The unceasing march of the Hollows dogged Gunnar as he sprinted up the hill. From the thundering sound and the shaking earth, there must have been hundreds in pursuit.
The grim truth of the valley's fate was now laid bare. The village, the castle and all their inhabitants were ravaged by the Curse and devolved into an undead mob. Devoid of reason and intellect, the Hollows had allowed their land to decay. Thus the rotting gardens, the abandoned barns and wagons and the animal carcasses left untouched.
The horde drew nearer. Gunnar dared turn and saw a lone Hollow rushing towards him ahead of the others, its gnarled body nothing but a dim silhouette in the night. He drew from the power within him and summoned a Lightning Spear to strike the Hollow. The miracle illuminated the creature and cast its withered face in a terrible white light. Its charred body slumped to the ground. More silhouettes rushed over the body. Gunnar looked away and kept running. Wasting miracles was pointless against such overwhelming numbers.
The Forossans scrambled onto level ground and sprinted across the open field. A high-pitched whistling pierced the air. A signal: an inquiry from the second squad. The sound came from the west, though Gunnar could not see them in the dark. He replied with two sharp notes: a warning to retreat. He hoped in his heart that they would obey. Forossans were loathe to retreat from any battle, no matter how hopeless.
"The castle!" Stark cried out. "More from the castle!"
The tumult of the mob had awakened their fellow wretches dwelling in the castle. Truly, the whole valley was infested. Torches flared up at the gates, revealing an army of Undead. A stream of Hollows spewed forth from the castle like a ghastly parade, spears and swords held aloft in eager anticipation of the kill.
The Forossans had but one escape route: around the foot of the castle hill and retracing their steps along the village's eastern outskirts until they reached the corn fields. The castle currently stood on their right, and there was a long stretch of ground still to be covered before they were beyond it. The Hollows descending from the fortress were coming too quickly, and soon they would be trapped between them and the mob already in pursuit.
Gunnar saw the castle Hollows come at him and drew his battle-axe for a last stand. But then a giant form came between him and the enemy. Vengarl roared in defiance and drew his twin greatswords.
"I do not fear you, cursed ones. Come! Come and die!"
The battle frenzy fell upon him and he swept his blades like scythes through wheat. Bodies fell in pieces and his savage assault took down a dozen in as many seconds. This sudden attack attracted the Hollows, who turned away from the other Forossans to focus on this new threat. Countless Undead soldiers fell upon the giant, covering him in their bodies as he cursed and hacked away.
The Forossans had a brief reprieve from the castle's horde, but the first mob was still close behind. Gunnar turned from the maddened Vengarl and faced the relentless pursuers. The torches cast enough light for Gunnar to now see the enemy, if only faintly. It was enough.
He channeled power and unleashed a wave of great force that rippled across the ground and knocked back the leading members of the mob. They were lifted off their feet and thrown into their fellows. The clumsy creatures tripped over the prone bodies, tumbling into the ground like a forest of dominoes. The advance slowed as its members became entangled with one another. A few more precious seconds had been bought. Gunnar was back to running before he could fully observe the consequences of the miracle.
They were now beyond the castle. At their current sprinting pace, the village would not be far. A few Hollows awaited them on the path. The Forossans fell upon them and hacked their way through.
Gunnar felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Before he could strike, Thrandor's familiar voice spoke.
"Still in one piece, friend?"
"Yes. For now."
From further ahead, Stark cried out. "On your guard! Enemies in the village!"
A dozen Hollows limped out of the huts on the town outskirts. They lunged forward with pitchforks and axes.
Gunnar and his men fought skillfully. One does not easily kill a Forossan. Six Hollows fell swiftly their blades. But the pursuing horde's rumbling footsteps never ceased. Their breathy war cries drew nearer. In the span of a moment, something sharp prodded Gunnar's back. It was a weak blow and he pirouetted to strike down his attacker. Then something bludgeoned his head. He was knocked hard to the ground.
So, this is how he would die.
From somewhere, a loud boom shook his bones. The battlefield went bright as day, then swiftly returned to darkness as he fell unconscious.
He dreamed.
They were on the hill. He and his comrades fought with the desperate ferocity of doomed men. The enemy was relentless, and for every opponent cleaved by axe and sword, ten more took his place.
He rallied his comrades to keep fighting, to push back and reclaim lost ground, but it was a hopeless fight. The enemy flanked them, trapping the warriors on three sides. They were pushed back inch by inch off the crest of the hill. Their high ground was lost, and the enemy stood tall against them.
His words of fervor rallied the men under him to persevere for the glory of Faraam. He urged them to keep up the fight, to die in glorious battle and join Faraam in his halls of eternal feasting and battle. The Forossans pushed back. The blades of the Lion Knights drank deep of red blood. And when it seemed that the enemy was in retreat, the Northwarder sang a hymn of victory.
But the words died in his throat when he saw that the Mirrans, Jugans and Eastern soldiers had simply withdrawn to recombine their forces for one final, crushing assault. They charged as one and crashed against the weakened Forossans. The Forossan ranks were shattered, the Lion Knights drowned in a sea of foes and the enemy swept over the hill like a breaking wave.
Gunnar watched his fellows die in the mud. Their cries of pain were stifled by throats filled with blood. Valor had been defeated by sheer numbers.
Fear seized him. His fellow warriors were dying around him, and he would soon join them if he remained on the field. He fled. Beyond the battlefield was the sheltering forest. He ran towards it. And he choked back tears at the thought of his own cowardice.
The battle became chaos as the ranks scattered far afield and the clashing lines of soldiers devolved into numerous individual duels. A Jugan turned from a fresh kill and saw Gunnar. He raised his sword and attacked. Gunnar met the sword with his axe. He fought like a wildcat. He could not die. He would not die.
Thunder rumbled in the dark clouds. He swung his axe deep into the enemy's neck, but yet another opponent pushed aside the falling body and jabbed swiftly with his sword. Gunnar was caught by surprise. The blade caught him in his side. Wounded and tired, he fell to the ground. The axe rolled out of his hand. He looked up into the eyes of the knight. The man poised himself for the killing blow. Gunnar feebly raised his hand to summon some semblance of a miracle.
Lightning struck and splintered a nearby tree. The knight looked up in time to see a heavy limb crush his head. Gunnar crawled away from the broken body and stumbled to his feet. He left his weapon behind. All he could think of was to flee.
Another bolt struck the field. Rain fell hard and fast. Gunnar limped forward, hand pressed against his wound, the din of battle and thunder ringing in his ears.
He reached the forest and turned around to look back at the battleground. He saw the hill, covered in gore and corpses. And he saw something else. A warrior stood alone on top of the hill. He wore tarnished gold armor and held a greatspear in one hand. Long white hair flowed from his helmet. He pointed the spear toward the sky. Lightning flashed again.
He turned his head toward Gunnar, and the Northwarder knew that Faraam was looking directly at him. His god saw him fleeing like a coward.
Gunnar shuddered, expecting a bolt of wrath to fall upon him. But it did not. Faraam turned away, and Gunnar ran into the woods.
Gunnar awoke with a start and reached for his weapon. A strong hand seized his arm and held it back. He looked up to see Thrandor kneeling beside him.
"Rest easy, old friend," Thrandor said quietly. "We're safe for now."
Gunnar looked around him. They were in a dark, cramped room with earthen walls and barrels piled on one side. A cellar beneath one of the houses. Brand, Roran and Stark were there with them.
"I was knocked out," he muttered, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. "What happened?'
"Hollows from the village cut us off," Thrandor replied. "Stark distracted them and gave us time to find refuge in here before the mob could reach us. They haven't found us yet, the stupid brutes. They're still out there. We heard them passing over our heads, heading southward."
Gunnar tried to recall the last moments before he lost consciousness. "There was a flash, an explosion. What was that?"
"That was my doing," Stark replied. He took a small clay urn out of the satchel hanging from his hip. "Made fine crisps of a few Hollows in the bargain. Blinded the corpse men and gave us time to flee. Gave me an eyesore, too" he chuckled, "but this young hand dragged me to safety." He patted Brand on the back.
"You've been carrying black fire and never told us?"
"Truth be told, I grabbed the bombs on impulse before we departed camp. Call it a premonition. A nudging from Faraam."
"It's a miracle we weren't all blown to bits just by the jostling of your satchel. Black fire is nothing to be trifled with."
Stark shrugged. "The old formula is long gone. This powder isn't anywhere near as volatile as what we used back in the day."
Gunnar decided to let the matter rest. Stark had saved their lives, after all. He looked around. They were short one man.
"Vengarl?"
Thrandor shook his head.
"I see. What time of day is it?"
"Mid-morning," Thrandor replied. "Enough light now to see easily. There's a crack in the cellar door, makes a good peephole. We've counted a good three dozen Hollows shamble by just in the last hour.
"All armed," Stark added. "Soldiers with swords and axes, peasants with pitchforks and clubs. I could take out maybe seven or eight before they killed me. What about you Thrandor? Nine? Ten?"
"Aye. And let's say three apiece for the lads." Thrandor frowned. "Twenty-seven out of thirty-six. And I doubt that's all there are."
"We'd fight hard and die fast," Gunnar observed wryly.
"What about your miracles?" Stark asked. "Faraam's power would make short work of those devils."
"Probably. But I'm not exactly in my prime, Stark. I exhausted myself last night. I couldn't pull up much more power now without risking killing myself."
"Then what would you have us do, Gunnar?" Thrandor insisted. "Die in this hole like mice? We need to reach the Drangleicans, warn them of the Hollow army."
"Not to mention our own men," Stark added. "There must be hundreds of corpse men on this side of the river, and last night they were headed south, toward our camp."
"Use your brains, dunderheads," Gunnar smirked. "If the second squad survived, they will have already warned them. And if not, well, if the Drangleicans have any sense, they will have already retreated the moment they realized a thundering mass of torch-bearing armed corpse men was charging them. And our fellow Forossans will have hopefully shared that sense and gone with them."
"So we're on our own?" Roran asked.
"Yes."
The youth looked crestfallen. "Then what do we do? Fight and die?"
"No. These Hollows are numerous, but dull-witted. We cannot outfight them, but we can outwit them."
"I'd prefer a warrior's death," Roran said eagerly. "As befits a Forossan."
"A good warrior doesn't waste his life on unwinnable battles," Gunnar reprimanded him. "Where exactly in the village are we? Do we know?"
"Not sure," Thrandor admitted. "We were distracted, if you recall."
"Yes," Gunnar said slowly. A plan began forming in his mind. Risky, but not impossible. "Distractions. The Hollows seem to have a weakness for those. When Vengarl fell into his frenzy, they nearly forgot about the rest of us. And Stark's firebomb. They don't actively seek out enemies, they wander until they spot one."
"You have something in mind?"
"I do." He pulled out a knife and traced a diagram in the dirt floor. "If the Hollows gathered around us were directed north, toward the castle, they would leave the village sparse and give us an open route to the river." He looked at Stark. "How many more firebombs do you still carry?"
"Two."
"Loud noises draw them. And they alert one another with their cries. One of us detonates a bomb nearby, draws their attention, and leads them away toward the castle. When one starts moving, they all do. The rest of us could withdraw with minimal resistance."
"One of us lure dozens of Hollows into a chase?" Brand asked.
Gunnar's face was grim. "Yes. Me. I will be the bait leading the Hollows away. I will then double back to rejoin you."
Thrandor shook his head. "Double back? Unlikely. Besides, things may turn sour and they'd simply follow me as I fled back toward the river."
"I didn't say you would –"
"And who else is better? Can't have a Northwarder dying, it's bad luck."
"No, Thrandor, I will not ask one of my own to take such a risk. It is my duty to see to your safety."
"It's your duty to hold us to the tenets of Faraam. There is no greater virtue for a soldier than to lay down his life for his comrades. Besides, I'm an old hand, I know a few tricks. I may not die after all. And if I do, better to die dancing with the enemy than wasting away on a moth-eaten bed."
"Thrandor …" Gunnar sighed and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You are certain, aren't you?"
"Have you ever known me to change my mind?"
Gunnar looked long and hard at his old friend. In Thrandor's eyes he saw the iron resolve and the undaunted acceptance of what was to come. He shivered, for he saw what Gunnar himself had once been.
"What if we use the firebombs to fight our way through?" Stark suggested. "We could forge a path."
"At close quarters?" Thrandor. "We'd blow ourselves to bits. And two bombs won't be enough to get through a swarm of Hollows. You'd just live a few moments longer, that's all."
He stood up. "No, a diversion is a good idea, given the circumstances. Our Northwarder is wise. Give me a firebomb, Stark."
"When do we go?" Brand asked. "Nightfall?"
"It makes no difference," Gunnar replied. "Hollows can see in the dark."
"Then we wait until you are rested enough to stand," Thrandor said.
Thrandor and Gunnar crouched on the steps at the cellar door. The others waited behind them with tense anticipation.
"Detonate the bomb in the village square," Gunnar said. "Lead away as many as you can. The more, the better."
"Never fear, I'll make a blazing loud racket,"
"The explosive is secure and dry in your pouch?"
"Yes." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You do realize this is a terrible idea, Gunnar?"
"I know. You have a better one?"
"No. But then our people were never much for tactics, were we?"
"Good luck, old friend. And goodbye."
Thrandor clutched Gunnar's forearm and spoke again at normal volume. "Faraam grant you wisdom, Northwarder."
"And Faraam guide your blade, Lion Knight."
Thrandor chuckled quietly. "A long time since anyone's called me that. It will be good to see the lads again when we meet in the war god's hall. I'll save a place for you."
"Go," Gunnar said. "May the Lord of Battle watch over you."
Thrandor ran out swiftly into the open air. Gunnar watched him sprint across the square, whooping and hollering like a madman. The prowling Hollows saw him immediately and pursued. They emerged like lice from every house, alley and shack. They were far more than three dozen.
Thrandor ran out of sight. A moment later, there was the burst of an explosion that echoed throughout the village. The hoarse cries of the Undead answered it and yet more Hollows emerged. The crowd came perilously near to the cellar and for a time Gunnar could see nothing through the crack in the door but their shambling bodies.
Once they had passed and their footsteps had faded, Gunnar gave the signal to his men. They leapt out of the cellar and headed southward through the empty streets.
Upon reaching the village's edge, the cornfields were in plain sight. Nearly to safety, Gunnar thought, or at least as close to it as they would manage. As if in response to the hopeful thought, four mangy hounds rose from the rotting vegetable beds. The haggard canines snarled at the Forossans with hungry eyes and rotting teeth and ran at them.
They barely had time to draw their weapons. The dogs must have been driven by desperate hunger, for they ignored the cuts and blows showered on them. One leapt at Roran and impaled itself on his sword. Even in its death throes it kept coming for him and was stopped only by the sword's hilt before Brand came to his aid and finished it off with a slice to the throat.
Gunnar let fly a shaft of lightning that struck another mid-lunge. He knocked it to the ground and buried his axe in its skull.
The third canine was felled by one of Stark's crossbow bolts. All four turned to the last hound and hacked it to pieces.
The skirmish lasted no more than twenty seconds, but it was still precious time lost. And it had made quite a racket. Not all the Hollows had gone after Thrandor, after all.
"Look!" Stark hissed.
More Undead, drawn by the sound of the dogs and the fighting, came from seemingly nowhere and approached the Forossans. The revenants were many, surrounding the men in a semicircle.
There was no time for battle. The more Hollows, the more likely the Forossans would be overwhelmed and slain. He barked the order to retreat into the corn fields. The other three promptly obeyed, even the two battle-hungry youths. It was one matter to boast of fighting to the bitter end, he thought, and quite another to stare at death coming at you with gnarled limbs and empty eyes, eager to rend you with rusty blades.
Gunnar heard the Hollows chasing them as they plunged into the endless rows of corn. The tall stalks frustrated his sense of direction. He tried to stay close to the others, but in his haste and confusion he sensed that he had become separated. He only heard the cries of the Hollows on the hunt.
He lost count of his steps before he determined he had outrun the corpse men and could permit himself to take stock of his position. The sun's candescence shining through the clouds gave him some sense of his position. He had veered more east than south in his flight. But using the sun's brightness as a rough guide, he recalculated his route and turned himself toward what he hoped was the approximate direction of the river.
His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling of corn following a straight line for him. Before he could draw his weapon or summon a miracle, the stalks parted and a shriveled hand reached out and seized him by the throat. The Hollow slammed its body into him and wrapped its other hand around his neck. As they fell to the ground, Gunnar struggled against the creature's grip as it knelt atop him and squeezed. He beat his fists against its face and chest, but the leathery skin felt no pain.
With all his strength he grabbed the Hollow by its torso and shifted his weight to pull it down. He rolled over on top of it and pressed his hands against its chest. His eyes were bulging and his vision was blurring. He sputtered out an incantation. His hands glowed with holy power and a rush of crackling energy exploded against the Hollow. The dust and ashes that had been its body flurried up around Gunnar.
He threw off the gnarled hands and stumbled away from the mangled torso. He was seeing spots in his vision, and he couldn't seem to take a deep enough breath. He wanted to lie down and huddle in the dirt. He forced himself onwards, instead.
Abruptly the field ended and he found himself on open grassland. The forest line was several yards away, rising up like a green carpet over the ridge that marked the valley's eastern border. To his right was a long stretch of open field. The southern hills were visible in the far distance.
More sounds of Hollows came from the field behind him. He must choose his path. If he ran through the field straight for the hills and the river beyond, it was doubtful he would remain unseen. He would be an easy target. And he had lost his battle-axe. He had only his miracles to defend him, and their power was not infinite. But in the forest there was some chance of refuge, of evading the enemy in the underbrush and of trekking the remaining distance under the shelter of the trees. He decided to take his chances in the woods.
He half-ran half-limped into the forest. The Hollows raspy cries echoed after him.
He marched over fallen logs and through thick foliage, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as exhaustion took hold of him. How long did he walk, with the endless woods ahead of him and the Hollows lurking behind? They seemed to have lost track of him. He wondered if they had given up, but he dared not hope for such an easy resolution. He continued trudging along until he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, muttering another invocation. He stopped when he saw who it was.
Stark stepped out of the bushes with hands raised in a gesture of peace.
"The others?" Gunnar asked.
"I saw them run into the woods, pursued by Hollows. I followed. I'm on their trail, but it's hard going with these corpse men about." He looked past Gunnar, spying out the wilderness with his trained ranger's eyes. "We need to keep moving, Northwarder. Hollows coming this way."
They pressed on until they found an overhang of rock surrounded by bushes that offered some semblance of a hiding place. Stark told Gunnar to lay flat on his stomach in the dirt and did the same. After a few minutes, just when Gunnar thought he would nod off to sleep, the telltale shuffling footsteps reached his ears and a large gang of Hollows came into view. The dimwitted creatures neither walked softly nor observed their surroundings. They marched straight ahead, walking right past the two men's hiding place without a second glance.
"They're not hard to outwit, are they?" Gunnar observed.
"If they had brought dogs, we would not be so fortunate," Stark replied.
"Then we should count our blessings," Gunnar grimaced. "Ah, listen."
As the Hollows footsteps faded, the pair heard the whoop of a whitewing plover, a bird of the Forossan wilds; obviously, a signal from Roran or Brand. Cautiously navigating their way as quietly as possible, they followed the sound to a thick patch of ferns and ivy from which both youths raised their heads. Roran winced as he moved. When Gunnar and Stark joined them in the bushes, they saw that Roran was nursing a badly scarred arm. His face was pale and sweat beaded his forehead, but he kept his composure.
"We feared you were dead," he said.
"We still live," Gunnar replied. "For how much longer, who can say?"
"Thrandor?"
"If he's still alive, he'll make his own way to the river."
"Now that we've rejoined, certainly, we should also?" Brand asked.
Gunnar thought about this. He had not anticipated traveling through the forest. Nor for so many Hollows to still be on their scent.
He turned to Stark. "How many Hollows do you reckon remain between us and the bridge? How many in the forest, how many on the route through the hills?"
"At least a couple dozen here in the forest. On the road, a great number, perhaps even the rest of the horde," Stark said grimly.
Gunnar considered their options. Charging blindly into the fray would only get themselves killed that much faster. The situation was bleak as it was, and he didn't want to waste any more lives out of sheer impatience. They needed to know the enemy's position.
"Stark, I need you to scout ahead. I need you to venture beyond the forest and survey how many Hollows lie between us and the river. Their positions, movements, and where their numbers are thinnest."
"I'll be swift." He picked up his crossbow and disappeared silently into the woods.
Roran frowned and looked thoughtfully after Stark. "You intend for us to cross the bridge. What about crossing further up?" he suggested. "The river cuts through this forest, doesn't it? Why can't we find a ford and avoid the Hollows altogether?"
Gunnar shook his head. "If such a thing were possible, I would have already ordered us on the move. I spoke with Drangleicans during the march about the lay of this land, and I saw the commandant's maps yesterday before our mission. The eastern banks of the river rise up into sheer cliffs that are too treacherous and wide to attempt a crossing. We cannot cross the river where it runs through the forest. The bridge is the way into this valley, and it is our only means of escape."
"Then it's a fight," Brand said. "Good. No more running. I'm tired of running. It's shameful for a warrior to run."
Gunnar sighed. The brashness of the young. "You'll get your fight soon enough. For now, we restore our strength. A wise warrior doesn't push himself beyond his limits."
They did so. After a brief rest, Gunnar opened his eyes and saw the two young men conversing quietly. As always, they spoke of tales of Forossa's glory days, of past battles and victories. Gunnar listened.
"Alder Pass," Roran said with awed voice. "Father told me about that battle. A hundred Lion Knights against a thousand. The Lions won, of course. Their line couldn't be broken."
Because they held a section of the pass so narrow the enemy could barely march three abreast, Gunnar thought to himself. They chose their battleground where the enemy would have no room to maneuver, while Lion Knights waited with sharpened spears or showered rocks and firebombs from above. We speak of honor and glory, but that battle was a slaughter.
Roran broke off when he saw that Gunnar was awake. "Northwarder, may I ask you something?"
"Speak."
"Thrandor. He never said, but … You called him a Lion Knight when last we saw him."
"Yes. He was one of the last."
"Why didn't he tell us? I would think he'd be proud to boast of his exploits."
"Thrandor did not hold onto the past. He was a Lion, true, but he was many other things. He was never one for clinging to the past."
"He'll survive," Roran said with certainty. "Lion Knights are too great to be killed by corpse men."
"They're as mortal as any other," Gunnar scoffed. "I saw hundreds die during the fall of the kingdom. Bodies in the mud, rotting and stinking."
"But their fighting during the last battle is already the stuff of legend. They never fell back, never gave ground to the enemy."
Gunnar said nothing to this and wrapped himself tighter in his robe. The air was cold and smelled of imminent rain.
"I once asked Vengarl if he was a Lion Knight, but he denied it," Brand chuckled. "Still, I wonder, what with that beast-shaped helm of his. I used to dream of becoming a Lion Knight myself, or at least fighting alongside one. To think that Thrandor is one and I never knew."
"Yes, he was, and now he is most likely dead," Gunnar said simply.
"Why all this talk of death, Northwarder?" Roran asked. "I know you are a solemn man, but this glumness of yours is not …" His voice trailed off as he caught the reproachful tone with which he addressed the priest. He grimaced and looked away.
"Is not what?" Gunnar said quietly. "Not becoming of a sage of Faraam? Perhaps not. No need to look so remorseful, I take no offense." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "I fought for Forossa for forty years. After that much fighting, are you so surprised I have little to speak of but death?"
"You have lived through great victories. You serve Lord Faraam. He strengthens you with his power and grants you miracles. You witnessed events I have only heard of in songs."
"Don't pay too much attention to the old songs. Valor and courage mean nothing to the dead."
"If we don't have our honor, what do we have?" Brand challenged.
Gunnar smiled bitterly at this. "Our culture founded itself on war. But take away the wars, and what is left?" He picked up a stick and began twiddling it in his hands.
"Forossa needed war. Without it the army and the Lion Knights had no reason to be. Yet the warriors' desire for combat and glory would not simply fade. Their gaze would turn inwards, against the throne and each other. Any king knows that having an army without an enemy to fight is a dangerous thing indeed. So, the kings found more wars. For every perceived slight, for every supposed insult, they ravaged the surrounding nations until Forossa became an unbearable plague. But in the end, it was our beloved wars that brought about our destruction. The lands we had assaulted banded together into a force greater than our own. And just like that, Forossa fell."
He snapped the twig between his thumb and forefinger. "It died alone and unmourned. The world was glad to be rid of it. And its survivors? What is left for them? What is the legacy of honor and prowess in battle? Stories. Nostalgia. Talk of the old days when everything was so much better."
He spat on the ground. "The old songs are nonsense. The wistfulness of fools."
"You cannot mean that, Northwarder," Roran said, his face a mask of shock. "You are a voice of Faraam, you are meant to lead and inspire. Your words … they dishonor him."
"Faraam! What has Faraam done? If my words dishonor and blaspheme him, why do I still live? Why has he not struck me down and avenged his pride? And if he demands that a warrior seek only glory in battle, not material gain, then ask yourself why you, too, still live? You, a mercenary, selling yourself for coin rather than honor."
The boy's face was ashen. He looked down and said nothing.
Gunnar's voice turned gentle as he regained control of himself after his outburst.
"Let me tell you a story of my own, child, and perhaps you will understand better. On the day of Forossa's fall, I fought in the last battle. I saw that the enemy would soon overwhelm us, and I grew afraid. Against the teachings of Faraam and the covenant I forged with him the day I became a Northwarder, I fled. I ran from battle. And I nearly died regardless, for a foe came upon me and nearly killed me.
But he did not. Lightning struck a tree that fell and killed him. As I turned away from the corpse, I saw a figure standing atop a hill, awesome in appearance, with hair grey as ash and faded gold armor. He held a spear twice the length of a man in his hand."
"Faraam," Roran whispered.
"Aye, the god himself walked the field. And he looked straight at me. And I knew, I knew, that he had sent the lightning to save my life. And that was the moment my faith left me."
"But why? Faraam saved you."
"Yes. How dare he," Gunnar hissed. "I was a coward. I was a heretic, despising the statutes of my god. All my friends and family died keeping their faith in him. I did not. I betrayed him and them alike. And of all Forossans that day, it was me he intervened to save, I who deserved the least to live. And I realized, if he cares so little for his statutes, then why should I?"
"But, Northwarder," Brand asked quietly. "You still wear the robes, you still speak the prayers."
Gunnar waved the question aside. "We need our traditions, don't we? We need our comfort. These robes don't really mean anything anymore."
"But if you have truly broken faith with Faraam, why are you still granted the miracles?"
"It is … it is of no consequence. Let the miracles come, if he deigns to give them. Or not."
Gunnar said no more, but in his heart he was greatly troubled. For the same question had dogged him for many years. He had wondered to himself many times what it could mean. He had abandoned his faith and broken his covenant, and yet he still wielded the power of lightning that came from the war god. But he dare not question further, he dare not dwell on the matter or examine it too closely, for he feared what the answer may be.
Silence descended upon the trio. There was only the buzzing of insects and the mournful songs of birds drifting through the cold air.