The Onyx Throne - Ch.68-70

Chapter 68

"Are you sure? One more game before you have to leave, aye?"

"Apologies, good master Elgrin, but we must be on our way. With the last of our purchases being delivered, it is time for us to go. We have many miles to cover today."

Lethelin touched her thumb to her heart and her head and bid him farewell.

"Aye, as you say," he nodded more than a little disappointed. "But do come and see us again."

"If it be Stollar's will," Mitchell said as he tightened the straps on his pack. The extra thickness of his new armor required some adjustments. "We enjoyed the stay. And the room."

"Yes, the room is quite nice," Lethelin agreed.

"Stollar's will, aye," he nodded causing some of the trinkets woven into his beard to jingle. "Safe travels to you both."

With that, Mitchell and Lethelin headed back towards the western gate. The sky was still dark off to the west but the first hints of light could be seen creeping up over the tips of the peaks some miles to the east. The air was crisp and cool as they passed under the stout wooden beams and started upon the path back to Gilriel's. From the corner of his eye, Mitchell saw Lethelin wince ever so slightly and there was a hitch in her step.

"What's wrong?"

She gave him a sidelong glance and he saw a little color flair in her alabaster cheeks. "My ass is still a little tender from last night. You could have healed me when we were done."

Mitchell grinned.

"I could have, but then you wouldn't have it as a reminder today. I like that it makes you remember all that we did."

"That's kind of the problem," she said under her breath. "I can't stop thinking about it and it's making me wet! I want you to rip my clothes off and take me in the middle of the road!"

Mitchell pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

"That would certainly get them talking seeing as we're still in sight of the town."

"It would," she agreed, with a thoughtful look. "Although, an audience might be fun."

"We'll ask Allora when we get back."

"Oooo," Lethelin said with a sly grin.

They weren't through the trees more than a few minutes when a black void emerged from the dense underbrush and began to trot alongside Mitchell.

"How was your night alone?" Mitchell asked the shadow cat.

"Frustrating. Hunting is poor this close to the two-leg settlement. And you would not let me eat the other two-legs, even though they are not friends."

"Not if they are no threat," Mitchell repeated the instructions he'd given Vras before they entered Clayfaire. "If we are attacked or in battle, you are free to do whatever is necessary to protect yourself or me and the girls. But until then don't attack any of the two-legs."

Vras sneezed indignantly but didn't argue. As they walked, Mitchell noticed that Vras's head was now even with his waist. It hadn't even been a month since they'd found him in the mountains and he had nearly doubled in size. Mitchell recalled the damage dogs like pit bulls could do to a person and knew that Vras would make chew toys of a pit. He shuddered at the thought of what his companion could do to a human even now.

Mitchell reached out his hand and scratched behind Vras's ears.

"It's good to see you though. I'm glad you are safe."

The cup ends of Vras's tentacles spread open and they picked gently at the back of Mitchell's hand as he scratched the big animal. The creature had enough control over the little claw-like hooks that it used to latch onto prey that he could tug at the skin of Mitchell's hand but not break it.

"I, as well."

As they walked on, setting a quick but not hurried pace, the morning turned into afternoon and the sun climbed high. It was warmer today than it had been previously and Mitchell found himself sweating under the extra layers of the gambeson and brigandine. The weight was inconsequential, especially with his increased physical strength, but it was definitely harder to keep cool. And he could feel where it didn't fit quite right and he wasn't looking forward to the chafing he knew would follow. He had been tempted to take it off but Lethelin warned him not to.

"It's better to get used to it now. And you'll have to begin sparring in it as well. It will throw off your balance and timing and you have to learn to adapt. Even with the light armor I wear, I had to spend time practicing in it."

Mitchell sighed at the inconvenience, but didn't argue with her. He remembered back to his time as a captive and the mercenaries wearing their armor, even in the heat of the desert. This wasn't nearly that hot and if those bastards could do it, he knew he could handle this. He shifted it around, wiped some sweat from his face, took a drink of water, and pressed on.

Vras turned out to be surprisingly good at keeping them on the path. He could smell their trail from when they had traveled this way the day before and so there was no time lost as they tried to stay on course by following landmarks that they had memorized before leaving the grove. While Mitchell believed what Lethelin had told him about the gods here sometimes being capricious, it was hard to see Vras as anything but a gift. Their shadowy companion set out to roaming far ahead of them out of boredom at their much slower pace, but always returned after a while, sometimes with something in his mouth to offer to Mitchell, sometimes not.

"I think he likes checking up on you," Lethelin said bemusedly after Vras showed up after nearly an hour away, circled them a couple of times, sniffed, then bounded off into the forest again without a word.

"He said he has to protect the tar s'thyr, so I think he looks at it like his responsibility."

"If he wasn't a nightmare made flesh, it would be sweet."

It was getting close to evening with the sun dropped low enough that Mitchell could no longer see it through the canopy when he decided they should think about camping. They'd made good time but hadn't been pushing hard. He figured they had another four to five hours of walking before they got to the grove and it was just as easily done in the morning.

They found a relatively level patch of ground between the squat and gnarled trees and Lethelin began to clear away a space for a fire while he gathered up wood. As he stood up with the last few branches for this load, a strange smell hit his nose.

He had grown accustomed to his sharper senses overall, but occasionally something would stand out much more than something else to the point that it drew his attention. This was one such instance. It smelled...

Mitchell inhaled again and turned into the wind that had been blowing from their backs as they walked southwest from Clayfaire.

It smelled like a gym locker room. Mitchell wrinkled his nose at the foul odor like old sweat and unwashed towels. Why would...?

Mitchell's eyes went wide as realization hit him. He dropped the bundle of wood and drew his sword.

"Leth!" he called in warning back toward the camp and began to sprint the short distance.

"Balls!" Mitchell heard from somewhere behind him. "Go now!" the voice shouted.

Mitchell heard the unmistakable sounds of bow strings releasing. Not even stopping to think, he snapped the blade burst spell into existence as he ran. The spell formed around him almost instantly and his vision was clouded slightly by the spectral forms of thousands of arcane knives spinning like a cyclone with him in the eye of the storm. Sure enough, he heard the sound he had learned to recognize in his practice. At least two arrows hit the spell and were sliced to splinters. Mitchell let the spell run its course and didn't cast it again, trusting the cover of the trees to shield him from whomever was behind him.

"Close in!" the gruff voice called. "Move!"

The clearing was up ahead and Mitchell could see Lethelin just standing up with a confused look on her face.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Lethelin's bright green eyes started to widen seeing him running full tilt with sword drawn. He heard the sound of another bow string behind him and he started to yell at her to get down but it was too slow. Everything was too damned slow!

Lethelin saw them, then. Whomever was behind. Her hand began to reach for her own bow, but it was too late. The arrow that had been fired was not coming for him, this one had been aimed at her. Mitchell had no spell to stop it.

The arrow came streaking in from Mitchell's right and it took Lethelin high in her chest on her left side. The force of it spun her around, her gorgeous coppery red hair spinning in a wide arc and she fell.

"No!" Mitchell screamed as the world sped up with startling quickness.

Three more meters and he was in the clearing. Lethelin was down and on her side moving but she wasn't getting up.

"Mitchell," she coughed. "I... I've been shot."

"Don't move!"

"Wasn't planning on it," her voice was high and tight, her breathing starting to get ragged through the pain.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of several sets of footsteps. They were closing in.

He kneeled down to try and assess her. The arrow has passed clean through and the barbed tip was sticking about three inches out of her back. Small favor, he thought. He didn't think it hit an artery but there was still a steady stream of blood coming out of the wound. There was no way he had time to dress it, though. They were coming.

"Fuck!" he snarled and spun to face his attackers.

He could see four of them darting through the trees wearing light tan and green clothes. Not the best camouflage among the darker browns and deep greens of the forest, but they weren't really going for stealth. He saw one peek from behind a tree and a bow fired again, but Mitchell was ready this time. He dodged it easily, not even needing his spell. His vision had no trouble tracking the arrow and he took a step to the side. The arrow slammed harmlessly into a trunk behind him.

Mitchell returned fire with the arcane missile spell and he was rewarded with all of his shots landing solidly into the tree where the one with the arrow had fired, but it was just to force them to stay behind cover. He hadn't expected the attack to hit. Still, he was pleased to hear a string of curse words at the sudden explosion of bark.

"You're going to have to do better than that, you fucking cowards," Mitchell taunted.

He could feel his anger growing in his chest, like a blast furnace stoking to life. They had come up on them in secret, attacked without warning, and now Lethelin was hurt. The embers of his rage surged hot and all consuming. There would be no mercy for these men, whomever they were.

"Where's the knight, boy?" the gruff voice called from his right. He had a strange accent that Mitchell hadn't heard before. "She's the one we want."

Another movement from his left. In the growing darkness, Mitchell saw sparks of light about twenty meters through the trees and he heard the crackle of electricity. Diving behind the nearest tree, arcane lightning arced through the clearing passing just a few feet above Lethelin's head. She screamed and tried to cover herself, crying out in pain at the sudden movement.

Mitchell thought furiously. There were at least four of them and they were spread out, forming a semi-circle around the camp. There was at least one magic user. Lethelin was down and she was hurt bad. Going for either side would not only leave him exposed to the two behind him, but also leave Lethelin undefended. He needed a distraction. He needed--"

A growl sounded from above his head. Mitchell looked up and saw a shadow among shadows crouched on a branch with glittering emerald eyes.

"There you are!" he said, relief washing over him.

"Maula is bleeding. Did the other two-legs do this?"

"Yes! They are here to attack us. They want Allora."

"Who's he talking to?" one of the voices called out.

"Balls if I know. Maybe he's using a message spell," another voice answered.

"Get in there, Dennik! You and Larin go from the left and I'll go right with Henerton."

"Are you sure it's even him? We haven't seen the knight all afternoon."

"It's him. And if it's not, I'll head back there and take that old drunk's head myself. If the knight's not here, he knows where she is. Now get in there or I'll feed you to the nearest troll!"

The low growl coming from Vras's chest grew in intensity and Mitchell once again felt the hairs all over his body stand on end. It must be some sort of instinctive response to hearing the sound of one's own death, he figured.

"May I kill these two-legs?"

"Mitchell... I don't feel so good." Lethelin said.

She lay on one side, her head at an odd angle. The arrow sticking out of her back wouldn't let her lay flat.

"Kill them," Mitchell said coldly as he looked up into the eyes of, to use Lethelin's own words, a walking nightmare. "Go for the magic user first. Then, take the other one on the left. Show them the power of gratha. I'll take the two on the right."

Mitchell could just make out the ear flick and then Vras was gone. Even watching him move away down a branch, Mitchell couldn't hear a thing. He wondered for a moment if he should pity the men for what was about to happen to them, but then Lethelin coughed and groaned and that thought vanished from his head like a cockroach hiding from the light.

"You boys really fucked up today," Mitchell called out around the tree. He needed to buy a little time for Vras to get into position.

Mitchell could hear them creeping closer. He could even judge the distance. Two sets of feet, moving cautiously over the uneven ground, maybe just four or five meters behind now. Their breathing was deep but even. No panicked breaths. They were cautious but confident. This wasn't their first rodeo.

Then there were the two on the right, a little farther back. They were going from tree to tree also, but not as quickly.

"How you figure that, boy?" the gruff voice said with a chuckle. "If the knight was with you, I'd be worried sure enough. Any man would. But we've been following you since we caught your trail this morning. It's just you and the fiery haired one. So, I think we'll be okay."

Mitchell laughed then. He laughed loud and long and he actually felt a couple of tears roll down his face.

"You..." Mitchell sucked in a breath through the last few chuckles. "You really should have watched more closely, then."

"Eh? Why's that?" Confusion was clear in the man's voice.

"You figure he's gone crazy?" a new voice asked. Henerton, Mitchell assumed.

"Because," Mitchell called back to them through panting breaths, "there weren't just the two of us."

Chapter 69

From Mitchell's left, there was suddenly a blood-curdling scream. A scream of such utter terror that it sent ice coursing through Mitchell's veins. There was a flash as magic split the darkening forest, but the spell must have not had the desired effect.  

"Help! Larin! Larin! Help It's a--" 

Whatever words that poor bastard had been about to say ended in more high-pitched wailing and then the forest went utterly silent. No night birds chirped, no insects hummed and the air had stopped. It was as if the forest itself knew death stalked the branches and everything was trying to go unnoticed.  

"Dennik!" screamed a voice to the left. "Dennik, where'd you go? Balls and cock, man! Say something!" 

"That must be Larin," Mitchell thought.  

"What in the nine hells happened?" the leader screamed out, panic making his voice shrill.  

"I don't know! Something pulled Dennik up into the trees. Something--Oh, balls and fucking taint!" The man screamed.

"What is it?" the gruff voice shouted.

"It's his fucking arm! His fucking arm just dropped down from the tree!"

Mitchell began to hum an old tune, discordant and ominous. Then, when it got to the line he wanted, he called out in a sing-song voice, "I am the devil, and I'm coming for you."

Once again, he lamented not being able to say it in English as the cadence and intonation worked so much better, but he wanted them to understand his words.   

"What do we do, sergeant? There's something in the trees."

"Oh balls," Lenik screamed out. "Sergeant, there's something he--" 

The screams started again. And they kept going this time.   

"Sergeant! Help! Ahhh..."

"Larin!" the voice of the sergeant rang out. "Henerton, get over there and help him."

There was no response.

"Denass burn your soul, you coward! I'll see you flogged for this!"

"Mother! Mother help!" the dying man screamed into the uncaring night. Those were the last actual words that he ever managed to say. The rest was nothing more than shrieking. Closing his mind to the terror of the poor bastard who just had the unfortunate luck of meeting a gratha, Mitchell made his move. He knew he wouldn't get a better chance. He hated the man who'd shot Lethelin, and still those high, pitiful screams were turning his bowels to water. He couldn't imagine what it was doing to his friends.

With the sounds of the man's torment filling the night, Mitchell bolted from the tree and veered just to the left where the one called Henerton was standing, crouched behind a tree about three meters behind where Mitchell had been. He could see them clearly, even in the gloom. Hernton was a stocky human, about thirty years old or so, with a day's growth of stubble on his squarish face. He had on a leather helmet fashioned in the same color as his light tan and green clothing and Mitchell spotted a gambeson not unlike his own under the cloak he wore at his shoulders. He had a sword in his right hand and, when Mitchell broke from behind the tree, he saw him looking over about two meters at where his sergeant, whose name Mitchell still didn't know, was also crouched. He was an orc, Mitchell now saw, and a big one. Then again, Mitchell had yet to see a small orc. Maybe they came out of the womb six-and-a-half feet tall.

Seeing the size of the orc confirmed his decision to go for the smaller human instead. This way he could focus all of his attention on the former and not have to worry about his back. As he charged, he fired three quick arcane missiles at the sergeant to keep him pinned long enough to take care of Henerton. It had the desired effect and the startled orc dove behind the tree to avoid the streaking bolts of energy flying at him.

"Fucking taint!" Henerton shouted and brought his blade up to meet Mitchell's strike.

The man had been startled, but not as much as Mitchell had hoped. His training took over and he was only put out for a second which meant Mitchell was going to have to work a little harder for this one.

Their blades clanged together and Mitchell felt the power in the stocky man's form. He was shorter than Mitchell by a few inches, but he was very broad in the shoulders, and his arms were thick. He grunted under the force of the Mitchell's attack and swore as he was driven back a few steps.

Mitchell knew he had only moments before the big orc was at his back. He needed to put this man down fast. He could already tell the armor his opponent wore would deflect arcane missiles so he opted for a firebolt instead. As they broke apart, Mitchell fired a quick blast towards the man's face, which he ducked while bringing his sword around to swing at Mitchell's midsection, forcing him back a step. Yeah, this guy definitely knew what he was doing.

Mitchell met the strike, parrying it with ease and riposted back, aiming for the man's neck. It was his turn to dance back now as he barely avoided the strike.

Just then, Mitchell heard the orc behind him and, on instinct, he cast blade burst and, as the swarming blades erupted into existence, he was rewarded with a scream of pain from behind him. Not bothering to turn and look at the damage he just caused he advanced on Henerton who was starting to panic as he tried to stay clear of the wall of death scything towards him.

"Balls and taint!" the man screamed, diving to stay clear. "Dennik was supposed to deal with magic users!"

"Dennik's dead," Mitchell snarled. "Like I said, you fucked up."

Mitchell was already charging as the spell dropped and, this time, he caught the man unprepared as he had not recovered from throwing himself out of the radius of the spectral blades. His sword came down in a powerful two-handed swing, right at the spot where Henerton's shoulder met his neck.

Mitchell had swung so hard he nearly cleaved the man in two. Blood and gore erupted from the body as his insides were ripped asunder. Mitchell blocked that part out, knowing he would deal with it later, and turned to face the commander.

The orc was picking himself up where from where he'd stumbled back from the blade burst and his whole left side was a web of cuts. His armor had blunted the worst of it, but several had gotten through and he was bleeding freely from dozens of slashes. The big man was breathing heavily and it sounded to Mitchell like a snorting bull.

The orc looked down at his ripped leather and fabric gear and ripped it completely off.

Then something happened which Mitchell was not prepared for.

The orc sucked in a mighty breath and he roared. But this wasn't just a battle cry. The orc's skin actually glowed momentarily, his own personal St. Elmo's Fire. As the sound washed over him Mitchell's legs went weak and his fingers nearly lost their grip on his sword.

The orc seemed to grow in height as Mitchell watched, swelling until he looked eight or nine feet tall. Mitchell had to run! This thing would rip him apart. He--

Mitchell felt a pressure in his mind and suddenly the orc shrunk back down to his normal size. Which was still roughly seven feet, but not the hulk he had been before. It was like the larger vision simply melted away and Mitchell blinked. Then he felt control returning to his limbs as the feeling that he had to run vanished.  

"That big fucker tried to use a spell or something on me," Mitchell thought to himself. "Some kind of mental effect." 

Then is mind flashed back to Luvari telling him that he couldn't be charmed and wondered if this was some kind of similar effect that the stone shielded his mind from since he hadn't actively resisted it. Either way, he shook the spell off and, not wanting to waste any more time, charged the big fucker.  

He lept forward, closing the couple of meters in a flash and came in with his sword low. The orc was ready though. His reflexes were shockingly good for someone so large. With a roar he brought his blade up and stopped Mitchell's cold and then lifted up a leg and kicked Mitchell in the chest, sending him flying back into a tree.  

Mitchell's world went white for a moment as he struck the unforgiving wood and rolled to the ground. He blinked to clear his vision, pushed the ache in his chest and back to the side, and forced himself up. The orc was coming, his heavy footfalls like drum beats in Mitchell's mind.  

Mitchell was on his feet just in time to see the large sword swinging for his head and he half dove, half fell and tried to turn it into a roll as the thick blade sent a chunk of wood spinning into the night.  

"Fuck!" he yelped at the sheer power of the strike. He was definitely swinging for the fences.   

The ground was soft and uneven, and Mitchell kept getting tripped up by roots as he backed away, and the orc just kept coming. Mitchell rolled again, dodging another powerful swing. The commander's green-black eyes were wild with his battle lust, and they tracked Mitchell's every move with laser-like precision.  

Finally, Mitchell was in a relatively level patch of ground, and he was able to stand up and meet the orc's advance. There was no time to fire off anything, as the creature's sword was moving even before he'd closed the distance. Mitchell brought his up to meet it, and they clanged together loud enough to make his ears ring. But, to his surprise, he found he was able to match the big man's power. The orc flexed and bore down, but Mitchell had his balance now, both feet firmly planted, and he grunted and pushed back.  

From either side of their crossed blades, they glared at each other. The orc's tusks gleamed wet in the faint light of Ithstasy just filtering through the trees and the orc's body glistened with the blood from the cuts he'd taken early on. And the smell!

Mitchell growled and pulled up a reserve of strength from somewhere and shoved, actually pushing the orc back a step. Once he had a little bit of space Mitchell brought his blade around and went for thing's throat, though the orc blocked it easily. But Mitchell wasn't really trying to hit the neck, he was trying to create an opening.  

As the orc moved to deflect the blade, he had been expecting Mitchell to resist it as they had before. But instead, Mitchell let go of the sword with his left hand just before the orc struck and let it go limp in his right. It forced the enemy commander to overcommit and, when he met almost no resistance, the momentum pulled him off balance and left his side exposed. Mitchell made a fist and punched as hard has he could into the exposed left side of the orc. It was like punching the side of a slab of beef ribs and there was a meaty thwack but Mitchell also heard the crack of bone as the slab of beef gave several inches.  

"Fuck yeah," Mitchell thought in triumph. "I've got superhero strength now, asshole!" 

The orc howled in pain and back handed Mitchell across the face, which sent him flying back on his ass, dazed.  

"And that's what I get for gloating," he thought as he struggled to sit up, the whole side of his face feeling like he'd been hit with a meat tenderizer. Thankfully, the orc wasn't moving much better.  

As Mitchell staggered to his feet, ears ringing, and feeling his own blood running down his neck, he saw the orc listing to one side, favoring his unbroken ribs. He still held his sword in his other hand, and he wasn't out of the fight, but Mitchell had definitely taken the spring from his step. They glared at each other across the open space.  

"I'm going to kill you and eat your fucking heart," the orc snarled, his voice like gravel rolling around in a bucket. He let out a ragged cough then and Mitchell could see the blood flying from his mouth. Definitely some broken ribs.   

"Then," he wheezed, "I'm going to rape that little whore back there and cut her throat." 

From the trees above the orc's head, Mitchell saw a flash of emerald green. Vras was there, his grisly work with the other two long since concluded. He was staring at Mitchell expectantly. Mitchell met his gaze briefly, and gave a subtle shake of his head. Mitchell would finish this on his own. He knew he could match the big thing's strength now, and, despite the throbbing in Mitchell's head, the steady drip of blood from where he'd taken a backhand across the face, and the ache in his ribs and back, he knew the orc was worse off than he was with at least two broken ribs. No, Mitchell decided. The big fucker was his.   

"What's your name?" Mitchell asked him. Despite breathing heavily, his voice, while raspy, was flat and even.  

"Brogak Oglan." 

Mitchell nodded.  

"After I send your soul to Denass, I'll say a prayer for you. And if I ever meet your dock whore of a mother, I'll be sure to tell her what a punk bitch she had for a son." 

Mitchell used his best approximation for punk bitch in Common that he could think of and had no idea if it held the same weight, but it was enough.  

Brogak roared and started to rush forward, albeit much slower than he had before, and Mitchell saw more blood coming from his mouth as the broken bones shredded his lungs.  

Mitchell had the orc's number now, though. No more surprise attacks, no more tripping over roots and trying to keep his footing. He was a motherfucking arcanist who had been trained by not one, but two Onyx knights.  

"Fuck this guy, dude," Mitchell thought to himself.  

He did something he'd never done before. Mitchell had been told that he didn't need to point his hand to aim his directional spells but it was something that he'd always done. Indeed, according to Revos and Allora, it was what most magic users did. There just seemed to be something psychological about it. Whenever he cast arcane missile or fire bolt, he threw his sevith hand out. But he didn't need to. He could direct it out of his forehead or his elbow if he wanted to, but that always seemed kind of stupid. Mitchell wanted to get off his shots with both hands on his sword, however, so he decided now was as good a time as any.  

Functionally, there was no difference as far as the spell was concerned. He just moved the mana to a different part of his body to before he visualized pushing it through the rune. The spell would form itself regardless. So rather than direct the mana to flow out of his hand, he directed it to that third eye spot right on his forehead, and launched an arcane bolt, looking straight at Brogak's face as he did so.  

Brogak was no green recruit, though. Even wounded and bleeding from dozens of small cuts, he was an experienced soldier. Perhaps he expected something like that, but he ducked to the side, his steps not wavering as his sword started to rise. Only one of the missiles struck, but it had the effect of blasting his left ear clean off his head. He howled again as he got within striking distance and their blades clashed again, each of them executing a series of slashes that the other defended against. Even wounded the big fucker was strong and fast. But he was slowing, his breath a wheezing gurgle as the broken ribs took a heavy toll. How he was able to keep moving through the pain, Mitchell couldn't even fathom.  

Mitchell's blade was faster and on a quick riposte it found its mark in Brogak's right thigh. The orc screamed as Mitchell slid in further and twisted before yanking it free with a spray of blood that splatted on the ground. Brogak went down, his leg no longer functioning. Even still, he was only down a knee, but he was bleeding out fast.  

"God damn, you fuckers are strong," Mitchell cursed in English, his chest heaving.  

Then Brogak tried to stand once more. Mitchell was so stunned he almost didn't react as he saw the orc growling once more and lunged for him, sword arm weak, but still moving. He jerked back in surprise, knocked the blade aside easily and followed it up immediately with a thrust into the orc's throat, punching out the other side, severing the spine.

A wet gurgle of air escaped from the wound, his body twitched, and finally slide to the ground and didn't rise again.

"What the fuck do they feed the orcs around here?" Mitchell swore as he sagged in relief.

Just then Mitchell felt a nudge against his hip and jerked to see Vras standing there, his coat glistening with gore.

"Good job," he told the shadow cat, and scratched between his ears. "Come on, let's go check on Leth." 

Mitchell limped his way over to Lethelin.   Vras went down on his stomach and watched expectantly. Mitchell chose to ignore the blood and gore covering his maw. Her face was unnaturally pale and she had barely moved in the few minutes since she'd been shot. Her breathing was labored as she fought through the pain but she was conscious, which Mitchell took as a good sign.  

"Still with me?" 

"Well, it's nice here," she said, her voice strained. "And I figured I could wait until you were done. Maybe take a nap." 

He grinned at her as he reached to sit her up and she gave him a weak smile. Then she saw his face.

"I'm not an expert or anything, but I don't think you're supposed to stop punches with your face," she said, her sarcasm still intact.

"You should see the other guy," he grinned through the pain. "Let's get you up. Because, I'm not an expert or anything, but I don't think you're supposed to catch arrows with your body."

Lethelin winced.

"Yeah, I walked into that one, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Now, are you ready? This is probably going to hurt." 

"Yeah, just do it." 

Mitchell slipped a hand under the shoulder that was pierced by the arrow, slipping it into the soft ground beneath her, and she sucked in a breath but didn't cry out. Once he had a firm grip, he put his other hand behind her head and cradled her neck.  

"Good?" 

"Mmhmm," she grunted through clenched lips.  

"On three."

"Three what?" 

Mitchell blinked. Did they not do that here?

"I will count to three and then lift. So you can get ready.  

"Does that make it better?"

"I don't know, it's just something we do right before something painful."

"Okay, then." 

"One... Two..." Mitchell lifted.

"Stollar's fucking balls!" she screamed as he lifted her into a sitting position. After a few deep breaths and a moment where it looked like she might pass out, she glared at him with pain-filled eyes. "You said three! You went on two, you fish-brained jivi fucker! Balls and fucking taint!" 

"Yeah," he said sheepishly. "That's kind of what we do, also. The idea is that you will tense up on three and it will hurt more." 

"I don't see how!" she snapped. "If I could reach Mira, I'd stab you and see how you like it! I'll count to three first though, so don't fucking worry!" 

"Okay, my bad," he said. "I'm sorry. But you're up and I'm going to try and get this thing out of you."

"Do you know how?" 

"Not exactly, but I've got a pretty good idea. The good news is the arrow passed all the way through so I don't have to push it through myself. I know enough to know that trying to pull an arrow out the other way is a very bad idea. But I'm going to snap the shaft and pull it out from your back and that's not going to be pleasant. After that, I'll use the healing spell and try to repair as much of the damage as I can. I can give the second-circle spell a try, it's more powerful. I don't think it hit anything vital. I'll use the minor healing to stop the bleeding straight away, then work on the second-circle spell to repair the internal damage. Okay?" 

Lethelin stared at nothing as she absorbed his words, fat beads of sweat dripping down her forehead.   

"Leth, you with me?" 

She blinked and eyes cloudy with pain focused on his.  

"Okay. But no more bloody counting. Just tell me when you're going to do it." 

Mitchell nodded.  

He positioned himself off to the side and gripped the shaft of the arrow as close to her shoulder as he could with his right hand to steady it. It had barely jostled the projectile but even that prompted her to groan. Then, he bought his left hand up and gripped next to the first, leaving about two inches of the pale wood exposed.  

"Are you ready?"

She was panting through her nose, her lips locked tight and tears had started leaking from her eyes but they stayed locked straight ahead. She gave him the briefest of nods.  

As firmly as he could manage and trying to minimize any flexion on his right hand, he snapped the back of the arrow off. He snapped it easily, but there were still a few slivers of wood that he would need to deal with.  

To her credit, Lethelin didn't scream, but the moan through her clamped lips was evidence enough. Sweat was pouring off her now, dripping down her nose, and her chin and her shirt was soaked through. He reached for her other dagger and, through her groans, shaved away the bits of wood that were most likely to drag through her skin as it was passed through her.  

"How you doing, Leth? Talk to me." 

Her eyes fluttered and he felt her start to sway but she managed to flick her eyes up and meet his.  

"Just finish it," she panted.  

Mitchell nodded once and moved around behind her. There was more blood here. Comparatively, the entry wound had bled less, but the exit wound was bigger, with more tissue damage. Mitchell supposed he should be grateful that there wasn't something like hollow-point arrowheads that expanded on impact here.  

As Mitchell stared at the few inches of the arrow that protruded from her shoulder, he tried to decide if he should pull it quickly or pull it out slowly. He settled for somewhere in between and, if things started to go bad, he would yank it out.

"Here we go." 

Lethelin's breathing quickened and he began to slide the shaft out. It was strange how smoothly it started to move. It must not have felt smooth to her, though. She gasped and then sobbed as Mitchell extracted the blood-stained shaft.  

"Mitchell!" she moaned as she started to shake.  

"Almost done, baby. Almost done." 

He hated how much it was hurting her but he also knew there was nothing he could do about that. He watched as the end of the shaft disappeared into her shoulder and saw blood well up in the wound, his eyes more than good enough to perceive it even in the darkness.  

Just a little more, and...

The arrow came free and Lethelin sagged against him, her sobs coming freely now.  

Mitchell immediately cast his first-circle healing spell and was pleased to see the bleeding begin to slow and finally stop. The skin started to heal over and she uttered a sound of relief rather than of agony. Then, worrying that the simple spell would not be strong enough for anything more than superficial wounds, he fished out his book and spent a few minutes reviewing the form for the second-circle spell.  

"This isn't so hard. It's just a few additional channel lines around the inner lattice of the rune. They only loop once. The basic spell is the same, I just need the extra channel lines to handle the additional mana."

"Only once?" Lethelin mumbled, her strength nearly exhausted. "That's good." 

Mitchell cast the spell a couple of times to try and firm up his grasp of it, and it only lost cohesion the first time. The resulting feedback was uncomfortable, but nothing serious. Once he had it, he cast it on Leth's wound and found that he could get a sense for how much the spell was repairing by how quickly the mana flowed into her body. After just a minute or so of the higher-level spell, he felt a strange sensation on the outflow of magic. It was almost like her body was pushing back against the influx. Mitchell dropped the spell and saw that Lethelin had already fallen asleep against him.  

He laid her down gently and grabbed a blanket to cover her.  

Vras moved then, the first time since the whole ordeal started, and rested his head on the previously wounded shoulder and sighed heavily.  

"Maula will be okay," he told the cat. "But I need you to watch her. There's something else I must do. Keep her safe until I get back." 

The cat flicked his ears and settled in.  

Knowing that she was as safe as she was likely to be at the moment, he grabbed his sword, re-sheathed it, and stepped into the night.  

Chapter 70

Even in the dark, Mitchell had no trouble picking his way along the uneven ground clogged thick with roots and fallen branches. Following his nose, he backtracked the path they had come and which their attackers had traversed as well. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for.  

He spotted Kole before Kole spotted him. The disgraced city guardsman was bound up tight and secured to a tree next to a number of rucksacks and bedrolls. Moving quietly, Mitchell made one circle around the area to make sure there were no surprises or that the squad hadn't left someone behind to guard their prisoner before he stepped into the patch of pale moonlight in front of the man.

Kole jerked against his bonds at the sudden appearance of another person and then his eyes went wide with abject terror when he saw that it was Mitchell's bloody and battered face and not one of the mercenaries.  

"Denass, mother of night and darkness, protect me," he whimpered.  

"What did you do, Kole?" Mitchell asked him quietly, his voice like cold iron.  

"They caught me! Caught me trying to lift some coin in a market! They was gonna hang me. I had to tell them something! Please! They was gonna hang me as a thief and a bandit!" 

"You are a thief and a bandit." 

"You lot sent me off with nothin'!" Kole cried. "I needed food! I needed supplies! What was I supposed to do?" 

"And so you told them about Allora. Tried to bargain yourself out of your punishment," Mitchell said as he put the pieces together. "How did you know?"

The sniveling retch of a man half cried half cackled.  

"Weren't hard to figure out. They've been searching for her for well on two years now. Beautiful, black-haired elf with violet eyes, carries herself like a queen. Once I sobered up, I knew who she was. Knew they'd want the reward for bringing her in or killing her and they might let me go. But they made me go with them. I had to go all the way back to where you lot found me and we picked up your trail. Lost you a few days ago not too far from here and we headed back to Clayfaire to regroup when I spotted you and the red-haired one leaving the town this morning." 

Mitchell nodded.  

"You spoke an oath under the sun to never steal again. And after I spared your life." 

"Yeah, well, that oath didn't put food in my belly, did it!  

Mitchell looked at him for a long time. So long that the man began to squirm under the intensity of Mitchell's cold gaze.   

"Do you know why I spared your life that morning, Kole?" Mitchell asked. "It was because I didn't want my first official act to be an execution. Killing your partners in combat was unavoidable, but executing someone is different. So, I chose the path of mercy. And in doing so, it nearly cost me my life and the life of someone I love dearly." 

"So, what? Are you going to kill me now?" 

"No," Mitchell said, quietly as he raised his sword. "You are already dead."

He thought of Allora's words on the foot of the mountains outside of Belikir.

"You were dead the moment you stepped foot on the path of breaking your oath to Stollar. I'm just the instrument of your justice." 

"I--" Kole began, his eyes starting to widen but his words were cut off as Mitchell thrust his blade into the man's heart with enough force to go clean through his body and into the tree on the other side.  

Kole's body seized and he stared at Mitchell with incomprehension clear on his dirty face. Mitchell did not blink, did not look away. He watched as the life drained from the thief's eyes as surely as the blood drained from his ruptured heart. Only when the final breath left Kole's lungs did Mitchell retract his blade. His body hung limply from his bonds.  

"Denass, mother of death and darkness, receive this soul and judge him as you will," Mitchell intoned, trying to recall the prayer he'd heard before. He wasn't sure if he got it right, but it was close enough.  

Then, he turned and headed back to Lethelin.  

***

"You did a fair job, I'd say. Your first time with the second-circle spell?" Gilriel asked as she inspected the arrow wound.  

"Yes," Mitchell told her. "It wasn't much more difficult than the firstcircle spell. I got it on the first try. Why are there still scars, though?" 

Mitchell had hoped that the skin would heal smooth and as good as new, but the next morning when they'd awoken and he'd checked on it, he could see the pink and puckered skin of a fresh scar on the entry wound and more disfigured flesh on the back. Lethelin had said it was still a little tender to the touch, as well.  

"More serious wounds will leave scars behind if you don't use a high enough spell," she explained. "You started with a first circle spell when it probably should have been at least third. It's also why she's likely to be sore for a few days yet.  

I just heal her again?" 

"Eh, you could," Gilriel explained, her old instructor voice back on display. "But it wouldn't help much. The tissue has been repaired, but because you only used a second level, there wasn't enough mana to set it back one-hundred percent. There's nothing to really heal anymore, it's not a problem of damage, it just needs time." 

"If you all are finished talking about me like I'm a thing, I'd like to put my shirt back on," Lethelin said a little testily.  

"Go on girl," Gilriel chuckled. "Was that your first time getting shot?" 

"Yes," Lethelin said as she slipped the shirt back over her head, wincing as she had to flex her arm and shoulder, and started to lace up the collar. "I've shot people plenty, but it was my first time taking an arrow. I don't like it." 

"It's not pleasant, I agree," replied Gilriel. "But you did alright. The arrow missed anything vital and Mitchell's healing took care of the rest. Go on and rest up until dinner." 

"Thank you, Lady Gilriel," Lethelin said as she made her way into the house leaving Mitchell, Allora, and Gilriel alone in the yard.  

"It was Kole," Mitchell explained. "He identified you and tried to use the information to avoid execution." 

Mitchell then proceeded to tell them all that had happened now that Lethelin was given the all-clear. That had been his first priority, even though she insisted that she was fine beyond some stiffness and soreness. When he got to the part about backtracking and finding the former guardsman tied to a tree, Allora reached for his hand and held it as he told of the conversation and the execution.  

"Do you regret sparing his life that first time?" Allora asked him gently.  

Mitchell inhaled through his nose and let it out in a huff.  

"No," he said. "I still think that was the right thing to do. But..." 

He struggled with how to explain his feelings about it now.  

"In my own world, I was against what we call the death penalty. Executions for crimes. Our system of justice, while better than many, also has some big flaws in it. Many innocent people have been executed over the years. I never supported it. I also didn't think it was right for a state to punish people for murder by killing people in turn. But I executed Kole and I'm not even sure I was wrong to do it." 

"You had no doubt about his guilt," Allora said. "He admitted his crimes to you." 

Mitchell nodded.  

"I know. But... we say in my country that justice is supposed to be blind. It doesn't matter who you are, you will be treated fairly and judgment will also be made without regard to one's race, gender, or position in society."

Gilriel chuckled.  

"I suspect that doesn't work as well in practice." 

Mitchell wobbled his head, which still felt strange to him.  

"No, it doesn't. But that's the ideal. I believe in that ideal. I am against the death penalty. But when I was standing in front of him all I could think about was that Lethelin had nearly been killed because of him. If it had not been for Vras, I would likely have been killed as well. I couldn't have taken four of them on my own. Not yet. So, I don't know if I killed him for justice or for revenge." 

Allora and Gilriel were quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts.  

"We have a saying where I'm from," he said at last. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown." 

"Hmm," Gilriel said. "I like that. And it's true enough."   

"You will have many such decisions to make in the future," Allora told him. "But I have faith that you will make the correct ones. You are a good man, Mitchell Allen." 

He smiled at her.  

"I don't think I could ask for higher praise," he said and brought her in for a kiss.  

*** 

They rested in the grove for another four days. Mitchell worked on his sword play and spells and practiced his reading skills which were still far behind his speaking skills. The evenings were spent around the fire pit or in the cabin when it rained. They talked, shared stories, and enjoyed what Mitchell knew to be the last bit of quiet before the storm. Beyond the borders of Gilriel's warded enclave, his enemies were waiting.  

The night before they were set to depart, Mitchell found Gilriel in her garden. The rain had stopped some hours before and the ground was still damp, but she was still there tending to her plants. The air was so clean and pure in this place that he felt like he'd never really breathed before he stepped into the forest. She heard his quiet footfalls and looked up to see him stopping at her fence.  

"Night blooms berries," she told him as he watched her pruning a long, willowy plant with pinkish-red petals. "They only bloom in the dark and I have to trim away the dead petals to get the best berries. They're handy in potion making." 

"I'd like to learn some of that one day. When I'm not trying to save a kingdom and all that." 

"It's useful.  I took it up when I moved out here. My potions fetch a fair bit of coin when I head to one of the villages to sell them."

"Can I ask why you left Lorivin? Allora told me that knights almost never leave the service but you did. Right around the time Baylor became monarch."

Gilriel stood up slowly from her pruning and fixed him with a level stare.

"I would imagine," she said, her voice carrying a subtle note of warning, "that she also would have told you that I didn't give her the reason when she asked me either."

"She did. But I wanted to ask you why myself."

"I'll tell you the same thing I told her. It was a long time ago and it has nothing to do with anything now."

Mitchell nodded. Truth be told, he had not expected her to give him an answer but he thought it worth trying.

"If I wouldn't give the answer to Allora, whom I've come to love like my own daughter, what made you think I would tell you?"

"I didn't think you would, honestly. But I had to ask anyway."

"Why?" she peered at him.

"Because I want you to come back with us."

"Ha! Stollar's cock, boy. I vowed I would never set foot in Lorivin again and in eighty-four years, I never have. I'll not go back for you nor anyone."

"I'm not asking you to go back for me or for Allora."

"Then you've got no coin left to barter with because Allora's the last person in the world I care about and not even for her would I do it."

She began to step carefully around her plants towards the gate.

"I'm asking you to come back for Awen. To do your duty."

That brought Gilriel up short.  She turned around and Mitchell could see the anger building up beneath the surface.

"What did you say to me?" she asked. Her voice was low and hard and promised violence.  

"I think you heard me."

Mitchell knew he needed to tread carefully here. He needed to push her but if he pushed her too hard, he didn't know what she might do. One thing Mitchell was sure of, though was that they needed her and she had been in hiding for long enough.

"You swore an oath to protect the monarch and to protect Awen. You--"

Before Mitchell could finish his sentence Gilriel's krisa flashed and Mitchell felt his body bound up in invisible bands of force and then he was lifted up off the ground and shoved back into the wall of the house. He struck the vine-covered stone hard enough that he saw stars for a moment. As his vision cleared, he was met with the sight of Gilriel stalking through her garden now, heedless of the carefully tended greenery. She smashed right through her fence. She stopped only inches from his face, her face a cauldron of anger and eyes like glacier ice.

"Do not ever speak to me of oaths, you festering pile of troll shit! You think that heart stone gives you the right to speak to me of oaths and duty? It does not. I was serving Awen before your grandmother first got on her knees and sucked your grandfather's shriveled cock! I was born into the Knights and was fighting and killing for the crown before my eighteenth high sun. You do not get to tell me of my duty, you nameless whoreson! You are not the monarch yet and even if you were, I would sooner take council from a toothless cloud addict than an off-worlder who picks up a sword and thinks himself a king who can speak to me of my oath. Do I make myself clear?"

Her eyes burned holes into the back of Mitchell's skull and he could feel the bands of force squeezing him tight enough that drawing a breath was becoming difficult. Mitchell had no doubt that this woman could end him. He'd come a long way since he first arrived but he was not so stupid as to think he could really defend himself if Gilriel actually decided to hurt or kill him. She'd probably forgotten more about how to kill someone with a blade, magic, or her bare hands than Mitchell had even learned yet. But he couldn't let that stop him.

"Awen," Mitchell grunted, fighting to talk as his chest was constricted, "Will die--" he sucked in a small breath. "If. We. Fail," he coughed and dragged in as much air as he could. "And you. Will be partially. To blame."

Mitchell's lungs were burning and he could feel his head growing hot as he fought to draw breath.

That seemed to resonate with Gilriel as, for the first time, he saw doubt flicker through her eyes. The bands of force constricting him began to ease and he sucked down several deep breaths. Mitchell tried to exploit the gap in her certainty.

"I think you could tell yourself that there were other knights," he said, still feeling winded. "Before the coup. You could hide here and it wasn't really a big deal because the other knights were protecting Awen and Baylor. But that's all gone now. Allora is all that's left."

Gilriel was starring at him now, fear beginning to replace the rage.

"Allora and you. Maybe you told yourself that you were just on vacation and one day you would go back. That you weren't really abandoning all that you swore your life to. That you weren't abandoning your oaths. Maybe that helped you make it alright in your head. But it's not alright anymore."

At once, the glow of her krisa winked out and the spell holding him vanished. Mitchell dropped the few inches to the ground and braced himself against the wall to regain his balance.

She stepped away from him and turned her eyes towards the forest. Then he saw her head track upward to where Ithstasy was about a third of the way across the sky, peeking through the scattered clouds left over from this afternoon's rain.

"I don't know much," Mitchell said softly as he walked up beside her. "I barely know what's going on half the time. And the other half I'm just making up as I go along. But I know what Allora has sacrificed to keep her oath and in the name of her duty to Awen. I know what she has suffered. In the face of all that, in the face of an entire army hunting for her, of watching her friends and family get slaughtered, of traveling to an alien world alone, with nothing more than a hope and a prayer to keep her going, she kept her oath. If you can tell me that you have suffered more, have sacrificed more, than that woman sleeping on the other side of this wall, then I will never speak of this again."

In the forest beyond the clearing, the sounds of the night filled the air. The wind kicked up and blew strands of the elf's hair free. She was old enough to be his great grandmother but she was an elf and she looked like a woman coming into the kind of beauty that only maturity can bring about. The moonlight played across her skin and Mitchell could see lines of moisture trailing down her cheeks that glinted in Ithstasy's glow.

"But if you can't say that," Mitchell continued. "Then I ask you to remember your oath and to return to Lorivin and help us save Awen. She needs you."

Mitchell lifted his hand up and rested it on her shoulder. She jumped at the sudden contact but she didn't look away from the sky, nor did she speak.

"Goodnight, Lady Gilriel."