Era of the Dragoon

Chapter 2: Erana's Sleep

Rothan rolled over and reached for comfort in his wife. Janis wasn’t there, most likely up early to check on Vandal. He fought the urge to wake up, clenching his eyes shut and curling into a ball under the heavy bearskin blanket. It felt thin somehow, and too small.

What times is it? Must be past the morning, it was far too warm to stay in bed. Rothan opened his eyes and stretched as he sat up. His right leg groaned feebly and he rubbed it absently as he looked around his bedroom. Dark, flickering light drifted through the small window on the far side of the small room and thick smoke belched into the openness that should be the roof. Something seemed wrong, but his mind was fogged and unable to think why. Moving to the window, Rothan saw the walls were coated in dark soot that stuck to his hands.

The silence was light, and smelled of woodsmoke in the dead air. It was high night, and the moon was waxing behind heavy clouds of char. Deep within his fog, Rothan recognized this night and felt dread trying to make itself known. He couldn’t think of why or where he recognized this place. He leaned on the sill to take weight off the tiresome leg as he considered this. Something definitely felt wrong, but he wasn’t sure what it was. There were signs of fire, like the smell of a dying fireplace, but felt no lingering flame-heat. Nothing wrong here, but something definitely wasn’t right.

He turned to the front room, smaller than most houses in the county, but it was comfortable. The doorway was bare, and he knew there should be a thick oak door in the frame for privacy. But he wasn’t sure.

The room was empty. Not just empty, but barren. The rugs were gone, only clear patches on the hardwood in the soot to mark their place. The chairs were missing, and the dining table was a pile of ash by the big shuttered window. The fire-stove was still there, but the iron front-grille lay dented and lonely on the floor. The hearth was lit, but gave no warmth to the sweltering house. The oil lamps were gone, no evidence they had been there.

He stood in the center of the room and spun a slow circle, wincing as his damned right leg grunted in protest. There was the door to his son’s room, added to the house when Janis showed her coming motherhood. The door was closed, and Rothan was satisfied to leave it that way. Instead, he looked down at his leg. It was still grumbling at him like a naughty dog refusing to obey its master after messing on the floor. He was in nothing but a thin longshirt without sleeves. As he bent down to himself, he noticed a large wolf tattooed down his arm. Rothan didn’t remember having it done, but it wasn’t important. Neither was his leg, apparently. It was fine, just deeply tanned. Different from the rest of him, but ultimately unimportant.

“Something seems off, but it is not you, friend,” Rothan patted his leg as he stood and it flared pain in return.

He noticed something new: sound. Voices, he thought, but muted by the distance. They were coming from outside, somewhere.

As Rothan reached the front door, he paused. He was standing in deep, hungry fire. It engulfed his entire home, but the flames touched nothing with heat. He grabbed the door handle to escape the ghostly inferno and heard a loud clunk! as wood blocks fell from the window by the fire-stove.

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And Rothan woke up.

Rothan felt his body tighten, buy kept his eyes closed, relaxed. Something was nearby, but hadn't noticed him. He slowly tightened his right hand on the grip of his axe, and listened. It was still over by the window, and immobile. Feeling the time-polished handle pressing firm against his palm, he whispered his eyes open to the night.

He did not expect the bloodied form in front of him. The man's eyes were sunked, and his skin had bloated looked of a waterlogged rat. His hauberk was battered and torn, ichor mingling with blood over the golden keep emblazoned on the chest. The man appeared not to notice Rothan, and was muttering to himself.

"Be I touched... nah, nah... damnable usurpers got close. I been alert, though. Yeah, I's alert and got them fast," the man turned to the window and peered out cautiously. He drew an arrow from a hip quiver with a bloody finger and knocked it into his short bow. "They's out there, still. I can sense 'em... that whoare... them tainted 'uns. Inquisitor's fine, yeah, just fine, though... full'n armor and lightin' up the camp..."

Rothan slowly worked his way to his feet, trying not to startle the soldier. If necessary, he could take the man but would most likely take an arrow for his aggression. The Paran was certainly panicked, and would attack him without prompt during supper without a second thought normally. Yes, best to play this careful, just look at the man. Blood and ichor were pooling at the soldier's feet, the vast majority running from his clothing and armor. There were twigs, leaves, and various berries lodged into every joint and tear in his attire, and his dark hair glistened with sweat in the moonlight. His breathing was fast and light, and the bow trembled in his hands as he dodged it around the window opening at unseen evils.

This man was going to be difficult to deal with, but he would only get worse if he was wounded. Scouring the basement of his mind, Rothan fumbled out the little Paran he knew, "Shun sater paet inna Draegoran nase frinde." He was pretty sure he just told the Paran something about trust, but he'd never learned it's full meaning. Hopefully, it didn't mean 'Kill me, I'm a Dragon.'

The man stiffened instantly and spun around, bow raised. Rothan expected to be shot right away, but held his stature. He narrowed his eyes on the man and approached like an bull on a blade of grass. "How dare you aim that birdchaser at a fellow Man! You must have been touched by the damn Dragonscourge!"

Rothan grinned in his chest as the man's face cracked and the bow dropped slightly. "Ye no Paran from, do ye? What for ye mark no trust?"

"I ain't a Dragon and I ain't dead, but you will be if you don't give me a name and let me see your wounds. I won't sit in a room with a damned Necroi!" Rothan was surprised he still knew the word for a person turning into Necrundii. Aside from the Netana-Erana border, only the dead became Necrundii for the past hundred years.

The man seemed to weigh his chances of survival, then finally sagged his bow to the floor. "I be Sergeant Kines. I not been got and you ain't getten me. So what you from?"

"General Rothan of Valencia, progeny of Randell. I marked you and yours yesterday while I... where's the rest of them?"

Kines simply stared at Rothan, his silence serving enough for an answer. Rothan nodded, then kneeled to gather his pack. Rothan didn't trust the Paran, and kept a firm grip on his axe. With his gear situated and sleep fully washed away, Rothan joined Kines at the window. Kines eyed him warily. His bow was slack but his hands were ready, his face was wet and swollen, and his eyes still muttered panic. Ready for anything, except rationality.

It was still high night, and Netana carried a grudge against the moonlight. Rothan saw nothing but vague shapes beyond the window, the curse providing its own blank form of light. How by Fate did he get up here, or even come to this place unhurt? Best to ask him, but unimportant. What to do next, that was important. The Parans, if any others were alive, would only detain him at best. Who knew where the Rangewarden's were, they could be on the first floor, for all he knew. He'd been lost in the damnable place for far too long to know where Keldon was, but he'd find him. Eventually.

He turned to Kines. "The nights are deadly here. No use moving until daylight, too risky. Double check yourself for scrapes and cuts, and then we'll--"

"No, I takin' you to Inquisitor Faergal! I be the pure one here, and you be under my watch," Kines kept his eyes on Rothan, as if he were a major threat. "First, I taken you t'be cleant by th'Inquisitor. Then, you either be dead or taken to Noie t'make your way in free min'. Mayhap you could 'ave a kiddie 'at gets to th'Pure Ranges." Kines half-turned and began freeing the door.

Rothan wiped his face with a free hand and tried to understand what was just said. He was flabbergasted; the man's unit was most likely decimated or turned. The moon was still high, and travelling after dusk was a near death sentence with the tree cover. Still, he'd rather travel with another, even if he was of polluted mind. Rothan sighed, and moved to help Kines with the door. "I hardly think now is the times to practice convoluted politics, sergeant. "

When he looked at Kines, the man wore an expression of having just been slapped and his mouth hung in a fashion that twisted his soft face into a visage of pure grotesque. "You... you take 'at back, ye freak! I innit the convulted one 'ere!"

Rothan could only shake his head in disbelief. He just told the man he didn't want to talk politics, especially Paran's, and here he was trying to push the matter. Time to set him straight. "Shut up and listen, sergeant. Last I checked, I outranked you, nevermind the place of origin. We've bigger things than a philosophical debate to worry about, you git. I don't care that you think I'm 'impure,' and you should only care that I've been stuck here for Fate knows how long and still ain't dead!" He grabbed Kines by a bloodied shoulder guard and pulled his watery face close. "You want to re-kill your Inquisitor? Fine. We'll go there right now. And if I'm right and you don't get me killed, you stick with me until we get out of this Fate-pissed forest! Understand?" He shoved Kines against the wall as he released him.

For a few moments, Kines simply looked at him. Rothan didn't like what he was seeing in his eyes, a mixture of anger and murder. His axe was still in a tight grip, but he didn't want to use it on another Man, even if he was from Paran. It seemed that Kines went through a major internal battle, but he finally figured well enough to make a decision. His face set into what Rothan find to be the man's last expression toward him: reluctant tolerance. He nodded stonily, and went back to unshoring the door.

They made slow progress, and Rothan found himself wishing more and more that the silence between them reflect the silence of their footfalls. Every movement seemed to scream their presence to the trees. Hopefully, only the trees were listening. Kines appeared to become more relaxed the further they went, his face began to look more human as the panic drained from his heart. Rothan noted his hands weren't trembling on the bow anymore, and felt an urge to calm down himself. He almost did, but his suspicion that Kines wasn't just calming, but rather coming to terms, kept his ears up.

Reaching the camp took a few hours of near-blind wandering, but when the were close it became very obvious. The underfoliage was heavily tramped by metaled boots of the nightwatches. With no visibility, Rothan slowly moved ahead of Kines and motioned him to ready his bow. His face crumpled is distaste at following the orders of a non-Paran, but did as he was told. Kines was going to be a whole mountain of fun to deal with.

The campfires were down to the heart embers, and there were a few collapsed tents with scattered weapons in the minute clearing that formed the camp. There was no sign of any of the soldiers, the place was silent. Kines moved quickly through the wreckage, taking a quick inventory of everything. Rothan kept a keen eye on the surroundings lest he be taken unawares. Not that anything could be seen in this darkness.

Kines stumbled through the dead cooking fire as he hurried over to Rothan's hulking shadow. "He not be 'ere! 'Is place're mashed up good tho'. Looks t'be 'ee took'em that could an' drew off. May'b could mark 'em out."

After a moment of internal translation, Rothan said, "Could be. Be ready to kill them if they turned, and keep your ears up. This night is full of wrong, and its on our trail. I can smell the foul."

Kines turned away to look for the trail, and quickly turned back asking, "You be smellin', eh? Best talk as true Man, pup. Talk true an' quick 'bout yer mean'n." His voice raised to an odd squeak that didn't fit the suspicion in his tone.

Rothan brushed past him as he searched for a trail out of the encampment. Kneeling to feel the brush, he said, "Wulfgaard slang for our gut. Those of us who trained to hold the passes have learned that the best sense is the one you don't intend to use." He tapped his chest. "Eylver call it second sight, priests claim its the whisper of Fate. We call it the Wolf Scent. There's some cold blood leading off this way. Keep your bow ready and your ears up, Kines."

Kines, satisfied he shouldn't kill Rothan yet, grudgingly followed after him muttering, "Sergeant Kines, ol' pup."

As they cleared the camp, the darkness pooled into a loosely feminine shape. In a few moments she solidified, standing lithely clothed in the purest of shadow. Without hurry, she went to where Rothan had kneeled against the brush and took a luxurious inhale.

Coy smile on her face, she whispered to no one. "I smell you as well, General Rothan bar Randell of the Valenian Wulfgaard. I like your pain."

As she calmly walked from the heart of Netana after the old pup, she began to hum an old, old song. Truul a mer, Truul a fel/ Anga mot dar, Kayrin ta ver... Ask the dead, Ask the pained/ Burn all night, Steal their life.

The scream drifted through the trees long after she'd faded back into the shadows, following the scent of her new quarry. No need to listen to the old.
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He hurt. A lot.

But he knew that salvation was near. He blundered through the brush and bounced drunkenly against trees in his ragged sprint towards the light. It was a campfire by the looks of it, and now scantly fifty yards away.

He had no idea what awaited through the jumbled forest at the campfire, other than the possibility of life. His arm caused him to stumble, time and again, with the dark embrace of pain beckoning, pleading, from every fiber for him to surrender to its bittersweet embrace. But he couldn't. He had to move, had to run, had to stop breathing so loud.

Stop breathing, she whispered, so silky and seductive that he felt a sudden urge to obey. No! He resisted the cooing as he used a stout sapling as a hold to regain his feet. He was almost there, he could hear voice, but no longer in his head.

Having regained his feet, he willed himself forward. As he did, his left arm, limply swinging at his side, caught an outstretched branch.

He felt his body erupt in the hungry, licking flames of agony, ravenously ripping at his insides. He felt his jaw wrench agape against the decayed bark of a long fallen tree as the rest of the earth slammed into his body with its full weight. He felt himself falling, but only descended to darkness.

His scream didn't end for a full minute later.