberate. Heavy footfalls pressed into the damp earth, muffled by softened ground. Evening air clung to their cloaks, sinking into bone. Smoke coiled through the trees, pine-sweet. The distant clang of a smith’s hammer faded into silence. In its place, only the hollow hush of wind remained.
Deyra had returned.
And yet, nothing about it felt like coming home.
Villagers paused mid-task. A mother near the well pulled her child to her side, fingers tightening around his arm as if he might slip away. A group of traders, once engaged in lively bartering, fell to silence, their eyes shifting toward the riders as their expressions turned.
