A Shade of Paradise

Chapter 4: Weep For What Is Lost

Mendar groaned in muted agony as the wooden baggage train bumped and shook, traversing the waterlogged mush of the forest floor. Muddy water fanned outward, splashing his face with foul smelling slush. He lay there, his face pressed against the wooden barrier mounted on the side of the wagon. Dark red still found its way into the puddles and rivulets that flowed down the uneven ground, branching off past the gnarled maple and Oak roots, like an intricate spider web.

The blood never left them. The blood of knights and would be heroes, the blood of house Giles and its men. And his blood of course. He craned his neck to the side, watching the dark, crusted blood that plastered his punctured mail to his chest, fresh, gleaming crimson leaking slowly out the side of the wagon, leaving his body like the sands of an hourglass. Gradually counting down his time, his, precious, so limited time to live.

He was not the only one. He could hear the wretched moaning of other men, shackled to the soaked, damp wagons that thundered down the sodden, winding forest path.

Even the pain that flared through his chest could not dull that distant truth that left him drifting through an utterly empty void, hanging limply on the bed of a blood soaked wagon.

He knew it was not raining, but it appeared as if every Spruce they passed, every stone they passed, was viewed through a blurry, grey film. The edge of his vision tapered off into a soft blurred line, colours were nowhere, yet everywhere at the same time. And the sounds. They were twisted and warped. Every noise was a different, higher pitch, as if screaming to be heard over the incessant buzzing that flooded his ears.

Riders clad in hard boiled leathers patrolled the collumn, riding up and down the baggage train to survey its progress and to ensure that it did not fall behind; the muddy season prevailing despite the white mantle of winter that covered the treetops, made for treacherous ground for the wagons.

Once again, Lord Cresthold felt the need to fill the eerie silence that shrouded the trees. The trees see everything, even the shadows, Mendar thought dimly.

" We must have waited well on fifteen years," Orion said to his new subcommander, "for the bastard to die. Now we can finally have peace. With Lord Giles dead, our work here is effectively finished."

"I'm sure the league will recognize your efforts my Lord," the subcommander said.

"Of course they won't," Lord Cresthold snapped. "The Council and the League do not have an adequate understanding of what peace constitutes. They are unable to grasp the fact that for peace, we must be willing to do anything. Anything at all"

The baggage train rolled on, yet the snorting of the mounts nor the creaking of the axles were able to puncture the soft, looming shroud of silence. The trail up ahead was far thinner, forcing the mounts to ride single file. Twisted, protruding branches slapped the faces of the men, sending pine needles into their eyes and flesh.

Cracking branches sounded behind them, reverberating off the boughs of the trees, throughout the gloomy forest. The rearguard turned abruptly, their eyes wide and alert, muscles tense.

"Damn it" Orion muttered when it became evident it was only the weight of the snow that had caused the branches to break. "Let's get out of this place."

Mendar shut his eyes, breathing in the cold, steel air, sucking it through his nostrils. The bolts that had punctured his chest had embedded the burst links of mail into his raw flesh. He strained against the ropes that bound him to the wagon, reaching for the waterskin that hung by a wooden post from the cart. A mercenary watched his feeble efforts gleefully laughing as Mendar's hand shook and trembled, unable to reach the water.