From The Breach: Chapter 7: Red River

Chapter Seven:
Red River

Branston brought his horse to a stop at Faldashir’s side and said, “Vigo and I both think those arms did it.”

Faldashir grimaced, his eyes on the dead wolgs. “Then we shouldn’t stay.” He turned and rode away with Olivar close behind. Branston followed with Vigo at his side.

The cold burrowed deep into Branton than previous nights, and his shoulders prickled against the unseen eyes. When they came to the woods he kept a close watch, his eyes never still. Vigo said there had been no warning when the arms came, but there had to be something. Even if Branston could spot them as they grabbed somebody, he would have a clue. But the hours passed without event. The sun rose overhead and continued its path downward, while the riders pressed on through the trees.

Night came quickly, and the shadows that had stretched across their path disappeared. Branston peered harder into the distance on either side. The snow glowed in the moonlight, but he wished for the sun. Soon after dark, Faldashir called for a halt.

“We’ve gained some distance, I think it’s time we walk our horses,” Faldashir said. “We’ve been pushing them too hard. Everybody off, relieve their burdens a little.”

So they dismounted and led their horses forward. The soft snow crunched under Branston's boots.

“Look,” Vigo pointed. “Fox tracks. Good news?”

Branston looked to the little paw-prints that trailed across their path and smiled. Had they left the arms’ domain? He looked to the others, and knew they were thinking the same thing. They all assumed the lack of animal sounds or prints – save for the wolgs – was a sign the arms were gathering every soul. But then, where were the animals’ bodies?

“We don’t know how fast the arms can appear,” Faldashir said. “We shouldn’t assume we’re safe.”

They continued on, and near an hour after finding the tracks, Olivar spoke, breaking the silence.

“Where are we sleeping tonight?”

Faldashir looked to Olivar and said, “I figured we wouldn’t stop. We’d keep going until we reach the next town. With no rests we should reach it a few hours before dawn. I don’t think I could sleep.”

“We should probably try for the river again,” Vigo said. “I’m sure the animals are thirsty.”

The group agreed, and they led their horses north-east toward the river. Branston was wary of the river now, and kept a hand on his sword as they drew closer.

“Will we at least stop for dinner?” Olivar asked.

“Is that what you want?” Faldashir asked. “I assume you out of any of us would want to be far from here.”

“What do you mean by that?” Olivar grumbled.

As they rounded a hill the river came into view. The river was narrower here then in most parts, and quicker. They ducked under the hanging branches and crossed the distance from the trees to the river, probably twenty yards.

Branston took a drink from his canteen as his horse drank from the current. Screwing on the cap, he looked to Olivar. “There’s bread in my saddlebag. Get some.”

Olivar nodded gratefully. He led his horse next to Branston’s and dug in the saddlebags of Branston’s white, his stomach complaining.

“What’s that?” Olivar asked, pointing toward the river.

A shape floated along the current in the center of the river, still too far to see clearly even with the moonlight. Branston pushed Olivar aside and grabbed a looking-glass from his saddlebag. When he turned back towards the water more shapes were floating along.

He looked through the brass tube and cursed. “Bodies. Dasoren soldiers.”
Some of the dead men wore surcoats bearing the Yellow Bull of Dasoren. But not every man wore the surcoat and armor. “Some are regular people.” The thick wool coats of the commoners were slashed and torn.

Branston pulled his horse away from the water and handed its reins to Olivar, who was actively not looking at the river.

“Are you sure?” Faldashir came to Branston’s side and reached for the looking-glass. Branston handed it to Faldashir when his stomach lurched; one of the men had a slashed stomach and his guts trailed along in the current, cleaned white by the water.

“How’d they die?” Vigo asked as he put the looking-glass to his eye.

Faldashir's tone was flat. “Some have cuts. It looks like they died fighting. All their weapons are missing.”

Though Branston could no longer see detail, there had to be dozens of bodies. The river flowed south, meaning the men had died to the north. What had happened up there?

Faldashir turned and gave Branston the spyglass, looking calm about the situation. His face was blank and uncaring in the moonlight.

“So what are we going to do?” Olivar asked, his voice quivering.

“Please help me!”

The group spun towards the voice, Branston pulling free his sword and Vigo his knife. A man came limping out of the treeline.

“Stop!” Branston stepped forward and raised his sword.

The young man stopped and looked agape at Branston with his hands raised in surrender. Blood glistened on his palms.

“Please, sir,” the man said through labored breathing. “I need help, I –“
He looked past Branston’s shoulder and fell to his knees, weeping. “There they are...” His cries came strong and choppy.

Branston pointed to the river with his sword. “Were you there? Do you know what happened?”

The man nodded, scrubbing his face with a sleeve.

“What happened?” Branston pressed.

The man fell again to bawling, his eyes squeezed shut. Branston looked to Faldashir, who shrugged.

Branston grimaced and strode over to the man. “Get up.” He grabbed the man by the collar of his coat and pulled him to his feet.

The man moaned and pulled away, raising his fists weakly.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Branston said, trying to soften his voice, but his anger came through. “Tell us what happened.”

The man breathed deep and exhaled weakly before speaking. “That's my village, in the river.” His face scrunched and he took another breath. “And the guards who were there collecting taxes, and able men for fighting. Something came and...it was too fast to get a good look. A dozen men were… killed, before the soldiers reacted.” He sniveled and his voice cracked from restraint.

“What was it?” Vigo asked.

The man shook his head. “It can’t have been human. It was...too fast.”

“How did you escape?” Faldashir asked.

The wire-wrapped hilt dug into Branston's sweating palms..

“I just ran, that’s all.” The man’s voice shuddered. "While it was distracted."

“You left your family behind?” Vigo asked, his voice gruff.

The young man broke into crying again, nodding.

“Don’t judge!” Olivar snapped. “What was he supposed to, fight it? Branston, we’ve run, remember?”

Branston scowled and said, “We should get moving.”

He mounted his horse with sword in hand and watched as the others mounted theirs.

“You can’t leave me here,” the man cried, stepping forward. “Please, don’t!”

Branston looked at him, and felt a little sympathy. He too had lost his village and everyone he loved.

Branston sighed and said, “Get on.” He scooted forward as the thin man rushed forward, climbing clumsily into the saddle and settling in behind him. His horse neighed and stirred, but Branston got it under control.

The group rode forward over the soft snow, Branston clutching his sword tight as he scanned the treeline. He was at the back of the line riding along the river, now and then he would glance towards the water. Bodies moved along the current, but they were vague shapes in the moonlight at this distance.

The man’s hands came to rest on Branston’s shoulders for support, and Branston shivered when the hands touched. What if this was a trap? What if this man was a bounty hunter?

“We’ll drop you off at the nearest town,” he told the second rider. “You won’t be going with us the whole way.”

“All right.” His voice was still shaking, and he was shivering. “Thank you for taking me," he sniveled, “But we’re heading right toward it.”

“I know,” Branston told him. “But we have to go that way.”

“Where are you headed?” He whispered.

“That is our own business.”

“Yes, sir.”

These were strange questions; Branston kept his sword in a tight grip for anything that might come.

Suddenly the riders up ahead stopped.

“What is it?” Branston drew rein.

Faldashir dragged his bow case up onto the saddle and armed himself.

“There’s something up ahead.” The old man’s voice was low.

“We have to go,” the stranger whimpered into his ear.

Branston drew his horse forward, out from behind Faldashir, and saw what lay ahead.

A tall person stood with long-sword in hand a dozen yards away, it didn’t move; it only watched. Branston blinked to clear his eyes: he could have sworn that shadows floated around the thing, and points of red lights shone where eyes should have been. Those points looked straight into Branston, and he felt as if he were being read. In front of him, Faldashir shuddered. Did he sense it, too?

“Wraith,” Branston breathed.

The man behind him whimpered and moaned, “We need to leave! These horses can’t outrun it.” He tugged on Branston’s coat.

“I am going to cut you,” Branston commanded, after some thought, his eyes locked on the creature. “and you will not run. Do as I say; give me your hand.”

“What! You’re not cutting me," he spat.

This man would be too much trouble, if Branston’s plan worked.

Then the wraith charged. Sleek was its form as it ran, bent low as if to spring up in a moment. Branston cursed and spurred his horse forward.

Faldashir loosed his arrow toward the creature, who twisted at the waist without halting for an instant. Branston stopped before the old man. He reached into his coat and pulled out thesmall stone fish pendant, his heart pounding as he watched the thing draw closer.

“Faldashir, we have to escape into the Second World. Give me your hand. Olivar, Vigo, get over here!” Branston pulled a glove off with his teeth and sliced his thumb. He felt no pain as he urged Faldashir to remove a glove. The wraith was drawing closer.

“We have to go,” the stranger cried in his ear. Branston struck him with an elbow.

Faldashir growled and removed his glove, extending his arm. Branston sliced it and looked to Olivar, who was riding towards him with tears in his eyes.

Olivar followed Branston’s orders, and recoiled with a sliced hand.

“Keep your hands close.” Branston looked to the wraith. It was so close. “Vigo!”

Vigo turned his horse, and screamed. A black blade protruded from his chest, and the wraith’s momentum carried them both out of the saddle.

“Hands! Get ready to control your horses! When I touch you, move from your spot!" Branston sliced his horse’s ear, and whipped his sword against the other horses’ ears. They screeched and Branston wiped the fish pendant across Faldashir’s cut. The blood touched the fish, and Faldashir was gone. Next was Olivar. Branston looked to the wraith, who wrenched its blade free of Vigo’s chest.

Branston cursed and wiped the pendant through the blood of Faldashir and Olivar’s horses. They disappeared.

The wraith charged, and Branston swiped the fish over the wound of his horse, and his own at the same time. They were gone from the world.

The air was now shrouded in a heavy fog, and lights flickered in the distance. Spirits. Faldashir and Olivar were calming they’re shrieking horses. They weren’t sitting atop the horse, as they had not come in at the same time, like Branston and his. He patted his horse’s head, it was a strong animal, but it neighed in pain. Branston looked to the others’ horses; he may have cut too deep. Soon the horse’s were under control, and Faldashir suggested they not ride them.

Branston let himself breathe; he hadn’t realized he had stopped. His heart beat against his rib-cage, and his arms shook.

“Where’s Vigo?” Faldashir asked.

Branston looked at Faldashir and spoke. “He’s dead. The wraith got him.”

“What’s going on?” Olivar demanded. Tears ran down his face. It occurred to Branston that no light lit the place, no sun existed here, nor moon, yet he could see his companions as clear as broad daylight.

“We escaped,” Branston told him. “This is the Second World.”

“The Second World!” Olivar swore violently. “This is where wraiths come from!” Faldashir only stood dumbfounded, looking around at the lights of various colors that flickered in the fog.

“It was the only way,” Branston said steadily, trying to calm himself. Then he realized he didn’t feel the stranger anymore. He turned quickly in his saddle and saw the man wasn’t there. He breathed a curse; he had forgotten the other man. I forgot, and he’s dead now. He pounded his own leg with a fist.

He looked to Faldashir and Olivar, who watched him closely – as if seeking guidance – and said, “Let’s go. We’ll get a distance away from here and go back to our world.”

“Will that be easy?” Olivar snapped.

“Yes.” He raised the saldacrosse, the bloody fish swinging softly. “We just wipe the blood off and our connection will be severed. Let’s go.”

“Can the wraith follow us here?” Olivar asked.

“I don’t know. So let’s move.” Branston led his horse forward, slowly through the dark fog.

Branston stopped when Faldashir and Olivar didn’t follow.

“Let’s go,” he said, looking back at them.

Faldashir stared ahead cautiously, then stepped forward, dragging his hesitant horse.

“You know the way?” Olivar asked, not budging.

“The landscape is the same. The river is to our right; the forest, our left. Now let’s move before the wraith decides to find us here. Or before anything else does.”

Branston moved forward and the others followed without hesitation. Lights moved ahead, and to their sides. Harmless spirits, most likely. Branston remembered when his father had taken him into the Second World.

These lights are good, Branston, he had said. But don’t think this place isn’t dangerous. Evil things hide in this fog, and you could fall off a cliff if you’re not careful.

Visibility was low here, and Branston often squinted to see ahead. With his sword ready and his fish pendant outstretched so as to not wipe away any blood, Branston rode at a trot so the others could keep.

Branston marveled at the look of fear on Faldashir’s face. The man’s eyes never stopped moving and his head swiveled at any light. Olivar was no better, with his quick breathing and jolting head movements.

Branston took a deep breath. It would help these men if he were calm. He knew this place, and if his confidence could help them, good.

They moved along slowly. At a distance the land became dark, like peering at a black wall through fog. But as they approached the black wall it drew back, allowing more land, and they trudged onward.

The horses were nervous, and angry at their injuries, mild as they were. A few times they would have to get their steeds under control, and direct them ahead.

“What if they’re trying to warn us?” Olivar asked.

“There’s no way to know,” Branston replied. “If danger comes on us, we’ll have to deal with it. If we’re not killed right away I can wipe the blood from this pendant and we’ll be in our world.”

“Just like that?” Olivar asked, doubt marked his voice.

“Just like that.”

“Why don’t we do that now?”

Faldashir answered. “We can’t have crossed more than two miles, surely. We want to make good distance. Right?” It took Branston a moment to realize the last was for him.

“Yes,” he said with a brisk nod. "Let's steer away from the river. It'd do no good to reappear right in the creature's path."

So they continued on,steering left, Branston with his sword ready and Faldashir with bow in hand. Olivar had no weapon, and Branston caught him eyeing the sword and bow at times.

Time had always felt strange in the Second World. No sun marked the sky, only more fog. Don’t measure time, his father had said, measure distance.

And Branston did that. By his guess they crossed five miles of flat land through the tress before his nerves settled and his arms fell still.

“Is the water safe to drink?” Olivar asked with a look toward the river, out of sight from here.

“No.” Branston thought back on his father’s teachings. “Creatures live in the water, and taint it with their presence.”

“Creatures?” Olivar replied, “So it’s not just lights and wr...wraiths?”

“No, there are things here.”

“Can’t we leave yet?” Olivar moaned.

Branston stopped his horse, and the others followed suit. “I think we can. Fine.” He sheathed his sword and drew in a deep breath. He put on a glove and clenched the stone fish, chipping the dried blood away with a twist of the hand.

They returned to their world with men shouting around them, pulling free swords. Branston yanked out his sword instinctively against the onslaught of sound.

He looked around to see men gaping and glaring at him, all on horseback with weapons raised. Sharp points pressed against Branston’s back, and spears came to rest against his chest, arrows were pointed his way.

He dropped his sword in surrender, and soon regretted it.

Each man bore the Sun and Star on their surcoats. These were Krassos’ soldiers.
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END OF CHAPTER SEVEN