Chapter 17 Faron
FARON
T he Doremy army pitched tents after the battle, and come nightfall, the rains began. They started light at first, a patter across the tent fabric that helped lull Faron to sleep, but come morning, it was a miserable slog through the mud just to go anywhere.
“For once, I don’t envy you your fur,” Faron told Iris as he packed his belongings for the march. The coyote glared at him miserably, her fur sopping wet. It highlighted just how skinny she still was, even with the strength and growth Faron’s blessing had granted her.
“Hey,” Bart said, arriving holding two wooden bowls of porridge. He curled his body over them in an attempt to guard their contents from the rain. “Alex canceled all drills. So we have that good news at least.”
Faron accepted the food and ate it greedily, not caring that “dull” was the kindest one could speak of its flavor.
“We have to march a dirt road through a forest amid a downpour,” Faron said, and winked at the kid. “Expect that to be the only good news for the day.”
Bart sought a dry spot to sit, found none, and so remained hunched as he dabbed his fingers into his own bowl.
“Faron,” he said, suddenly quiet. “During the battle, I didn’t… when everyone rushed the skirmishers, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The fighting started, and I just… stood there.”
Faron said nothing, only let the young man talk. This was something he needed to learn about himself, and fight through on his own.
“No one’s said anything,” he continued after a moment. “But I see the way some of them look at me now. They think I’m a coward. Or a dead man. Or maybe both.”
He looked to Faron with eyes much too haunted for one so young.
“Is battle always like that? Will it ever get better?”
Faron could not count the number of times he had held this exact same conversation across the centuries. No words, no stories, and no lessons could ever prepare someone for the brutality of war. It was death and violence unleashed, and the cruel truth of one’s mortality made manifest.
Well. Everyone else’s mortality anyway.
“It will not get better,” he answered softly.
“War will ever be the same. What will change is you . It may sound impossible now, but you will grow numb to the pain and the blood. In time, even the fear of dying will become a familiar friend. The choice you face now is the same choice you will face in each and every battle. Will you cower before it? Or will you accept your fear, your uncertainty, and despite it all, fight for those you love, those you trust, and the ideals you hold true?”
Bart’s fingers clutched the edges of his bowl so hard they began to turn white.
“I hate it,” he said. “I hate being so scared.”
Faron grabbed his shoulder and squeezed.
“Then fight with hate, if you must. This war is yours now. Do whatever it takes to see its end.”
The trip through the Telbelt Forest was even worse than Faron had anticipated.
The road knifing through the juniper trees was not well maintained, so at times it felt like they were battling overgrown brush as often as they were the deep pits of mud threatening to swallow up the wheels of the supply wagons.
The army’s mood remained high despite it all, a benefit of having won their first two battles.
Near midday, with them still in the heart of the woods, there came the order to halt.
“Hardly the friendliest of campgrounds,” Sariel said, his coat firmly buckled and his back held to the wind.
He’d tied his long hair into a ponytail to keep it from sticking to his face, granting him an even more severe look.
Over the rain, wind, and rustle of the leaves, it was hard to even hear him.
Curious about the reason for their halt, Faron joined a trio of soldiers who had marched ahead of them. They were all Argylle recruits, though he recognized only one, a grizzled mercenary named Derek whose face bore a litany of scars.
“Did one of the wagons break?” Faron asked them.
“Nah,” Derek said. He gestured farther up the road. “But the going’s rough enough they’re worried it’ll happen.”
“Are we supposed to pitch our tents atop this mud?” one of the soldiers with them asked. “Or will we be sleeping under the trees all night?”
Faron shrugged.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
The order indeed came to pitch the army’s tents upon a long stretch of the road. Faron did so without complaining, though he still wondered why exactly they had chosen this spot. It was only hours later, as night began to fall, that he heard the reason.
“Turns out there’s some caves just off the path,” Derek said. He’d joined Faron, Sariel, and Bart in huddling underneath the shelter offered by a cluster of enormous trees growing just off the road. Iris kept nearby, half buried underneath a thick set of brush.
“Caves?” Faron asked. “Why would they care about caves?”
“Caves mean shelter from all this rain,” Derek said. “Sounds like the high and mighty will be sleeping well tonight. They even managed to get some fires going, the lucky bastards.”
Faron exchanged a look with his brother, an unspoken conversation happening between them.
“It may mean nothing,” Sariel said, pulling the collar of his coat higher around his neck. “Was the cave marked?”
“Marked?” Bart asked.
“By the qiyan.”
The old mercenary scoffed. “I thought you had a better head on your shoulders than that. You actually believe in the qiyan?”
“That’s like asking if you believe in rain or sunshine,” Bart said. “There’s a hole in a field north of Clovelly, and everyone knows you don’t go near it. We even left the whole field fallow, just to be sure. You go into a qiyan cave, you don’t come out. It’s that simple.”
Derek dismissed him with a wave.
“Everyone’s so certain they exist, yet no one’s seen a qiyan in ages. You know what I think? If you go unprepared into an unmapped cave in the middle of the field, you don’t come back because you’re dumb and got lost in the dark. Not because the qiyan came and ate you.”
“The qiyan don’t feast on human flesh,” Sariel said, already sounding bored by the conversation.
“But they are territorial,” Faron said, and stood. “Will you not come with me, Sariel?”
His brother slumped against the tree and closed his eyes.
“After a day spent marching through mud in the pouring rain, I am taking a well-deserved rest. If you want to warn people foolish enough to ignore qiyan markings, then go right ahead… if you can even make them listen.”
Derek pulled out a pouch from his inner pocket, untied its drawstring, and dumped eleven dice into his palm.
“I’m not worrying about those who are warm and dry,” he said. “Anyone up for a game of Wounds? What about you, Bart? You know how to play?”
“Play only if no coin is involved,” Sariel said, his eyes still closed. “Otherwise Derek will swindle you.”
“How could you say that?” Derek asked, sounding more curious than offended. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know Wounds players. Anyone who owns their own set of dice is not to be trusted.”
The old mercenary laughed.
“Fine, fine, nothing at stake but some pride. And what say you, Sariel? Will you join us? Wounds plays better with three than two.”
Faron groaned and stepped out from the cover of the trees.
“You’re all worthless,” he grumbled, and trudged through the mud. He passed soldiers doing their best to pitch tents. Their stakes easily sank into the ground, their grips weak and the tent interiors barely any drier than the outside.
The caves must not be marked , he thought as he found the path off the road.
The juniper trees were thinner here, and he found several more tents pitched within their gaps.
A couple of soldiers were placed on guard to form a perimeter, all of them looking tired and haggard.
Behind them, the ground sloped suddenly and steeply, rising higher as cold gray stone pierced the earth to form craggy, broken points.
Three cave openings awaited at the top, and the very sight of the unnatural rise set Faron’s nerves afire.
He need not even look to know these were qiyan caves.
“Damn fools,” he muttered as he approached the perimeter. “How could they not know?”
All three caves looked to be filled with people. Smoke billowed out of them, with fires set just inside so they were sheltered from the rain. Faron ground his teeth. Did they think numbers would keep them safe?
“Halt there,” one of the perimeter guards ordered at Faron’s approach.
“I need to speak with Princess Isabelle,” Faron said. “It is of the utmost importance.”
The guard started to scoff, then hesitated. “You’re the Ram, aren’t you?”
Faron nodded. Well, the simplification definitely made the term more bearable.
“I am. Please let me through.”
The guard glanced over his shoulder, looking visibly upset.
“I don’t think I can,” he said. “Orders are orders. No one is to come through without permission.”
“Then get permission,” Faron said, fighting for patience.
As much as he wanted to storm in and call them all fools, he knew such rash, improper action would only get him threatened and ignored.
“Tell whoever you must that Faron Godsight would have a word with Princess Isabelle, and if not her, whoever set up camp within the caves. And make haste!”
Faron added a flex of radiance into the word “haste,” granting it power. The guard whistled over another soldier standing nearby.
“Wait here with Faron, will you?” he asked, and then hurried toward the caves without waiting for a reply. The second soldier shrugged, and he stood beside Faron looking miserable in the rain. His hair was long and tied so that it hung over his shoulder like a wet dog’s tail.
“Something amiss?” the man asked, water dripping off his helmet in three thick streams.
“I pray not,” Faron said, his attention focused past him. Perhaps he was being foolish. There truly were a lot of soldiers here. The qiyan might not risk a battle…
The first soldier returned, and he beckoned for Faron to follow.