Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
The next several days were grueling. They rode their horse to exhaustion, all the while rarely stopping except for when they needed to water the horse.
They traveled for nearly a full day before reaching the mountainous trails that would take them across the border before they dismounted and started to make their way on foot.
The Iridaceae Mountains would have been beautiful if they weren’t a jagged, treacherous thing made no less fearsome by the fact that they were traveling during winter.
Snow and ice covered the mountains the higher they climbed.
Lush evergreen trees gave way to cold, hard rock.
The only saving grace was Owain’s magic keeping them relatively warm, but he couldn’t warm too much of the area and cause the snow to loosen, lest they also worry about avalanches on top of everything else.
Each night they slept for a few hours before setting off again at first light.
They only stopped because traversing the range after dark was nearly impossible.
When night fell, they slept close together for warmth, fearful that a fire would call attention to where they were.
The dried meat and berries Orla had brought with them came in handy as they passed little game and even less vegetation the farther up the mountain they climbed.
They spoke very little as they traveled, both aware that they needed to conserve as much energy as possible.
And at night, they were both so exhausted that they fell asleep shortly after taking out the bedrolls.
Orla had marched to battle through much of Emmental, but she had never been this weary of travel.
Still, she didn’t complain, knowing that it wouldn’t help them get there any faster.
On the fourth night of their perilous journey, while they sat together eating dried meat and a few nuts, Orla couldn’t help but ask how much farther they had to go.
Her feet were achy and blistered, her body was sore in muscles she didn’t even know she had, and the worry of being captured was a constant companion.
“We’re almost to the Iridaceae side. Another day at least.”
“How does it feel when you cross?” Orla knew of the magical barrier between the two kingdoms but didn’t know if it was something that could be seen or felt.
“For you and me, it will feel like we are being tugged in two directions. The magic of Iridaceae will pull you in while the magic that repels Elves will fight against it. It’s unpleasant, but it only lasts a moment.” Orla hummed in acknowledgement.
“What about Elves like Chrys?”
“When he crosses, it will have to be with a willing creature of non-Elven blood. Last time we crossed, he told me it felt like being squeezed through the eye of a needle. Poor bastard vomited all over himself the first few times we made the journey.” Owain smirked at the memory.
“You’re worried about him,” Orla said, noting the way his smirk didn’t reach his eyes.
“I am. He’s my oldest friend. Hells, my only friend, and he stayed behind so I could get away. I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s been harmed because of me.”
“I know the feeling.” Orla reached her hand out, touching his arm lightly to comfort him. Owain smiled down at her touch, leaning into her touch.
“I imagine you’ve both survived more perilous journeys than this serving in the king’s battalion.”
“Yes and no. The first few years of our service, we didn’t really see battle. King Vernon sent me on diplomatic missions across the continent, and in a rare show of kindness, allowed Chrys to join me. When we first saw combat, Chrys saved me and nearly died doing so.”
“What happened?”
“It was my first time fighting Emmentalian warriors. I was only twenty-four, headstrong and cocksure. I thought I was invincible. It wasn’t even a real battle, more like a skirmish, nothing like the fighting seen in Byaslag or Fontina, but the warriors of Emmental were fierce, and I wasn’t prepared for that ferocity.
I left my back exposed and was nearly cut down, but Chrys pushed me out of the way at the last moment, taking the brunt of the blow.
The fight was over quickly after that, but I remember seeing him lying there.
So much blood, and his skin was becoming ashen.
” Orla could picture it so clearly, seeing Rhyan like that still haunted her, and from the look in Owain’s eyes, seeing his friend nearly dead haunted him too.
“Our commanding officer told me Chrys was all but dead already. I had never healed anyone other than myself before that point, but I knew I had to try. It was a shitty healing job; he still has the scar, but somehow, we both survived.”
“He owes you his life.”
“No more than I owe him mine. That’s how it’s always been. Yes, we fight— well, fought— for Edam, but at the end of the day, our loyalties lie far more with each other than with our kingdom.”
“How did you and Chrys even wind up in the army to begin with? You never told me.”
“When I turned twenty-one, King Vernon told me that it was time I do something respectable, so as not to sully his name. He told me I could either join his battalion, or I could join the clergy.” She let out a loud belly laugh at that, eliciting another smile from Owain.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you as a clergyman. The vows of abstinence and celibacy alone would have done you in.”
“You’re not wrong; I would have been a terrible priest. Even beyond those vows, I don’t think the temples would appreciate me calling their creation stories fables.
” He smiled softly to himself. “That day I asked Chrys to join me in the battalion. Chrys had scowled at me before telling me that at least in the battalion, they would have better ale than if he kept working in the horse stables.”
“So to the battalion you went.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Did you ever regret it?”
He looked wistfully at Orla before responding. “Not for one second.”
Daybreak the next day, they set off again. The higher altitude of the mountains made it difficult for Orla to catch a full breath, and Owain was moving slower than he had been previously. But still they trudged on.
Wheezing and out of breath, Orla asked, “How do horses survive up here?”
“They don’t,” Owain replied, wheezing just as much.
“You said we would get a mount once we made it to Iridaceae. If it’s not a horse, then what is it?” They both stopped, Orla’s hand on her knees as she fought to catch her breath. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire every time she inhaled.
“Hippogryphs. There’s a way station just on the other side of the border where we can get them. I’ll do the talking when we get there. Iridaceae has its own language that’s pretty far removed from how we speak here.”
“Why hippogryphs?”
“They’re faster than horses, less temperamental than griffins, and they can handle the altitude. Plus they have an impeccable memory and sense of direction. If you tell them where you need to go, they usually have no problem getting you there.” As Orla caught her breath, Owain grabbed her pack.
“No, I got it,” she protested.
He shook his head. “You’re dead on your feet. Come on, I’ll carry it for a while before we set up camp.”
* * *
They were close, another hour or so and they would be able to cross into Iridaceae.
The pair was dirty, winded, and beyond exhausted when they set up their camp for the night.
Being so close to the border, Orla had wanted to keep pushing forward, but night had fallen and the pair were tripping over their own feet in the dark.
Still, unease fell over their little camp. Both of them were on edge and restless, despite their tiredness. They chalked it up to being so close to the magic at the border and the effects the border had on their Elven blood.
Shortly before the witching hour, Owain bolted up from his sleep.
Gently, he shook Orla awake next to him.
“Wha—” Owain silenced her with a finger to her lips.
As she sat up, Owain pulled her close to him.
She noticed he had unsheathed his broadsword as his head swiveled back and forth, taking in the dark night around them.
Something rustled in the dark making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“I think someone is out there,” he whispered into her ear.
“Grab your sword and dagger. We aren’t far from the border, another hour heading northeast. The way station is only a mile or two east from a grove of redwoods.
” He pulled her with him as he made to stand.
She went to reach for her pack when Owain quietly hissed.
“We need to move, Orla.”
She grabbed both their packs, not bothering to collect their bedrolls and blankets, and the two set out quickly.
It was difficult to climb in the dark. And even more difficult with their swords out and at the ready.
They walked for a quarter hour, both barely managing to stay upright for more than a few paces.
The ground on this part of the mountain was frozen over, making the walk more perilous than before.
“Get down!” Owain bellowed. He pushed Orla out of the way as a male in black leather armor charged from behind a nearby rock. Orla hit the ground, scrambling back from the lunging male as Owain brought his sword down on the assailant. As he fought, four more Elves in black emerged.
Orla got to her feet, blade at the ready, when they charged her.
She dodged and wove away from their strikes, parrying their blades as she went.
The clanging of the swords and the grunts of exertion became a cacophony in her mind.
The sounds, her movements, their black leather armor all brought her back to Fontina.