Oracus: The Lavorian Rider

Twenty-Nine - Confronting A Demon

The sound of battle was getting louder. The clanging of swords was no longer confined to the wall, it was now spreading through Tallarin's streets and advancing towards the palace.

For the third time, Oracus tried to stand. This time, he managed to hold himself up, despite the dizziness creeping up on him again. But it wasn't just his head that was sore, he'd damaged his back while fighting Gravaz and now he was struggling to move.

"Oracus, sit back down!" Kivali ordered.

"But we can't stay here," Oracus argued. "I need to go to the palace and you all need to fight."

"What's going on?" Bandor said inside Oracus's head. "I can sense your apprehension."

"I just saw Catania again and she needs help."

"Then I'm coming with you," Bandor insisted.

"No, Bandor. Help them to fight and make sure Kivali stays safe. I can handle this alone." Oracus could sense Bandor was uncomfortable leaving him. "Honestly, I'll be fine." He turned his attention back to Kivali. "I can't fight, but it's unfair to have two Riders and two Lavorians sat in a barn while Jowra's soldiers continue to slaughter ours."

"But I can't want to go anywhere without you," Kivali said.

"You can and you will!" Oracus forced. "Bandor will be with you and he'll tell you if I'm in trouble."

Kivali frowned but acquiesced. "Fine," she said. Then she wrapped her arms around Oracus in a farewell hug and he felt his heart lift. "I'll see you in the palace," she finished. With a final sorrowful look at Oracus, she led Onca and Bandor out the barn and out of sight.

When Oracus stumbled out the barn himself, he took a moment to gather his bearings and then followed the streets uphill towards the palace. By the time the palace was in sight, the pain in his back was beginning to overwhelm him and he dropped to his knees. He couldn't walk any further, and although the palace was no more than a short sprint away, it may as well have been on the other side of Pharia. It was so close – Catania was so close – but he was too weak to get there. He fell on his face on the wet streets of Tallarin, and when he finally blacked out, he travelled further away from the palace than he had ever been before.

*

The air that had once been fresh with the smell of cut grass and pine trees was replaced with an air full of smoke and death. The stench made a young Jowra heave.

King Amarad's forces had arrived in the small village of Emsbleek and Jowra had been ordered by his father to stay with his mother and sisters in their tiny wooden home.

"But I'm fifteen," Jowra had argued. "I can fight with you!"

"You're old enough to be the man of the house. And you need to keep the women safe if I don't come back." His father had held his shoulders with those rough but warm hands and fixed him with a challenging glare. Then he had embraced the girls and left with nothing but his pitchfork.

Jowra retched again. His father would likely never return. Emsbleek was a village of shopkeepers, not fighters, and King Amarad was ruthless and renowned for his relentless pursuit of power.

"Why is he attacking our village?" Jowra asked himself as he wiped vomit from his lips. "We aren't a threat."

The sobs of his mother brought Jowra to compose himself. He looked out the front of the house and saw an evening sky bright with the orange of fire, and black smoke rising in tendrils above the houses that were alight. The soldiers were getting nearer to them, and Jowra noted the closeness of the screams coming from villagers.