Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Distant shouting pulled him back into his surroundings.
He scrambled closer to the opening of the den, peeking over the pile of brush that disguised it.
He could hear hoofbeats again, this time coming from the hilltop—the party that had gone up must have discovered the dead bodies in the clearing, now returning to the camp to report their grim findings.
Not if Krujha could help it—the longer the rebel forces were left in confused disarray, the more likely it was that Brugo and his plan would succeed. Krujha slipped out of the den, crossbow in hand, and hid behind a tree near a bend in the path.
Two orcs came galloping by. As they passed Krujha, he aimed his crossbow and fired.
The bolt whistled through the air before it punched through the lead orc’s back and sent him careening off his horse, which bucked and screamed as it kept galloping.
The one behind him shouted in surprise, wrenching back the reins of his horse; but Krujha had already reloaded and fired off the second bolt, catching this orc in the junction between his neck and shoulder.
“To me! Get in formation!” he heard another orc shout from further up the path. “Archer! Archer!”
He turned around and stepped into the path, reloading the crossbow as he moved.
Four orcs had come to a stop on the path up ahead, scrambling off their horses.
Krujha managed to fire at two before they could fully dismount; the final two came sprinting toward him, weapons drawn, and he sidestepped back into the trees as he unsheathed his own blades.
The first had an axe, but was swinging wildly in a blind rage.
He ducked as the orc swung high, the head of the axe burying itself in a tree.
Before he could wrench it back out, Krujha leapt forward and shoved a dagger between his ribs, driving the blade in as the rebel screamed until his hands were slippery with his lifeblood.
Pain tore through his upper arm as the final orc slashed at him with a longsword—swearing, Krujha scrabbled with his second dagger, his bloodstained fingers struggling to get a good grip.
“You traitor!” the boy bellowed, raising his sword. Younger than the rest, his eyes were bright with tears, his face flushed with rage. “You’ve ruined everything!”
“Oh, shut up,” Krujha growled, darting out of the way as the other man slashed at him. This one was more nimble, and it was harder to find an opening. But maybe he could play into his wild emotions instead. “If anyone’s a traitor, it was him. His plans would have gotten hundreds more orcs killed.”
“Liar!” the man howled, swinging viciously.
Krujha kept dodging until eventually the rebel seemed to tire and slow, and he could finally lunge forward to slash his dagger through his throat.
He raised a hand to try to deflect the blow, but Krujha pushed the weak block out of the way, finding his mark.
Panting, he peered back the way they’d come.
The horses had all fled in the chaos, but four dead bodies still littered the path.
He salvaged his crossbow bolts; then shoved the bodies down the hillside, hoping the dry brush would disguise them well enough for anyone who might come later; and finally hurried back to his hiding place.
Krujha risked a look back down at the camp.
He could see clusters of fighting, flashes of magic; but it was all disjointed, as if their forces were trying to rally around a leader who never identified themselves.
And even further away, at the far perimeter of the camp, he could see some orcs fleeing in the opposite direction on horseback—hopefully never to return.
He considered trying to move further down the hill to get closer to Brugo and the elves in hopes a healer was amongst their number, but quickly decided against it.
Here, at least, he could see or hear anyone approaching before they would see him.
If their numbers were too great, this was his best hiding spot; even if Krujha was discovered, there was still the chance that Alwyn would go unnoticed at the back of the cave.
However slim that hope of survival was, Krujha had to believe that every little bit would help.
“Just a bit longer, Alwyn,” he said softly to the silent, motionless form behind him. “We’re so close now.”
In the end, three more groups tried to come up the hill to investigate what had happened, each in such disarray that Krujha dispatched them with only a few more wounds to show for it.
He was lucky they couldn’t seem to rally together without Zesh’s presence, as he was hardly trained as a warrior—he could defend himself, of course, but the vast majority of his training had been to ensure he never got to the point of needing to exchange blows.
From his hidden position, he took the rebels by surprise, killing the most formidable-looking of the bunch with his crossbow before they even knew he was there.
The smell of smoke and blood had long since overtaken everything else; it seemed more and more of the camp was destroyed every time Krujha risked peering back down into the valley.
His clothes were soaked in blood, some of it his own; and despite his best efforts, he had no more crossbow bolts. He’d reused as many as he could, but too many had splintered or buckled beyond repair when he’d tried to retrieve them, until finally none were left.
It was past midday now. The sounds of fighting had since reached a fever pitch, and an eerie quiet had settled over the hill.
Krujha remained in their tucked-away hiding place, waiting for at least another hour—but no more rebels came.
If they did, he’d have no means of defending himself, aside from the blades he’d looted from the fallen orcs.
All the while, Alwyn had remained motionless where he was—alive, but unconscious—his breaths coming in fits and starts that left Krujha’s chest filled with worry.
He had to risk getting back down to the camp now.
Not allowing himself to hope they might have made it, he used the last of his water to rinse the worst of the blood off him, then pulled Alwyn into his arms as gingerly as he could manage.
The elf was so small, so fragile—he could hardly wrap his mind around this being the one who had killed Zesh and his druid, who had so much magic inside him that it set the very sky aflame.
Krujha’s legs quivered under him as he set back down the path, taking each step as carefully as he could to avoid jostling the unconscious elf in his arms. Not just his legs—he realized his whole body was trembling as he walked, though he barely felt the cold of the winter afternoon.
The camp was reduced to a smoking husk; blood had turned many of the dirt paths to mud, and the command tent was a pile of splintered wood and smoldering ash. In the center of the camp, a group of elves and orcs had gathered—he could see Brugo amongst them, calling out orders.
The orc’s eyes landed on him, widening in shock. “Krujha!”
“We made it,” Krujha croaked, finally coming to a stop.
“Where’s that healer?!” Brugo shouted, jogging toward him. An elf pushed through the crowd, hurrying after him. “Krujha, we did it. All the rebels—they’ve either fled, died, or surrendered.”
A weak smile crossed Krujha’s face for only a second. The confirmation was a relief, but a short-lived one—such a victory felt meaningless if Alwyn wasn’t alive to see it. “I knew we would.”
The elf that had been chasing after Brugo came up beside him: a woman with curly dark hair held back with a faded cloth headband. She looked older than Alwyn, but it was otherwise hard to gauge, as it was with so many elves. “This is the sorcerer?”
“Yes,” Krujha said, kneeling down. “Please—he’s badly hurt. But he was the one who—who put an end to all this. Please. He deserves to see the fruit of his work.”
“I don’t have any of my herbs, but I’ll try my best,” she murmured, kneeling beside him. “Oh, he’s only a boy.”
Somehow, that hit Krujha harder than any other event of the day. Tears burned at his eyes, and he turned away, choking back a sob. He’s only a boy.
There was so much more life left for Alwyn, centuries of it still; yet he might see none of it, and die believing for twenty-five years that he was only a tool to be wielded by someone who would never value him the way Krujha did. He deserved so much more than that.
“You did well to keep his skin cool,” the healer was saying. He tried to focus on her voice, soothing and calm now that the initial surprise had passed. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Krujha,” he croaked out. “And—and this is Alwyn.”
“I’m Iefyr,” she said softly, as her fingers gingerly peeled the damp cloth off Alwyn’s forehead. “Krujha, can you tell me how long ago he was injured?”
“This morning,” he replied. As her hands gently smoothed over his face, some blisters seemed to fade. “The fire at the top of the hill—that was him.”
Iefyr nodded, continuing to work silently. Each place she touched, the painful red color of his burnt skin softened—not fully healing, but eventually the burns looked as though they were a week old, instead of hours. When she reached his hands, though, she let out a soft sound of dismay.
“I’ve been healing some of the others who were injured,” she said, examining his fingers. “I have little of my strength left. I’ll try to heal his hands as much as I can, but… I might not be able to do much more until tomorrow.”
“I have someone looting the druid’s tent now,” Brugo said. Krujha nearly jumped, having all but forgotten his presence. “I’ll bring any herbs we find to you. Hopefully, there’ll be something.”
Krujha nodded, realizing that a small crowd had gathered around, elves and orcs alike watching silently. They all must have known who Alwyn was, or at least what he had done—he could see the worry and hope in their faces in equal measure, watching Iefyr heal him.
To them, at least, Alwyn was a hero. The full story, the true story, of what had happened might never make it beyond the ruins of the rebel camp, but these few, at least, would know.
“Let’s find him a place to rest,” Iefyr finally said softly, looking up at Krujha. “Do you want to stay with him, Krujha?”
“Yes,” he said, the word coming as naturally as his own breath. It hadn’t even occurred to him they might be separated. “Yes. I’m not leaving him.”
“Let’s get you both settled, then, and I’ll bring whatever herbs I can find. Tomorrow, hopefully, I can do more—and I worked for a much more powerful healer back in Castle Aefraya. Maybe we can travel together, to make sure he gets the best care.”
Krujha nodded. “Yes. Please. My job here is done. And so is his. We’ll head back tomorrow.”
“I could use you here, cousin,” Brugo said. Krujha looked up at him, glaring. The orc grimaced, adding, “But, well. Maybe someone should send word of what’s happened to Aefraya, too.”
That settled, he gingerly lifted Alwyn into his arms again, carrying him as he followed Iefyr away from the cluster of elves and orcs, and off to a quiet tent where the sick and injured were resting.
It was only when Alwyn was settled down into a cot that Krujha allowed himself to collapse, exhaustion burrowing deep into his bones, and finally close his eyes.