11. Road to Ruin
Road to Ruin
Faren
Could you have been any more odious toward our hosts?” Faren asked, striding after his escort as she hurried away from the homestead.
“Yes.”
“Mariana—”
“I did not ask for your critique,” she bit out. “Nor tea, for that matter.”
“You were unnecessarily harsh.”
“The world is unnecessarily harsh.”
“All the more reason to extend kindness to those who—”
Mariana whirled, halting him in his tracks. Her cheeks were tinged with red, breath swirling around her face. Her expression was hard, unyielding: brow furrowed, nostrils flared with anger, the scar on her upper lip paling as she practically snarled at him.
“What do you know about harsh, hmm, Faren?” she seethed. “You went from noble family to Mighty knighthood. With your privileged existence, I’m surprised harsh is even in your vocabulary.”
“You think it was easy to become a Mighty Knight? I earned my position with years of training and—”
“Kowtowing,” she interrupted, “to a corrupt Lord for the sake of glory.”
Faren blustered. “Our Lord is not—”
“Oh, Fates, just stop. He can’t hear you,” she said, gesturing at the surrounding gloom. “You won’t become a captain by defending his honor to a lowly criminal like me.”
“How do you know I want to be a captain?”
“All of you want to become a captain.”
Faren balled his fists. “The cruelty of your sentence does not mean Lord Haron is corrupt.”
Mariana laughed, a mocking sound that was at odds with the eerie peacefulness of the fallow field in which they stood. “You don’t know how wrong you are.”
“Corruption is a serious accusation,” Faren insisted.
Mariana lifted her chin. “Do I sound unserious to you?” She gestured at his chest—his armor. “You might’ve found me harsh this afternoon, but at least I wasn’t flaunting my armor like an egotistical ass.”
“Mighty armor is a symbol of honor and protection,” Faren argued, irate.
He wanted to prove her wrong about his Order, to show her that it was not ego that gave him and his fellow knights purpose, but a deep sense of devotion.
Faren gestured in the direction of the homestead, which was already shrouded in mist, hidden from view.
“Rural folk are the lifeblood of Fenrir. My armor is a reminder that I serve them; it’s meant to inspire, invoke trust.”
“The gold plating on your chest is more wealth than most folks in these parts will earn in their lifetimes,” Mariana said. “Do you know what they feel when they look at that? Not comforted or inspired, but supplicant. Lesser.”
Ironically, it was he who felt lesser in that moment.
In fact, Faren had never felt so belittled while wearing his golden breastplate.
It disturbed him how diametrically opposed their views were about the Mighty, how easily Mariana misconstrued his duty for shallowness.
What if what she said was true and her opinion was shared by others—not just criminals, but commoners?
Had he intimidated Orna and Pete? The idea troubled him.
But at least he hadn’t been intentionally harsh. Mariana could chide him all she wanted, but her behavior this afternoon was still distasteful.
Faren scoffed. “I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t have to,” Mariana replied tartly. “In fact, it’s better you don’t bother trying.”
For reasons he couldn’t grasp, he wanted to protest that statement. But she was right. She was here to be his guide; he was here to assess Yar and uncover her secrets; mutual understanding was irrelevant. And yet he stared down at her anyway, trying to solve the mystery of her in his mind.
Faren had, for the better part of the past four days, spent his time learning what he could about Mariana.
He’d discovered that she was surprisingly fastidious; that she generally conducted herself with an air of gruff stoicism; that her blades were sharp, but her wit was sharper; that she was smart, and capable, and starved of any indulgence.
He was certain that there was more to her than what she would have him believe—more nuance than simply sword skills and contempt.
As they stood there, glaring at each other, the rain misted around them, plinking off their armor and gradually soaking their hair.
A wavy strand had stuck to Mariana’s forehead, and when she reached up to brush it out of her face, he noticed her new gloves.
Barely a quarter of an hour ago, while Faren had gathered his things in the barn, Mariana had donned Orna’s gift.
The sight of her wearing them now made Faren reconsider the undulations of Mariana’s foul mood this afternoon—and find the nuance he sought.
Because her usual curtness had only become harsh upon the mention of the monsters.
He himself had been alarmed to feel the sensation of his Oath’s warning when the conversation had skated too close to the truth.
Both their Orders bound them to carry the secrets of the realm, and come to think of it, Mariana had seemed visibly bothered—angry, even—after lying to the homesteaders about rabid wolves.
Faren recalled what his friends had told him about her history. A farm girl, Shae had called her.
“Poverty,” Faren said slowly, delicately, “is not a sign of corruption in our Lord. It happens everywhere.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Faren,” Mariana said, stomping off.
He followed, his long legs easily catching up to her. “You think there aren’t taxes and famines and hardships in other territories? And what of Marona’s role in our—”
“I’m done talking about this with you.”
“I’m not done talking about it with you,” Faren said. “What about our Lord is so corrupt?”
Mariana picked up her pace, tromping through the overgrown grass.
“Do you truly believe that I am incapable of thinking for myself?” Faren pressed.
“Don’t be insulted,” Mariana replied. “You aren’t unique. All Mighty Knights are like that. It’s a requirement.”
You aren’t unique. He was ashamed of how precisely the comment hit a nerve. “We are required to hold nothing in higher regard than the realm—”
“—exactly—”
“—including our Lord,” Faren finished smugly. “It’s in the Oath.”
Mariana eyed him. Her cheeks were redder now from the exertion, making her severe features appear softer. Faren slowed his pace slightly, allowing her a more comfortable walking speed—or rather, more breath with which to spew insults at him.
“You truly believe we are trained not to question authority?” Faren asked. “Not to think on our own?”
“Yes.”
“We’re trained to act with honor, compassion, bravery—”
“And compliance,” she cut in, and…she wasn’t wrong.
That was in his Oath, too. “I’ve met a lot of Mighty Knights in my day, Faren,” she went on.
“Most of you are overconfident, self-important, and more concerned with lofty ideals and status than actually serving the realm. How often do you even step foot outside the castle grounds?”
Faren clenched his jaw. Hadn’t he applied for this mission in part because he was bored of the same training sessions, shifts, and bland tasks day in and day out?
Did he and his friends not flex their confidence and expertise whenever they could?
He did not consider himself pompous, but were his ideals not lofty?
Fates, he’d spent all that time trying to figure Mariana out…not realizing that she already had him pinned.
“You must see how childish and vindictive Lord Haron can be,” she continued, not bothering to even glance in Faren’s direction as she brought into question his entire existence.
“You must see it and yet you choose to look the other way. Loyalty, morality, duty, whatever you want to call it,” she said, “I don’t think you’d be willing to accept his corruption even if it struck you upside the head. ”
“Try me,” Faren challenged. “Show me your proof.”
Mariana opened her mouth, but whatever she’d been about to say seemed to wither.
She let out a short, strangled cough, her steps faltering.
Was it possible her Oath did not permit her to voice her retort?
Was it possible that she—a knight of the Valiant—knew something about Lord Haron that Faren was not allowed to hear?
Or was she simply full of shit?
It was time Faren regain the upper hand; he decided to take a bolder approach. “The Mighty are onto you, you know,” he said. “We know about the rebellion.”
“Rebellion?” she repeated with an air of false amusement. “Sounds exciting. Do tell.”
“I could perhaps arrange a deal for you,” he continued, ignoring her act. “A shorter sentence, in exchange for information.”
Mariana snorted dismissively.
Faren was about to press when she halted abruptly, gripping the pommel of her sword with one hand and Faren’s elbow with her other. His touch magic immediately homed in on the contact through his shirt, and he twisted his arm free.
Through the mist, about sixty yards down the slope ahead of them, a dark shape darted through the tall grass.
The creature was heading perpendicular to their path, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
It was just as Orna had described: a wolf, but utterly corrupted.
Faren had learned all about abominations in briefings.
He had seen drawings of both the Morta and examples of animals that had fallen victim to their bite.
Yet no reports or renditions had quite captured the horror such monsters invoked in the flesh.
Faren adjusted his stance, his body tensing with the promise of a fight. He reached behind his back, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword, Mercy. He was about to draw the weapon when Mariana shook her head at him, then jerked her chin in the direction of the monster.
Sundown was still a few hours off, but with the darkness of the clouds and the heaviness of the mist, the land before them had a twilight hue.
The creature prowled through the grass like a shadow, a ghost, unreal and terrible.
Faren’s grip tightened on his weapon, and he sensed the first prickling of his Oath magic’s flame, his intention sparking along the blade, making it crackle inside its scabbard.
“No,” Mariana whispered.
The creature lifted its muzzle to the sky and wailed. The sound sent a chill down Faren’s spine. He glanced at Mariana again, wondering why she had yet to draw her weapon. Was it not their duty to—
Just then, a chorus of howls filled the air, seeming to come from all directions.
More creatures appeared in the valley below, yipping and snapping at each other.
The glow of their red eyes pierced the gloom.
Faren counted five, maybe six—he’d never fought an abomination firsthand, but this seemed like too many for he and Mariana to take on their own.
Suddenly, the Valiant’s factions made a lot more sense.
Faren watched, horrified as the creatures nipped and snarled at each other, wrestling in the wet grass. The sound of snapping teeth and guttural growls filled the air, a vicious and mournful cacophony. Then they were loping away, disappearing into the fog.
Mariana sighed with displeasure. Then she started walking in the direction of the pack of cursed wolves.
Faren had known all along that he was here to investigate a town for being overrun with abominations, but the reality of that was only just now setting in. And with the weather hastening the descending dusk, he wasn’t sure this was the best way to go about the mission. His mission.
“We should camp for the night,” Faren whispered, following Mariana down the hill. “Or perhaps retreat to the homestead and wait for the fog to clear. Set out in proper daylight.”
Mariana pressed her lips into a grim line. “Better to move in the cover of darkness.”
“For them? Or us?”
“Both.”
“But—”
“I am the guide,” she said. “I know it pains you to acknowledge my competence, but you’re just going to have to trust that when it comes to abominations, I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t doubt your skill,” Faren said honestly, “but I am your superior. I say we—”
“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?
” Mariana interrupted in a forceful whisper.
“You might outrank me, but here in the wilds, I am the authority. For the sake of your safety and mine, while we are in close proximity to monsters, my word is law.” Her pace was purposeful.
“You will follow my instructions without questions. In fact, you will not speak at all—unless it is to say, ‘Yes, Mariana.’ Understood?”
Faren wanted to protest, but he was growing weary of the constant animosity, and it seemed inadvisable to continue to raise his voice in a place where abominations lurked.
If Mariana took his silence as agreement, so be it.
He said nothing and remained in step with her, this dark knight leading him down what felt like a road to ruin.
Silence closed in around them, both insulating and isolating. Eventually, Faren could not discern how much time had passed since they’d witnessed the wolves. The land felt liminal, his sense of direction upended by the fog.
Then, dark shapes formed up ahead. Cottages with broken windows. A lone bell tower. The abandoned town was backdropped by the Western Wood, the pines poking upward like black teeth in an open maw.
They had reached Yar-on-Gray.