Chapter 23 Aaron
It took an hour for the rush to evaporate and the soreness from riding an unfamiliar mount to cause the insides of my thighs to throb—but throb they did.
Despite my aches, I couldn’t decide whether I was more excited to be tasked with something important, afraid of possible pursuit, or exhausted from the past few days.
Everything was so jumbled in my mind. Two days into my week-long ride to Saltstone, I started to wonder if the journey would ever end.
I sat a dozen yards off the road by a small fire, shivering from the cold.
My tent was a poor excuse for shelter, but it would block the worst of winter’s winds.
As I stared into the flames, my mind wandered to a time before I wore the cloak, a time before scouts and Rangers, a time before signal fires and wars.
I was a teenager before I left my village for the first time.
The place I called home was more a collection of a few farms and a ramshackle general store than a proper town.
There wasn’t much for a young boy to do in the desolate place, but my father kept me busy anytime the sun cast even a dim light across our fields.
I grew up thinking all boys worked fourteen-hour days baling hay, herding sheep, and doing whatever else needed doing on a farm.
I enjoyed the peace that came with an honest day’s work—and the utter exhaustion that sent me into deep, dreamless sleep each night.
My father died when I was fourteen, leaving leagues of sprawling land and scattered livestock for my mother to tend.
She’d never been hardy, or even particularly healthy.
The Healers never could understand the tremble in her hand or the tremor in her voice.
Both started a few years after I was born and were annoying inconveniences, not life-threatening illnesses—or so we thought—until her ability to focus or concentrate began to flicker.
Some days were better than others, but the clarity of thought that had shown so brightly in her eyes when she was young never returned.
Before my father died, one Healer suggested I might inherit her affliction and should be watched carefully. Thankfully, the tremors never came.
I tried my best to take my father’s place, to tend the fields and livestock, manage the duties of a landsman, but it was too much for a young boy.
I was quickly overwhelmed, and the farm spiraled into disrepair.
Fields went untilled, crops unharvested, and the family’s proud fence that ran for a hundred leagues around the property sagged and fell in places.
Then the Rangers came.
Our farm’s northern border was only three leagues from Grove’s Pass and the Rangers’ headquarters.
The men in green were some of my father’s most loyal customers, buying wheat, livestock for slaughter, and any vegetables he might plant.
Seeing Rangers arrive a few times each year was cause for celebration, and my mother would cook a feast in their honor—and in anticipation of their much-anticipated purchase.
When I was young, the visiting men would spend hours chasing and wrestling, but as fond of the Rangers as I became, I never expected I would one day wear their fabled cloak.
When my uncle personally visited to offer his condolences following my father’s death, he also offered to purchase our family’s farm, proposing that my mother move to Grove’s Pass to work in the kitchens at headquarters, while I could find a place within the border guard itself.
He said the Rangers would find a way to salvage the farm and continue the family’s tradition of feeding the nation’s troops.
After many tears and objections, my mother agreed.
Her heart ached at the loss of our family legacy, the last remnant of her husband’s presence in our lives, but she knew we’d never receive a fairer offer, both for the land and our futures.
While she was conflicted, I was elated. My wildest dreams were filled with visions of green-clad men in the mountains, proud and strong.
Somehow, in my childhood daydreams, my face always turned green with the coat.
My mother tried to explain it didn’t work that way and that I would always have the ruddy, tanned complexion of a farm boy, but I insisted it was my dream, and my face could turn whatever color it wanted.
Now, years later, I reveled in the warmth of the fox-fur lining of my heavy winter cloak—a Ranger’s cloak.
My face never did turn green.
I doused the fire and dove into my tent, wishing the thin bedroll was a cot and my cloak was a heavy blanket. Armed men filled my dreams once more; only these were no Rangers. They did not offer peaceful rest. Their presence chilled my soul and caused me to stir many times throughout the night.
Six more cold, painfully boring days passed.
I pressed the Captain’s horse for speed, more to break the tedium of the long, straight road than anything.
In all those days of travel, I only passed one man, a farmer, headed home with an empty cart after selling crops in a capital city.
He said Saltstone was late in preparing for winter and bought everything that passed through their gates.
The man waved a greeting, then disappeared over the horizon, leaving me once again alone with my wandering mind.
I liked being alone, but over the past few days, images of Bret pinioned by arrows, blood flowing freely from his wounds, haunted my thoughts.
They plagued my dreams even more so. I couldn’t wait to ride through Saltstone’s gates, deliver my message, and return home to the peace and quiet of the forest and my life of simple duty.
Then I remembered the content of the letter pressed tightly against my chest.
Would there be a home to go back to?
Would the men skulking through the forest still be there, bows at the ready, blocking me from my peaceful woodland?
Why were they there in the first place?
What had I done to deserve a shot in the back?
Then I saw Bret in my mind again—shot in the front. I dithered between whether the front or back would be worse.
“Doggonit, Aaron. Stop that,” I chided myself.
My mind cleared as a remarkable sight resolved in the distance. I reined in my horse and stared.
Saltstone.
The capital city.
I’d grown up in a village with fewer than fifty people. Grove’s Pass held little more than three thousand. Yet here I stood—well, rode—gawking at a city of hundreds of thousands of souls.
Hundreds of thousands.
How do you even count that high? I shook my head in wonder.
From half a league out, on a crisp and cloudless day, I saw men scrambling like ants along the perimeter wall.
The snows hadn’t hit Saltstone in earnest like they had the mountains, but the air felt pregnant with moisture, like it could happen at any time.
Most of the eastern wall facing me had already been raised to over fifty feet tall.
Two giant towers loomed over either side of the gate, and flashes of blue revealed archers on duty within their perch.
Another group of people, hundreds of them in plain cotton shirts and brown leggings, dug a deep moat in front of the wall.
How’d they know to do all this? I haven’t even made it to the gate yet.
It took another quarter hour to reach the gate.
The moats being dug were deeper and wider than I’d thought, and I could now see there were two rings about twenty paces apart.
The wall, once little more than a boundary marker, was now an imposing structure reinforced by logs twice as thick as my waist.
The gate was guarded by men in dusty-blue uniforms who stepped forward with hands on sword hilts.
The once-open, welcoming capital of the Melucian Empire wasn’t taking chances with strangers anymore.
“Stop right there! Who are you, and what’s your business in Saltstone?” the leader of the squad asked gruffly.
“Sir, he’s a Ranger.” One of his comrades pointed to the silver flying owl pin I had forgotten was clipped to my outer cloak.
I nodded. “Yessir, that’s right. Came all the way from Grove’s Pass. Message for, um . . .”
“Who for? Spit it out, boy. We don’t have time to waste while you stammer,” the leader snapped.
I brightened, remembering my destination. “The General. General Vre. That’s who Cap’n said to see.”
The men looked surprised at the mention of their commander, but the leader simply pointed behind them, through the gate.
“Go straight until you get to the center of town. Take a left across the river toward the army HQ. General should be there. Just ask one of the guards when you get there, and they’ll point the way.”
The massive new gates creaked open.
I offered the men a Rangers’ salute and urged my tired mount forward.
If I’d been awed by the gate, the city took my breath. I’d never seen so many buildings in one place, all crammed against each other. They reminded me of puzzles I played with as a boy, their oddly shaped pieces never quite fitting together perfectly.
More than the sheer size of the city, the constant motion and noise were overwhelming.
The streets were alive. Everywhere I looked, soldiers raced toward some unspoken task, shopkeepers bellowed at customers, men and women scurried about their daily chores, and children streaked in every direction, shouting and laughing all the way.
Hundreds of them. Thousands. More than I would ever be able to count.
People were everywhere, and the perpetual state of motion and raucous noise made my head hurt.
Why would anyone want to live like this? How do these people think or breathe?
And it wasn’t just the people.
Soldiers were everywhere.
I’d thought the world held more Rangers than civilians when I first walked through the door of the Rangers’ headquarters back in Grove’s Pass. Now, I wondered if every man in Melucia wore an army uniform.
A shout shook me from my musing.
“Hey, Ranger!”
I looked toward the voice to find a large man with muscles bursting through his blue coat and a neck almost thicker than his head was wide. Three maroon bars on his sleeve indicated he was a sergeant, likely one of the men assigned to train recruits.
“You gonna answer me, boy?”
I dismounted and guided my horse toward the man. “Sergeant, I’ve come from Grove’s Pass with a message for General Vre.”
At the mention of Vre, the sergeant’s spine stiffened, and his eyes widened.