The Fires of Cerran

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen
 

Melran kept her eyes tightly closed as the horrible shrieking rattled in her ears. Even here, within the carriage, the sound was barely muffled, and the sound of crunching bones and blood-curdling screams rang all too clear. Tharandal sat patiently, his face portraying a fake calmness amidst the chaos that was occurring beyond his window. Three men had cambered from atop one of the carriages to battle the beast. It had wandered too close to the party; it was an elder Garthenhog with greying fur and a chipped tusk that now had rotted and was covered in a black fungus. The beast was enraged, and it bellowed loudly as the men stepped forward with their swords held out in front of them. It stamped on the ground, marking it as its own territory and a thick pus dripped down from its snout as it snorted. 
'They should have dealt with the blasted thing by now!' Said Tharandal between gritted teeth. 
'Patience, My Lord.' Said Nemara softly as she flicked through the pages of the book on her lap. She seemed quite peaceful at that moment, as if the calamity outside somehow soothed her. 
'Open your eyes girl! Surely you have seen worse than this! Ha! A fat hog and all you can do is whimper and wallow in sadness.' Tharandal spat his words like venom, every word pointed and as sharp as steel. Melran clutched at her bags tightly, opened her eyes and watched on as two men drove swords deeper into the beast from one side as it clasped a third unfortunate one by his leg and bit down hard. The man screamed as the beast lifted the limb up and ripped it from his body, blood pooled beside the man as he writhed for a few moments, which to Melran seemed so slow and agonising, before he fell silent. A moment later the beast turned, slashing at one of the men at its side with a huge thick tusk, he let out a defiant cry before quickly stabbing at the side of the beast's neck with his sword. The beast let out a loud cry and fell with a loud thud onto the ground. Its back legs fell slowly into one of the shallow pools as it clambered at the muddy ground beneath it. Another sword sunk deep into the animal's hide, with the twisting hilt proving too much for the beast. Melran looked on, tears still falling softly from her face as she held her breathe. 
'You feel his pain.' Said Nemara suddenly. 
'No. But I see it.' Melran replied quietly. She turned, facing the Sister and staring at her with swollen, red eyes. Tharandal sneered, he understood little of the true complexities of the Gallerbond and cared only that he, in his own mind, possessed one to gain favour in the court of the King. Tharandal was a manipulator, a man who was as cold and calculated as any who had come before him. His presence drew men to shiver, though his days were few his power within the Kingdom still held much weight within the true ruling powers. He looked at the girl curiously, gave a grim smile and turned back to face the carriage window. He closed his eyes, imagining the congratulations he would receive from Brodon, and again smiled. Nemara watched Melran closely, her soft skin prickled by the cold air that slowly swept over the carriage and wondered whether the girl knew of true power at that moment. 
 
Not another word was spoken as the carriages made way across the marshes and mudflats of Tu-Ton. The light darkened, and the cold air began to come faster now as the wind gripped the carriages and shook them with greater force with every passing hour. Melran, exhausted and cold, fell to an uneasy sleep as the sun set, and soon after Tharandal too fell to a slumber. Nemara, though her eyes weighed heavy, kept her mind clear and made use of the quiet to read the pages of the Chapter again. The words were so familiar to her that she could recite them clearly and without so much as a pause, yet still she read them. The words would never change, nor should they, but the Sister still found new meaning within them with every reading. As the winds howled, and the sound of an oncoming thunderstorm interrupted her silence, the carriages came to a sudden halt. A knock came from the door closest to the Sister, she closed her book and readied the blade concealed within her sleeve robes before slowly opening the door. A tall, broad shouldered man stood at attention with his sword beside him. 
 'Good evening soldier, how may I help you?' Nemara said with a smile. The cold of the night air hit her fully now, and she shivered involuntarily as it did so. 
 'The night is cold and there are storms ahead my Sister, we request that we shelter for the night and head out again at dawn. The pass through to main road will be -' 
 'You will do no such thing,' said Tharandal quickly. 'We move on through the night. I pay you well enough. Rain never hurt a man to my knowledge Ser Marsden.' 
The man sighed heavily and nodded before trudging through the damp grassless bank and back toward the lead carriage. There was a quick, loud conversation that ended with a disgruntled moan. Tharandal flashed a unapproving glance at Nemara. 
'Storms are dangerous things my Lord.' She said softly, keeping her eyes firmly on the greying skies above them. 
'Perhaps, though I wager my wrath be far more deadly.' Tharandal returned. 
The carriage began along the road again, though noticeably slower and with no real sense of urgency from the drivers. Tharandal rested his head against the soft cushioning and wrapped his robes tightly around himself before grabbing a small peach from a bag that lay beside him. He bit into it, juice dripped down the edge of his mouth and down his bearded chin. He looked toward Melran 
'Your mind is restless.' Nemara said, again keeping her gaze away from the Lord. 
'Her powers, I thought they were only legend.' He said, leaning forward to examine the girl further. Nemara turned, she too examined the girl. 
'Legend? No, this is no legend. This is given. This is a gift from the Sister to us in our time of need. Just as is written.' The Sister returned with a smile as she recovered the girl's legs with blankets. 'Aye, that it is.' The Lord agreed with a rare, authentic smile. His regal features seemed lessened in the darkness, as if his true nature had been revealed with the darkness. 
'The Sister has provided you many gifts, ensure that you repay her.' Nemara said, she met with the Lord's gaze and saw his smile fade. 
'The Sister will require a gift in return?' He asked. 
Nemara nodded and flicked through the pages of her book before handing it to the Lord. He looked at the page, read the text and then slowly read it again before returning a frightened face to the Sister. 
'Is this all she will accept?' He asked, his voice quivered slightly as he spoke. 
'It is what she requests of all to whom she gives such gifts.' Nemara replied. The Lord returned the book to the Sister. 
'Then it will be done.' He replied softly, his voice quieter than before. 
 
The midnight winds continued to howl loudly, with a strong but fine rainfall following closely for several hours more. The mountain pass was a treacherous road for any traveller, but for a large procession of carriages it was by far the most unpopular road in the Western Kingdoms. Tharandal had, during his time in Ceraborn, asked that the road be widened and the mountainside to be chipped away, allowing for easier passage for tradesmen and travellers alike. This wish was denied. The pass, which ran almost three miles in total, was a winding road that narrowed and widened at its own leisure. Eagles were often seen circling the mountaintop, gliding across the winds effortlessly, hunting for white rabbits and small mice that lived in the pass. However, there were no such sights on this night. The coachman saw nothing in the way of nature, the rain swept across his ashen face as he drove the horses to keep steady as the lightning and thunder crackled above them. Ahead, just before the road began to turn off, a smattering of rocks fell across the path as shelf was brought down by the force of the winds. The coachman watched above the procession with keener eyes, though his tiredness was now plaguing his mind with insecurities. He lit his pipe, handing the reigns to his junior before wrapping himself in a damp but warm blanket. 
'I won't be sleeping boy, too dangerous round here for that. Just keep the girls straight and steady and we'll be fine. Alrigh'?' He said gruffly. 
'Aye sir.' Replied the junior, a boy little over sixteen years old. He watched only the road ahead, his weary eyes weighing heavily and his skin tight against the winds. He had little experience on the roadways beyond Cerran, except for a few choice excursions across the Southern Borders and the smaller townships across those thickly forested land. But those had been different, those had been smooth summer rides with wine and fresh bread. They were rides with songs, stories of the Elder folk and faeries, and scandalous tales of warriors and women from across the seas. He thought back to those stories now, they warmed his heart but not his fingers and neither did they relieve his eyes of their tiredness. 
'They're wandering lad.' Said the older man softly, his voice muffled by the robes and blankets that wrapped his tightly. The young boy pulled at the reigns, the horses righted, and the journey continued. This would be no journey of songs or scandalous stories, and bread and wine were nothing more than a distant memory now, and as the thunder rumbled around them, both man and boy realised just how long the night would be. Against the darkness, and with the winds seeming only to grow stronger, the party continued along the mountain pass with great care and trepidation. In the first carriage, three men sat quietly drifting between uneasy sleep and careless conversation. Lord Tharandal commanded a small but powerful legion of men, many the sons of the Lower Lords of his lands, made up of those who had sworn allegiance to the Lord. These men were loyal, decent and honest men who wore the sygil of Tharandal without hesitation.  They did not say a word about the Garthenhog, a letter was drafted by the most senior member to the mother of the fallen guard. It was the first letter Ser Marsden had written in several months, and that was something that he was quietly proud of. Ser Edgar Marsden was a proud Kingsmen, a gentleman who held his heart upon his sleeve but also had the determination and cunning required of a man who hoped to climb the ranks of the military. Marsden had seen little in the way of warfare, and for that he counted himself rather lucky. He had dealt, briefly he admitted, with the Et Tobi tribe in the Northern Ridges of Myaman in the East, thought that was barely more than an uncoordinated assault that resulted in far more casualties for the enemy than for the men of the West. During that time, in late summer, Myaman was a place that was plentiful with traders and sailors from all corners of the lands. Sailors from the West, along with those from the other Eastern kingdoms, docked along the coastline hoping to trade in linens, fruits and sugars and earn quite the price for them. You see, Myaman was a harsh place past Summer, a place where long days of golden sunshine would be robbed and replaced with a blanketed darkness that brought with it cold artic winds and fierce thunderstorms. The people of Myaman, although scattered in great tribes that lived in an uneasy union more so than in any form of organised society, found refugee during these months by living in an ancient city built thousands of years prior and extending deep into the earth beneath the luxurious cities that the tribal leaders had built. This place was Deryan, or in the Western tongue it would be called The Ancient City, and it was home to almost twenty thousand men, women and children. There were six layers to Deryan, each interconnected with miles upon miles of carefully constructed tunnels that were reinforced with huge timbers and iron supports. The lowest layer was home to the cattle, and the grain stores, whilst the layer above was home to a marketplace and prayer rooms and sacrificial chambers where the people of this ancient metropolis gave thanks and praise to the Gods they served dutifully. Further to this, the place was home to massive oil and wine presses, with enormous wooden vats held under close guard. Food stores were kept cold and housed dried fishes and meats that were packed tightly and salted to preserve them during these dark days. Barrels of fruits, often kept in sugars or syrups, were kept behind large iron bound doors. During these months the people of Deryan came together in almost all respects, with three families often living in a small quarter with little more than a small fire pit and whatever they had managed to bring with them from the main city. Ser Edgar Marsden sat quietly as he thought about that place now, with his eyes glancing off into the distance and almost hoping that by some miracle he would be pulled from this dark, cold and thunderous place and returned to the caverns of that ancient city. But this was nothing more than a dream now, and as he regained his composure, he signed the letter of bereavement and packed it safely within his cloaks for safe keeping.
 
Soon after, and with the night giving way to a damp but light morning, the carriages made way along the narrow paths of the mountains before coming, at last, to the other side. A long, quiet stretch of road now saw them cross the border into Cera and would lead them South towards Ceraborn within the next day or two. They saw no other traveller during that journey, instead passing only small villages and townships that were not even large enough to have been named on the maps that they carried with them. And they continued on, through morning and into evening, to Ceraborn.