The crisp air swept across the face of the mountain as the early morning sun rose from the horizon to chase away the shadows. Pitched on the hillside were tents; a small group of canvas shelters, inhabited by the soldiers of Denton. Movement was scarce around the fires and between the tents, for the men were sleeping—resting from the long and strenuous battle through which they had put themselves not two days prior. They were now returning to their homeland in defeat, though not entirely empty-handed. The prisoners, commandeered during battle, were bound in a separate tent. As the rays of sun drove through the openings of the tents facing east, the men, blinded and able to sleep no longer, rose and stumbled out of their tents. The fires, which had nearly died during another uneventful night, were once again stoked and roused for the morning meal.
Shamus Wyman, the leader of the small band of men, crouched on a rock high above the camp and looked back in the direction they had come. As he scanned the horizon, he thought of all the men he had left behind, all those who had died valiantly on the field of battle. They died for their country; they died for me. This thought, and the guilt it contained, weighed heavy on his heart and seemed to pull him further into his thoughts of defeat. Where do I go from here? Where is my path to lead me next? These thoughts and more haunted him as ghosts, not from the past—one riddled with failure—but ghosts of the future, his future. His men relied greatly on their leader, and looked up to him with unfailing respect and admiration; for that reason along he could not quit.
He rose slowly, his eyes locked on a faraway strand of trees where his archers had been during the battle. Swiftly, he turned away, unable to bear the poignant thoughts of his actions. He made his way back to camp, steeling himself against the fear and the lack of confidence and readying himself to talk to his men. They will not respect uncertainty, he told himself as he strode up to the tent holding the prisoners. Flinging back the tent openings, he stepped inside.
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"Move along, you dogs!” the shouts kept coming from their guards, as did the endless blows from the guard’s whips. While not continuous, the lashes came at just the moment when the captive slowed his pace enough to displease one of his captors. The chains binding their wrists began to wear the skin raw, and one man’s was already bleeding from the cuts. The three men were being pulled along with the wagon, connected to the wooden cart by a rope and collar about their neck; this inhuman leash also helped speed up their pace.
Prince and acclaimed warrior of Torase, Caden Darny was flanked on either side by two of his closest comrades. Their captors, the soldiers of Denton, were quite unaware of whom their tallest captor was; which, for Caden, was rather fortunate. As a young man, Caden’s parents were killed and the King of Torase, Thanos Darny, adopted Caden as his own and raised him as a warrior. Thanos’ sole intention for Caden from the very beginning was to mold him into one of the greatest warriors Torase had ever seen.
Caden nearly fell, but caught himself before spilling both himself and his compatriot Lorin into the snow. He was half-carrying his friend, for Lorin had incurred battle wounds which still festered and could not use his right leg.
On their right was Faolan Daire, the third Dentonian captive and the greatest archer Torase had ever known. However, while his talent with a bow was greatly acclaimed, his talent with knives was legendary. No man in the known world rivaled Faolan when it came to throwing knives, and he was quick to prove this when the opportunity presented itself.
After righting both himself and Lorin they hurried the more to keep pace with the rickety cart. The cart was one of many and held a portion of the Dentonian soldier’s food, as well as serving as an arsenal where the surplus of arrows and swords were kept. Caden, Lorin, and Faolan kept moving behind the cart as the sun slowly moved from east to west across the cloudless sky, and wished once again for the night to descend, to end their torture.
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Six days passed and the prisoners were pushed forward, moved deeper and deeper into enemy territory. As dusk approached and the sun sank low in the western sky, the Dentonian army made camp on the bank of a swift-flowing river. The tents were rapidly erected, and then fires were kindled to prepare for dinner. The prisoners were once again secured to a stake inside a small tent and left for the night with no food. Lorin was growing weaker as the days went by, and Faolan was fading fast as well. Caden had overheard some of the guards complaining that the two men were slowing their progress, and this upset him more than anything; for he knew once the soldiers grew weary of being slowed down they would be quick to dispose of the problem.
“Men, you must continue if you are to survive,” Caden urged. “These soldiers will not hesitate to kill you to save time in their return.”
Lorin groaned in painful agreement, though he did not know how he would be able to continue. Faolan heard nothing, for the tired archer was already asleep, sleeping away the fatigue of the long day. Caden stared at the sleeping form of Faolan for a long time, thinking of their plight, trying to find a solution to their problem.
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Shamus Wyman was seated at a long, wooden table deep in the confines of his tent. Maps and charts of the surrounding areas littered the table, illuminated by the candles set at the head of the table. Their wavering light aided Shamus in his search for a faster route through this ravaged wasteland and into a safer region of Denton. Shamus’ features were sharp and defined, and his shoulder-length hair was jet black and tied back to prevent it from impeding his vision. At the moment, his brow was furrowed with many concerns which accompany such a high-ranking position. His face was weathered and tan; years spent on the battle field had taken its toll on the warrior, but his appearance was of little concern to him. Dressed in a tunic and slacks, he had been readying himself for bed when he was suddenly troubled about the pace at which they were traveling. He feared that, at this rate, Thanos and his horde would catch them before they reached the river and the safety of the castle on the far bank.
“Sir, Nevan is here to see you,” a guard announced from the door of his tent.
“Let him in,” Shamus called.
He looked up as his captain stepped into the doorway, standing at attention in full salute.
“General, sir.”
“At ease captain. What is it that you need from me?” Shamus asked as he resumed his inspection of the maps on his table. Nevan shifted in the doorway; he was not accustomed to coming to the general without being summoned, but this was important, and needed his attention.
“Sir, two of the prisoners are weak. In fact, they are too weak to keep pace with the men, and this has caused us to slow our pace.”
Shamus immediately saw a solution to the problem that had been bothering him all night.
“Kill them.” With those words Nevan knew he had been dismissed. He turned and strode from the tent, back to the holding tent.
Shamus smiled to himself. That had solved the dilemma of the slow pace his men had been keeping over the past few days, and it also eliminated some of the baggage he would rather not have along anyway. He would still have one prisoner, and by the looks of him, the strongest had survived and would be kept as a war prize to be presented to King Jaclyn when they returned. Tiredly, he rolled up the maps and folded the charts; blowing out many of the candles he settled down onto his bed and slept peacefully, for a while at least.
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Faolan stirred as Caden shook him roughly awake.
“Say nothing. Make ready to leave,” Caden whispered unnecessarily. Faolan had nothing, and was already prepared to run. He swung his arms around and realized that Caden had somehow removed the chains that had bound his hands for the last week.
“Where did you get that key?” Faolan whispered back as Caden loosened Lorin’s chains and shook the other man awake. Caden helped Lorin to his feet and turned to Faolan.
“I swiped it from the guard when they pushed us to the ground last night.”
Faolan smiled at his friend’s wit, careful not to laugh aloud. He and Caden approached the tent opening with caution and looked out to where the night watch was patrolling.
“I have been watching these guards and have observed their patterns. This one to the right will walk out of view in just under a minute, followed shortly by the man on the other side. We will have only a few short minutes to escape and get as far as we can before we are seen. We must be swift.” Just as Caden finished explaining his observations they lost sight of the first man, followed shortly by the second.
“If we are to go, it must be now,” Faolan urged, and they left.
Darting from the shadows of one tent to another, the three fugitives made their way slowly across the darkened camp, taking care to stay out of any light and clear of any guards. Lorin needed help moving and his two companions took turns aiding their friend. Soon they heard the soft whinnying of horses and knew they had come to the makeshift stable—which was nothing more than five long poles driven deep into the ground with a canvas stretched over the top to shelter the horses of the officers.
Suddenly a shout went up from the location of their abandoned tent. The three Dentonians knew that time was precious, and Caden quickly unfettered a horse and saddled the beast. An arrow flew through the air, right past the Caden’s ear and lodged itself in Lorin’s chest. Faolan and Caden watched the life fade from their comrade’s eyes in stunned silence. Faolan was the first to move and he quickly lifted Lorin’s lifeless body onto the horse and yelled at Caden.
“Get on the horse and ride. I am going to find a bow and distract the guards.”
However, he was too late. Caden had already started moving off and as he faded into the night he shouted back, “Ride Faolan, I will catch up with you later. You know where to meet me.” With that last phrase, Caden faded into the night. Faolan turned and loosed another horse, grabbed the reins of both horses in his hand and mounted the second. Bowstrings rang out as the guards pursued his friend, but Faolan resolutely brought both the horse carrying his fallen friend and his own to bear. Giving the horse a good kick he sent him into a run—directly at the archers.
The horses were upon the pack of bowmen before they could turn and face this new threat. They had been concerned with the prisoner fleeing on foot, and had failed to notice the second man. After scattering the archers, Faolan raced through the rows of tents and out of the parameter clutching the reins of the second horse so that he could not escape. As soon as he was clear of the archer’s range he turned his attention to searching for his friend and saw a fleeing shadow to the east, racing toward the tree line. Suddenly, his friend was surrounded; in horror Faolan could do nothing but watch from so far away.
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Caden had managed to shield himself from the archers by turning a corner and ducking behind a tent, though he could already hear them moving. He raced through the rows of tents, which by now were beginning to stir with activity as the soldiers, confused and sleepy, rose to see what had raised the alarm. He stopped only for a second to grab a sword, and out of nowhere, an arrow streaked through the air and grazed his back, cutting deep into the skin in a long thin line. Blood began to seep from his back and soak his torn and dirty shirt. He ran even harder and ducked once again behind a tent on the edge of the encampment. There was a mass of confusion somewhere in the camp, and it sounded as if it came from where the archers had been positioned. Caden wondered what could be causing such disorder among the enemy, but it helped him to escape even farther into the blackness, so for that he was grateful. Crouching low to the ground, he moved as swiftly as he could, but this lasted only a few seconds. Before he knew it he was surrounded by the enemy, and they were still coming from the trees—appearing as if from thin air. Caden stood his ground and fought as he never had before. One soldier after another fell to Caden’s sword, and still he kept fighting, moving and dodging, his movements fluid—the movements of a warrior.
Shamus stood and watched from a distance and marveled at not only the skill of the young warrior, but at his heart as well. The boy won’t give up, he thought.
Caden slowly worked his way through the line of soldiers until his back was to the tree line thus limiting the amount of men he would have to face at once.
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Nevan sighted down his bow at the lone warrior who had already killed so many of his men. He waited for the perfect opening, and as Caden swung his sword to deflect a blow from his right, Nevan released. The arrow streaked forward and struck the warrior below his shoulder, knocking him back. As he stumbled, his foot caught on some low brush and he plunged backward down the steep incline of the mountain.
Nevan watched with satisfaction as the young man fell from view, then walked slowly back to his fire and, after realizing that he was not going to get any more sleep that night, readied himself to break fast.
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As he fell, all he felt was cold. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his chest, his body, and he tumbled down the sharp slope of the snowy mountain. Coming to rest at the bottom, landing in a bank of snow, the last thing that he remembered was the wet snow soaking through his clothes, freezing his skin, and then it all went black.
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General Wyman continued to watch, even after his prisoner had fallen to his certain death, as his soldiers—careful not to fall off of the ledge themselves—leaned over to see if they could spot the man who had fallen from their sight mere seconds ago. After satisfying their curiosity and convincing themselves that he was dead, they made their way back to camp.
Shamus admired the young man. He had held on for quite some time, and it looked as if he may have done so for and indeterminable amount of time, but alas all such things must end. The boy was the enemy, and better he be dead then cause further death among his troops. Slowly, he turned from the scene and strode back to his tent. They had to move out soon, and he had to prepare. One good thing came of tonight: they no longer had to worry about the weak prisoners slowing them down. Grunting noncommittally, he pulled back the flap to his tent and stepped inside.
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Faolan watched in horror as his friend and leader took an arrow to the chest and then fell from the ledge down the cold, high mountain. Anger burned through him and he rode the harder, making his way to the ledge, trying to find a safe passage down. He would search all night if need be; whatever it took, he had to find Caden.
