A/N: Hi everyone! Next chapter is out! This one is pretty long, (8,000 words) so I do apologize if that's not to your liking. I hadn't really intended to make it this long, but I had more ends to tie up and connect than I originally thought, so sorry about that. As promised, more about the nature of Gilan's past is revealed this chapter, but, again, the full story probably won't come out until about 4 or so more chapters in, depending on how things go. Anyhow, I hope this chapter proves to be exciting/enjoyable.
VanyaNoldo22: Thanks so much for leaving a review! And thanks so much for your kind words, it really is very encouraging, and it totally made my day to read. This story actually sprang from a discussion with one of my friends about how much of an integral part of everything Halt is. He really is at the center of a lot of things in RA which is why we wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been there. Don't worry, things will be getting better for Halt (I promise). XD *hugs back* Thanks again!
Lilly-daughter of Radolso: Yeah, Halt is not having the best time at the moment—but things will eventually start looking up for him. It is very possible that Crowley could notice something off about Halt: I'd love to include your idea/suggestion. I'll see if I can fit it somewhere in the outline. I'm glad/relieved that you think I'm doing a decent job of incorporating and writing all the characters (It's a little daunting trying to tell all their stories XD and I worry often about getting them right.) Thanks for being patient with me and my snail-paced writing, and thanks for the review! I really appreciate it!
TrustTheCloak: I hope this wasn't too long of a wait XD Thanks so much for the review/compliment/encouragement. It really is encouraging/exciting to know I'm doing alright with the characters, character interactions, and plot X). Halt is definitely having a hard time (but things will eventually get better for him). So, you're not wrong in your guess: the Kalkara do have something to do with Gilan and Sir David's past, but it might not be exactly how you think (or, rather, there's a little more to it). X) Thanks so much for reading and for your reviews! They both made my day!
Oceanera12: I hope I didn't make you loose too much sleep X). I'm really glad you like it so far. Don't worry Halt is definitely going to go after Morgarath. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it!
Guest 12/22: Aww thanks :3 I'm not as good at it as I'd like (seeing as how it sometimes takes me way too long to get chapters out), but at least I'm trying XD. I can totally relate to staying up too late because of youtube… Thanks again for the review.
Random Flyer: Would it help if I said I couldn't help it? *innocent smile* You've got some really amazing predictions and you may or may not be right about a few of them. I also really like the idea of Halt having to chase down Will and co. Thanks for the compliments, and the advice. I really appreciate your support and suggestions. I do love not falling into traps. I do have the entire plot mapped out and I am (scouts honor) making an effort not to make it really complex or unpredictable as all the characters eventually join up and underlying connections between characters get revealed. I had a path that felt natural that I went with, so I hope it's good enough. I'm also trying not to let sub-plots get out of hand either: so, I'll definitely keep your advice in mind. Thanks again!
Also, special thanks to: ArcedArrow, Gerbilfriend, Guest 12/18, Ranger-of-the-shadows, and jaymzNshed. Thanks so much for the support and your reviews! It really means a lot. You guys are awesome.
Chapter 15: Memories and Outsiders Part III
~x~X~x~
A Few Years After the Battle of Hackham Heath
~x~X~x~
Today was his birthday, and he was alone… unless he was going to count the rats, but Gilan had already decided that he was never going to count the rats. There were other people around, of course, but he couldn't see them. They were all separated by walls and bars and chains. Besides that, it was dark at the moment—but, then again, it was always dark here: dark, and damp and cold.
The damp seemed to get everywhere: in the old straw they'd brought in for bedding, the cracks of the stone walls, his clothes, and even his bones. It was one of the things he hated most about this place, aside from the rats. The rats were as half-starved as the prisoners. Hunger often drove them to be bold enough to attempt to nibble at a captive if given a chance. Rats would eat almost anything. Nobody got much sleep if they were smart. He thought about that for a moment and then amended his previous thoughts; he really hated everything about this place equally.
Perhaps if it wasn't so damp it would smell less foul he thought then, wryly. It was the smell of dank moldering stones mixed with the scent of unwashed bodies, open privy pots, and their rather unpleasant contents. The latter were hardly ever cleaned out. He'd been here for more than a month now and had yet to see any such maintenance. The Baron's hunting dogs were kept in better conditions then they were.
Nobody dared complain about that though, for fear of a beating from the guards. Gilan frowned, unable to fully suppress a flinch at the thought. The guards were already free enough with their sporadic, almost casual, displays of cruelty without being provoked. He had been on the receiving end of it more than enough to know. Their attention to him was probably due to the ugly nature of the crime he'd been convicted of; that and the fact that he was the son of their commanding officer. That crime would indeed seem like a betrayal to them and everything they stood for.
And one of the guards, the one who was by far the cruelest and had taken things quite past the point of casual on more than one occasion, Gilan knew had been a friend of the person who had died because of…. He gritted his teeth as he thought it. He brought his hands up to rest either side of his head; if he ever regretted anything in his life, he regretted—regretted…. He shook his head abruptly, dwelling on that did him little good at the moment.
What he should be focusing on was ideas on how to do something about the guards and their behavior. Gilan knew that those beatings weren't allowed. But he also knew that if he tried to complain, or bring attention to it, it would be his word against the guards': the word of a court-martialed and condemned criminal over that of trusted officers. And, even if they'd listen long enough for Gilan to show them the obvious proof, the guards had as good as assured that they would just make up some convenient excuse, or give false report, about how Gilan had tried to escape and that it had taken a little bit of a scuffle to subdue him or how he'd gotten into a fight with another prisoner. There wasn't really anything he could do. The other prisoners that were treated harshly obviously knew that too, which was why nobody spoke. Maybe, Gilan thought idly then, it was the foul conditions and smell down here that put the guards in such a bad mood in the first place—ironic if that was true.
He probably smelled too, he realized, his mouth faintly twitching upwards at the corners in mild and mordant amusement despite the situation. In his current state, it would probably be difficult to tell him apart from the grimy walls he leaned against. Maybe, if he held completely still, they would think that he had escaped when they came to bring him food—if the unwanted scraps from the castle's kitchen that they brought down could indeed be called that. That didn't matter all that much to him though. He wasn't really hungry anyway. He hadn't had much of an appetite since that night.
A bitter half-chuckle escaped his lips as he studied his grime coated body critically and unseriously considered his earlier idea of making it look as if he'd escaped in order to actually escape. It would take a little artistry but he might be able to make himself look like the walls—he had little else, or better, to do anyway.
His mild and momentary flare of interest vanished as soon as his eyes lit upon the heavy manacles on his wrists that attached him to the wall of his prison by a longish chain. It was long enough to allow him relative freedom of movement, but not long enough for him to be able to walk the perimeter of his cell in all directions. He couldn't quite make it to the bars at the front or to the far right wall. He could reach the back and left wall though, evidenced by the fact that he was currently leaning against the left wall, and the back wall bore several long hatch lines carved into the moldering bricks where he'd marked off the days. That was how he knew it was his birthday today. He was fifteen now—for all that it mattered down here.
His birthday… usually, it was a word that signified a fairly joyous occasion. Several unbidden pleasant memories flashed through his mind of birthdays past: going riding through the woods, feeling sunlight on his face, and having fun—all around him filled with the simple joy of life and of living. He felt his eyes beginning to sting and he quickly shoved those memories away.
Sniffing softly, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them even as he rested his chin atop them too. He stared dully out at the bars of his cell, trying not to think of sunlight and open spaces or of a time when everything seemed so much simpler and brighter. Instead, he focused on the pain in his wrists that came from the chafing of the chains that encircled them. His eyes stared out at the shadows, but he couldn't see much. It was dark everywhere he looked… it was always dark here.
A hoarse wracking cough echoed through the shrouded passages from, perhaps, a few cells down; he couldn't really tell. Another person had taken ill from the awful, filthy, conditions, he knew. He hoped he wasn't going to be next. He closed his eyes, but it brought him little relief or comfort. He was still surrounded by the dark, the damp…the cold. He shivered.
Today was his birthday and he was alone.
~x~X~x~
Gilan regained consciousness slowly. He stirred, awareness and pain becoming a faint backdrop that steadily grew. He groaned softly. His body ached with fever and his face from the hits he'd taken. Gradually, he became aware of an uncomfortably familiar, heavy, and tight sensation in his wrists. He pulled at it and felt resistance.
He woke fully with a sharp intake of breath, sitting up and tugging at the manacles that bound his wrists together. His gaze fixed sharply on the length of chain that secured him to the middle of the floor. A cold sinking sensation of pins and needles mingled with the spike in his heart rate. His breathing quickened and sharpened as the combination of experience and sensation spiraled him back into the grip of memories that he'd tried so long to bury. His hands were shaking ever so slightly and he was shivering, uncertain if it was because of the fever, the feeling, and flood of memories, or perhaps all of those combined.
Trapped.
Then he shook his head to clear it, to see past the confused, feverish memories. He wasn't that fifteen-year-old boy anymore, and this wasn't Highcliff fief. He breathed slowly, deliberately, forcing the muscles in his body to relax one by one. He laid his hands flat against his knees. Willing and breathing away that sensation of cold dread and panic. He cursed softly.
He took another deep breath and then took stock of his situation. He was in an iron cage out in the open of what must be the camp of the bandits of Balsennis. The cage itself was tall enough for him to stand upright in and wide enough for him to be able to touch either side—were he in the middle and able to spread his arms. A glance to the left showed him two other cages like the one he was in, though those weren't currently unoccupied.
Thinking about what the Outsiders did with those cages was a line of thought he didn't really want to pursue at the moment—especially when considering his confrontation with Tennyson the night before. He gingerly touched his bruised face.
Whether due to his fever, a lucky blow to the head, or perhaps a combination of both, Gilan had lost consciousness before Tennyson had really gotten started with his angry impromptu interrogation the previous night. And they'd brought him here, Gilan supposed, to keep the villagers oblivious to this side of Alseiass's religion—at least, that what the phrase 'one way or the other' conjured up visions of. Gilan blew out a long slow breath. He couldn't say that he was enchanted with the image that threat implied.
He lowered his hands, he could feel no serious damage on his person. He'd had worse before… his eyes settled on the chains that bound his wrists. Much worse. His hands twitched reflexively at the thought and he quickly turned his focus elsewhere. Unfortunately, the image he eventually settled on really wasn't much of an improvement he thought with a bitter inward smile. He watched silently as none other than Tennyson approached his cage.
"I see you're awake now," Tennyson's voice sounded as he circled the cage. Gilan turned to watch the white-robed priest and the movement filled him with a wave of dizziness and nausea. The fever really wasn't helping.
"I hope your accommodations have given you the opportunity to think about your position and your choices," he continued, stopping to stand close to the bars. His voice once again held that warm, caring, and grandfatherly tone, before it dropped abruptly, "And, if not, then I assure you that the memory of last night's encounter will become nothing but a pleasant one compared to what's going to await you today.
"You see," he continued conversationally, "today is the festival of fire: sacrifices must be made to Balsennis. I think I told you before that the bandits of Balsennis were brutal." The grandfatherly tone had come back but this time it was tempered with menace and false regret. "Balsennis is often not satisfied unless his sacrifice has spent hours under the touch of the flames. His sacrifice victims are hardly even human by the time the final blow is struck."
Gilan's face twitched fractionally. It wasn't an idle threat. His eyes followed Tennyson's sweeping hand motion towards where the bandits were already busy getting wood together for a massive bonfire.
"Pity Alseiass doesn't have the tithes he needs to protect you," Tennyson said.
Gilan wondered idly how long it had taken for Tennyson to come up with this little plan and speech, and if he had used it before on anyone else. Neither thought increased his opinion of the man any.
Tennyson, for his part, watched the mercenary closely as soon as he'd finished his threat. For a moment, the man's bruised face went entirely blank: likely a result of shock or fear. Then Tennyson smiled, enjoying how the young man's expression finally broke at the same time as his will. It felt vindicating, especially after the humiliation he'd suffered on account of this mercenary the night before. Pretending not to notice, he made as if to leave. As he predicted, he was stopped by the mercenary's hoarse and quiet voice.
"Wait..."
Tennyson didn't, forcing him to voice the plea again.
"Wait, please," the mercenary begged.
Tennyson did turn around then.
"If I tell you where to find the boys and your tithes, will you let me go unharmed?"
"Of course, my boy," Tennyson said kindly. "Truthfully, I don't want to see anyone hurt. And, if you don't force my hand, I see no reason to harm you."
"Then I'll show you—I'll lead you there."
Tennyson scoffed. "So you can warn them or lead my men and I into a trap? I think not." He pulled out a chart of the surrounding area. "Show me where on this. My men and I will go while you remain here. If you direct us true, then I'll let you go. I give you my word."
The young mercenary hesitated.
"It's your only option," Tennyson warned.
Finally, his prisoner moved towards the bars, reaching his manacled hands out as far as the chain would allow. Tennyson slipped the chart through the bars and the mercenary pointed reluctantly. Tennyson noted the spot with a smile.
"For your sake, my boy, I hope you are telling the truth."
Anguished eyes met his. "Just don't harm the boys, please."
"Of course not," Tennyson said soothingly, turning and striding away, already calling orders to his men—not noticing how the prisoner's apparent distress and fear dropped away the moment Tennyson's back was turned, nor the dangerous icy look that hardened his eyes.
~x~X~x~
Will crouched in the shade of some trees, Horace beside him. His growing worry and frustration was making it hard to think and hard to stand still. It was as if Gilan had just dropped off the face of the earth. The night before, he had snooped around the village, listening and eavesdropping for hours for any hint to his friend's whereabouts. Perhaps if he'd been able to show himself, it might have yielded better results, or more opportunities to try and discover information. But, as it was, he had left the previous night without learning anything.
When it became obvious that Gilan really wasn't coming back, Horace and Will had packed up everything and had moved their camp to a different location, making certain to hide their trail and not light a fire just as Gilan had told them to do in situations like this. That act only intensified the unease and worry, making their predicament all that more real. It was as if by following this protocol they were throwing out any hint of denial that Gilan was missing and probably in trouble.
Now that it was day once more, Will was at it again. This time Horace had come with him. Horace had never mastered silent movement and covert observation as well as Will had, but he had insisted on coming and Will couldn't refuse him. Will couldn't risk trying to go into the village at broad daylight anyway, so it was safe enough for both of them to just observe the town itself from their hidden position—and it had been hours.
Just as Will was despairing of ever learning anything this way, he heard something. It wasn't coming from the direction of the village but rather from behind them. Will froze and didn't need to signal for Horace to do likewise. It was one of the first rules of unseen movement that had been drilled into them. It was often movement that gave a person away. Both boys held deathly still, listening as what sounded like a small army crossed just behind their position. Even when it sounded like all the men had passed, both boys stayed frozen still longer: a practiced precaution against sweepers.
When they finally deemed it safe to move again, they headed out from cover to see what had just passed by them. Even with the line of men facing away from them, they could still recognize several people from the day before—the watch and town members that had chased them. There were many other men with them, all armed. Every last one of them was being led by a white-robed priest. Their steps were purposeful. Will knew that, if they continued on in that direction, it would lead them straight towards where Gilan, Horace, and Will had initially made camp. Will and Horace didn't even need to say anything as they looked from the line of men to each other and finally to the very obvious trail the men had left behind. They only paused briefly to fetch Gilan's horse from where they had secured her before following the trail, heading towards wherever it was that that party of men had come from.
The trail eventually led to a very large camp in the woods. They stopped a fair ways back—keenly aware of the picket guards stationed around the encampment. Somehow, Will knew that this was probably where Gilan had ended up. He thought he could just see the tops of iron cages towards the middle of the camp and shielded from view by the many tents around them. It was obvious Horace had seen them too. Will was about to signal for them to move back so they could make a plan when an explosion of noise drew their attention back to the camp.
~x~X~x~
Once Tennyson had mustered his men and left, there were only about six men left to guard the camp by Gilan's count. Gilan, despite the fever and spinning in his head, watched them carefully, waiting. He knew well that this was his best and possibly only chance to get away.
When Tennyson had given him the map, Gilan had honestly pointed to the place where he, Horace, and Will had made camp the day before. He had no fear of the false priest finding them. They had a protocol put in place for instances like this. Horace and Will knew that, if Gilan didn't make it back when he was expected, they were to move their camp. That way, they'd be safe if something was ever to go wrong like this and Gilan would be able to track them down later.
He hoped that by giving Tennyson the honest location of a fairly fresh camp it might buy him time and cool the false priest's anger if he was unable to find a way to escape before the man returned. But it was still a gamble, everything was a gamble. Gilan brought his chained hands up to his face, wishing that he could rub at his temples as he painfully tried to clear his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to focus.
Before he had the chance, however, he was startled by the sound of banging against the bars of his prison. Opening his eyes, he focused them on one of the bandits who had been left behind: a gangly looking man with ferret-like features. The man rammed the butt of the spear he carried against the cage again.
"I really hope you lied to Tennyson," he sneered, his face pinched in anger and the light of revenge burning in his eyes. "Your little stunt caused me to lose face as well as my high position. Apparently, I'm no longer trustworthy or dependable enough. I'm stuck doing menial work for a month—including guarding you. Needless to say, I'd enjoy seeing you burn for it."
Gilan's eyes narrowed. So this man must be Kenton—the one who was responsible for losing or mishandling the tithes in the first place: the one whom Gilan had initially been hired to track. Gilan sniffed and then coughed involuntarily before trying to focus on Kenton. He clearly saw the anger in Kenton's eyes and something else: the keys that hung from the man's belt.
Gilan's head was clogged with sickness and every joint was aching with fever, so it took him a little longer than normal to see the opportunity for what it was—but he did see it.
In truth, he really couldn't have been given a better one—or at a better time of day. Giving no hint to his thoughts, Gilan turned away from the man with an uncaring shrug, putting his back to the cell door as well as to the sun. He sat placidly on his knees, purposely presenting himself as an easy target. On the ground in front of him, however, he tracked Kenton's every movement by his shadow, which he could clearly see on the ground before him.
"Nothing to say mercenary?" the man growled at him.
"Not really," Gilan said with another shrug. He heard the man growl again in answer to that and then added, "But I do suppose an apology is in order."
The man fell quiet behind him so Gilan could tell he caught his full attention with that. So thinking, he spoke on.
"I'm sorry you got blamed for this whole fiasco. What they did to you is unfair and it's obviously no one but Tennyson's fault," he said, his words edged with uncaring. "You couldn't help being born with the intelligence you have any more than you could help how you look. So, instead of getting angry and punishing you for failing, Tennyson should have just given you tasks you could actually handle from the start."
"Tasks I can handle?! I'll fix that mouth of yours!" Kenton snarled.
"Noooo," Gilan drew out the word, purposefully fanning the man's anger. "I don't think you will—or can."
In response he heard the man grind his teeth, his breathing becoming faster and heavier with rage.
"Is that what you think?" he snarled. Then came the telling jingle of keys being drawn forward and inserted into the lock on the cage. Gilan didn't turn, however, merely continued to sit with his back to the man, forcing himself to look completely relaxed as he watched the man's every move by his shadow, eyes narrowed. He knew he would only have one shot at this. He could feel his heartbeat racing in his chest, every muscle tense despite his apparent nonchalance.
Kenton, for his part, was so angry that it took a moment to still his shaking hands enough to open the lock. He flung the cage door open, slipping the key back into his belt loop before taking a firmer grip on his spear. He raised the weapon, aiming it to bring it cracking down on his prisoners' exposed and vulnerable back and shoulders. At that moment, he thought he really couldn't have asked for an easier target to vent his rage on. The prisoner would soon learn the dangers of crossing him. He started his swing. It was far wilder than precise with rage. Expecting to hear the sharp crack of contact and feel resistance as the strike his home, he was caught off guard when the shaft of his weapon was halted dead in its tracks sooner than he had expected.
Surprised, he realized that the prisoner had somehow caught the shaft of his spear in the cleft of the chains that bound his wrists without even turning to look. Before he even had a chance to recover from his shock, Gilan, with a deft moment, twisted and pulled the spear from his stunned hands before rising, whirling, and turning the weapon on Kenton. The man was sent to the ground with two lightning-fast and precise blows.
Gilan pulled the man's unconscious body toward him until he could get a hold of the keys on the man's belt loop. From there, it was simply a matter of finding which key fit the lock to his shackles. Then he gagged and chained Kenton in his place once he was free. He rose to his feet again, this time having to press one hand against the bars of the cage as he fought through a wave of vertigo. He muffled a cough as best as he could before sweeping his eyes around the camp. None of the picket guards had seemed to have heard or become aware of the disturbance.
Gilan then set his sights towards the tent he'd pegged as the command tent. Tennyson had had his weapons confiscated the night before and Gilan guessed that that was where they were being kept. Those weapons had been the difference between life and death for him more times than he could count and he needed them back. As he covertly made his way to the tent, he noticed with mild concern that the ground around him seemed to be heaving and spinning ever so faintly. He felt like he was burning up, even though he knew it was a cool autumn day out.
Eventually, he stopped in the shade of the command tent. Glancing around once more, to ensure that he'd remained unobserved, he stepped cautiously inside. He held the spear at the ready but the tent was empty.
It was easy enough to find and retrieve his weapons. Once he'd secured them to his person, he fell into a wracking coughing fit that he desperately tried to muffle. He knew that the noise could alert the guards, and knew that he'd never be able to defend against so many in the condition he was in. He curled in on himself pressing both hands against his mouth and trying desperately to stop and hold the coughing in. Involuntary tears from the strain prickled against his eyes as he strove not to make a sound. All of that only seemed to increase the dizziness and he nearly doubled over—forced to lean against the work desk that had been placed against one canvas wall to keep from falling.
The action disturbed some of the papers that had been stacked there, partially revealing one closer to the bottom, a broken wax seal still visible along one edge. Gilan froze when he saw it. It took a moment before he could move his hand away from his mouth to pull it from the pile.
He refolded the parchment to make the broken yellow seal whole again and frowned at the symbol that was reformed by the action: an all too familiar lightning bolt. Why should the Outsider cult be communicating with Morgarath? Gilan reopened the letter with one hand, again having to press the knuckles of the other into his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle another coughing fit as he read the contents.
Ensure that this gift reaches the head of your order as a gesture of good faith and proof of the mutual benefits of our partnership and agreement.
Gilan scanned the rest of the letter and then several others. Gradually a picture of what was going on started to form and it wasn't a pretty one.
From what he could tell, Tennyson, in the hopes of rising in the ranks of the Outsider order, and in an attempt to garner favor from the order's head, had been negotiating a deal with Morgarath. It detailed the sharing of funds and support. All of that was bad, but what was worse was that Tennyson had agreed on behalf of the cult to aid and support any incursions, whether covertly or overtly, that Morgarath might make into the western side of the King's lands. Gilan knew well that the cult had indeed gained a very strong foothold in the west coast. If they supported an incursion from Morgarath the results could be devastating. In return for this support, Morgarath had promised to support the Outsider cult in turn and install it as an official religion in all of his holdings—including any new land he might conquer.
From there, it didn't take a genius to figure out that 'gift' mentioned in the first letter was probably the 'tithes' that had started this whole mess. They were a bribe to convince the Outsider's leader to accept Tennyson and Morgarath's alliance. It explained why Tennyson was so desperate to get them all back. The only part he still didn't understand was how Horace and Will had gotten ahold of the tithes and why—unless they were simply convenient fall men for a conniving and greedy group member. Regardless, this put a new imperative edge to his escape.
If this alliance was ever to be properly formed it could spell disaster for the King and what was left of Araluen. As a general rule, there was not much love lost between Gilan and most officials and authorities: the nobility, knights, and Barons. His stance towards them and deeper politics of the kingdom was often little more than apathetic, that was true. But Gilan had seen Morgarath's lands and the way he ruled… Needless to say, this was information he needed to get to the King immediately—or, more accurately put, to a particular contact of his.
He decided against taking the actual letters with him and instead put them back the way they had been initially. It would be better if neither Morgarath nor the Outsiders knew that anyone had found out about their schemes. That done, he made his way out of the tent, staggering slightly.
Then he froze as he found himself face to face with one of the picket guards. The guard froze too for a moment before he drew his sword and took a breath in order to alert the others that the prisoner had escaped. But he never managed it. Gilan's stolen spear was sent hurtling into his chest before the man could finish closing the distance between them. The man fell unmoving to the ground without a sound other than a gasp and the thud of his body.
Gilan quickly dragged the man's body back into the command tent. The dizziness increased when he straightened again and blackness threatened to overtake his vision. It took a moment for the feeling to pass. Gilan took several deep breaths before he again left the tent. Using all the skill he had in unseen movement, he made his way back through the camp then halted in the shadow of another tent. There was another picket guard standing sentinel near the direction he needed to take in order to escape. The area around the man was clear and without any cover. Gilan fought again to stop himself from coughing.
There would be no way for him to sneak past that sentinel unseen. Gilan quietly drew his bow and knocked an arrow as he weighed his options. He didn't have time to wait for a shift change; every second diminished both his chances and the kingdom's. In the state he was in, he couldn't really risk trying to get close either. Grimly, he started to draw back on his bow and was unable to stop and fully muffle his next cough.
The picket heard it and whirled in Gilan's direction, crossbow aimed directly at him as the man saw him. He shouted, pulling the release. The crossbow bolt tore into the tent fabric just above Gilan's head, milliseconds after Gilan's arrow found its mark in the man's chest.
Knowing that the shout would have alerted the other guards, Gilan moved to cross the open ground as quickly as he could. His only chance would be to try and make it to the woods and find cover before the other pickets caught up to him. But Gilan knew he had little chance of making it. He was already as good as caught. Despite this, he continued on grimly, still trying.
The spinning in his head and aching in his body had only steadily grown, so had the heat from the fever and from his bruises. Still, he refused to stop, couldn't stop. The spinning feeling was soon joined by lightheadedness. Blackness began creeping into the edges of his vision even as he felt the exhaustion and slackness seeping into his muscles, weakening and slowing his strides. He tried to viciously shove the feeling back as he kept moving. He was nearly to the tree line, nearly to cover.
He blinked dazedly as three shapes seemed to materialize right before him. He shuddered to a stop, making a flinching motion towards his sword before he recognized Will, Horace, and his horse.
"Will… Horace?" he managed to choke out before the effort of staying conscious grew to be that much too much. He swayed, lurching forward as the blackness claimed him entirely.
Will and Horace only just managed to catch him before he hit the ground. Somehow they both managed to lift him up over the saddle of his horse sideways before grabbing the reins and tearing off into the woods. Unfortunately, one of the pickets had indeed heard the other one's shout and was coming after them fast. Will yelled for Horace to keep going even as he drew his recurve bow and knocked an arrow. He ducked behind a tree to avoid a crossbow bolt, stepping out as soon as it passed, drawing aiming and firing as he'd practiced for hours.
The picket fell to the ground with a cry, Will's arrow through the fleshy part of his thigh. Will turned and ran then, catching up with Horace and keeping an ear out for any more sounds of pursuit.
~x~X~x~
Lady Pauline casually slipped the message she had encoded to the woman who was manning the Waypost. Like most Courier Wayposts this one doubled as a place of business: a leatherworker's shop in this instance. And, like all Wayposts, this one served as a center of Courier operation.
The Diplomatic Corps had established many such centers in certain fiefs and key towns. They were hubs for gathering and dispersing intelligence and information, and usually had access to pigeon handlers for delivering urgent information. Very few people knew of their existence. Those were limited to members of the Diplomatic Corps, Rangers, and a few select contacts.
When Pauline had realized that their ride would take them near one, she had encoded a message—or, more aptly, had sent word for a contract to be put out at all the wayposts. With the message delivered, Pauline inclined her head towards her young apprentice. Alyss, who had been studying some of the leatherwork on display, nodded and followed her mentor outside.
"Are you hoping your contact will pick up the contract, as a failsafe?" Alyss asked as the two of them moved to remount their horses.
Pauline nodded. "That's the hope anyway,"
The problem was that there was no guarantee that he would come to a waypost, or would even be anywhere near the vicinity of one, and so no guarantee that he'd get the message at all. But if there was any chance of increasing the odds that they'd get the confirmation and information they needed—and any chance for her to send any sort of help or backup to Crowley—then she considered it worthwhile. She frowned as she guided her horse back to the main road, thinking of Crowley. It was part of their jobs to be in harm's way and take risks: they both knew and accepted that—but that didn't really make it any easier.
Alyss had urged her own mount forward until she was able to keep pace with her mentor. Alyss gave her a conspiratorial sidelong glance then admitted, "I'm worried about Ranger Crowley too."
Pauline shook her head, wondering when it was that her apprentice had become so adept at reading her. "Let's just hope that, once we have the information, we'll be able to counter any move Morgarath will make—and maybe find a way to end this war."
"At least then we'll have to worry less," Alyss agreed.
It didn't take long for them to catch up with the rest of their party, and then they set off at a brisk pace. It would only take about another day before they would reach Highcliff fief and Baron Arald.
~x~X~x~
Will stumbled back to where they had made camp—or, rather, to where Horace had made camp while Will had set about covering their tracks and laying a false trail. Horace had likewise picked a campsite that was both hidden and easily defendable. It was situated on higher ground, had good cover, and was hard to access.
Will sat down with a heavy sigh. Horace jumped a little, not having heard him make his approach.
"Anything?" Horace asked nervously, hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.
But Will shook his head. "Nothing. I scouted several kilometers back but didn't see anyone."
Will saw Horace's shoulders slump a little in relief, but the tension was still there and he knew why.
"How's Gil?" he asked.
"Not good," Horace admitted with a helpless gesture towards Gilan. It was obvious the bigger boy had tried his best to help the injuries. But Gilan was still out cold, or sleeping, his face pale and clammy where there were no bruises. Even under the blanket, his body was wracked by occasional shivering fits.
"The injuries weren't so bad from what I can tell. I think it's just the fever that's the problem. It's pretty high and I don't know what to do about it." Fear and helplessness were making his voice crack. "I tried to do what he did for us when we were sick with this, but I'm not sure I remembered everything right."
Will glanced back at Gilan, feeling just as helpless, just as worried as Horace. Will had never seen Gilan defeated before. Gilan had always been the one with the plan, the one who always knew what to do in whatever situation they faced. They'd been in dozens of skirmishes and deadly situations and always came out on top. The sight of him lying there badly sick with a bruised face was jarringly contrary to Will's image of him. Gilan had always been well… Gilan. Will felt horribly out of his depth—insufficient. He didn't know what to do. Then he shook his head trying to shake off that feeling of helplessness.
"Tell me what you did," Will said. "One of my friends back in Bawtry was a healer, maybe I can fill in anything you might have missed."
Not too long ago, Horace would probably have bristled at the suggestion—but he had been learning that not knowing something didn't have to be a weakness or a threat. And besides, this was Gilan they were talking about. He was in a bad way and Horace was in over his head and willing to accept any sort of help.
A few hours later, Will sat back on his haunches. He'd done everything he could think of. All they could do was wait—even if it felt like they hadn't done enough or done everything right. The two shared a quiet, cold meal and started to settle in for the night. As the evening wore on, Gilan started shifting uncomfortably, coughing and muttering in his sleep. Most of the muttering was incoherent but there were a few words that seemed to be repeated far more often than others. It all centered on something about 'fire'. The only other words Will could catch were 'stop', 'sorry', and 'no'.
"Fire?" Horace repeated before turning to Will. "Think he's cold?"
Will bit his lip, feeling even more helpless than before as he worried that his friend had taken a turn for the worst. The autumn night held a chill and Gilan was still shivering faintly, so it made sense that he might be cold. But there really wasn't much they could do if he was. It was too risky to light a fire—which was why he hadn't been able to make willow bark tea for Gilan's fever.
Horace's expression turned grim as he read Will's thoughts. They just couldn't risk a fire. So they did the only thing they could think of. They stacked their blankets on top of Gilan's and took turns laying down next to him and keeping watch—hoping that the extra blankets and body heat would be enough. And all night long they watched, waited, and worried. Will couldn't stop the feeling of unease: that he might have forgotten a step, had done something wrong, or not good enough. What if Gilan got so sick that he...? Will shuddered at the thought. Needless to say, neither boy got much sleep that night.
The next morning, both boys kept up their vigil. As the sun rose steadily towards the middle of the sky, Horace leaned forward to do another temperature check. He couldn't stop the small, steadily growing feeling of hope. Gilan hadn't woken yet, but as the night and morning had worn on, his fitful tossing had lessened and his fever had been gradually decreasing. At first, he had thought it was just his imagination and wishful thinking, but the last time he'd checked, Gilan had felt noticeably cooler to the touch. Horace hoped now that the trend would continue. He put a gentle hand on his friend's forehead.
The effect of that action was surprisingly explosive.
Gilan's eyes snapped open and he flinched violently at the touch, moving back. In his eyes was a look so hard, flat, and dangerous that Horace flinched back as well. Gilan's mouth twisted in a snarl—until his fevered eyes recognized Horace and Will.
"Horace? Will?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes confused, "where… what…" he started to ask but was cut off by a coughing fit that left him laying weakly back down against the bedding with a groan.
Surprise and worry melted slowly away into relief, as Horace moved forward again. Gilan was awake and coherent and that counted for a lot. He found himself smiling.
"It's alright," Horace reassured him. "We got away from those bandits… uh, Outsiders? I picked a defendable and hidden spot several kilometers away."
"And I hid our trail and made false ones leading away from us—like you showed me," Will took over for Horace. "We've been keeping watch and I scouted several times."
"Your fever was pretty high but we tried our best to help it," Horace added. "We wanted to make you some willow bark tea, but we couldn't risk a fire. But I don't know if you really need it now, your fever's gone down a lot."
Gilan's eyes had been dazedly switching between the two of them as he followed their conversation. His expression changed from worried and confused to dumbfounded.
"But…" he started.
"Everything's taken care of, and we are all safe, so you can rest," Will finished finally with a smile.
There was still a measure of uncertainty in Gilan's expression, but Will had the feeling it wasn't really directed at them. Gilan didn't doubt their words or abilities. No, Will recognized the look as something else because he'd seen it in Horace and felt it in himself quite a bit since they'd all started traveling together. It was uncertainty that came from being unaccustomed all of this: un-used to people caring so much or being able to rely on, even trust in, someone else to keep you safe. There was also, Will noticed, a deep look of gratitude, relief, fondness even, in his eyes that both boys caught and shared.
They were all going to be alright.
Gilan shook his head with a faint, tired smile.
"When you said that everything's been taken care of," he began haltingly, "I hope you meant it in the kind reassuring way, rather than the way you mean it when you've got a persistent problem."
Will and Horace both smiled back, relieved to see Gilan acting more like himself.
"I don't know," Will said. "You are a bit of a problem if you think about it."
"And a persistent one at that," Horace added.
Gilan chuckled hoarsely and then coughed. "In this instance, I don't think I can disagree." Then he nodded at them, the motion silently and genuinely thanking them. "You both did well," he added more quietly as his eyes started to slip closed.
Both Horace and Will grinned at the scant words of praise. Gilan had never really been one to dole out false compliments after all.
A short while later found Horace and Will sharing a light supper while Gilan rested. Now that all the tension and worry of the day before had been dispelled, everything seemed much more peaceful and quiet. The day even seemed brighter, Will thought idly before glancing at his best friend when he cleared his throat.
"I've been thinking—about what you told me yesterday…" Horace began and then trailed, hesitating.
Will made a gesture for him to continue.
"I was thinking that, since you don't know when your birthday is, that you could just, well, share mine I suppose. I mean, we look about the same age, right?"
Horace was about to say more when he noticed that Will seemed frozen in surprise. He flushed, worried he'd said the wrong thing. "If you don't want to that's—" he started quickly but broke off when Will smiled hugely at him, his brown eyes practically sparkling.
"You'd share your birthday with me?"
"Well, yeah—if you want."
"Of course I do! How many people get to share their birthday with their best friend?"
Horace smiled too then, putting an arm around Will's shoulders. "I mean, for all we know, this could be your actual birthday."
Will put his arm around Horace in turn and said more quietly, "Thanks, Horace."
Horace only nodded before an idea struck him. "Think we should tell Gilan?"
Will nodded enthusiastically.
~x~X~x~
The morning of Horace's—and now Will's—birthday, both boys woke to find that Gilan had already made breakfast, but instead of the typical simple porridge, he'd topped each of their bowls with sweet cream and fresh berries. He also had laid out several sweet pastries, including a berry tart.
Will's eyes widened and he grinned at the treats, a grin that was mirrored by Horace.
"Happy birthday," Gilan told them, smiling too.
Both boys glanced excitedly at each other before reaching out to grab at the treats and muttering their thanks between mouthfuls.
"Where'd you get the pastries? Did you make them yourself? Where'd you get the ingredients and how come I didn't hear you cooking them?" Will asked, his torrent of questions only ceasing when he stuffed a spoonful of porridge and sweet cream into his mouth.
"I suppose I should count myself lucky that this time you chose a set of questions that I can answer all at once," Gilan said with a smile, shaking his head. "I went into the nearby town and bought them early this morning while you two were still asleep," he finished, sniffing slightly and then muffling a small cough in the crook of his arm.
Both Will and Horace looked a little worried at that. They had looked that way when Gilan had decided they get back on the road as soon as he was well enough to sit his horse again too. But, as far as Gilan was concerned, they needed to head west as soon as possible in order to get word out to his contact to warn the King—despite the fact that he really wasn't fully recovered yet.
It was also a good idea to put as much distance between them and the Outsiders as possible. This was especially true since they had kept the 'tithes'. Because that money was partially contingent to the forming of an alliance between Morgarath and the Outsiders, the last thing Gilan wanted was to let them have it. Giving the money to the villagers wasn't viable either: since it hadn't ever been theirs in the first place and since they would just dutifully give it back to the cult they idolized—whether directly or in the form of tithes.
No, if there had been one good thing to come of this mess, it was that their money problems had been solved, Gilan thought with a faint smile. He turned back to Horace however when the young man spoke hesitantly.
"Are you sure you should have done that?" Horace asked, stopping in his attempts to get the largest berry in his bowl onto his spoon. "I think you really should probably still be resting…" he said, then added uncertainly, "shouldn't he Will?"
Will nodded, his eyes showing concern.
Gilan merely brushed of their worry. "I'm doing fine. Besides, someone had to save us all from Horace's cooking, it was his turn today."
Will laughed at Horace's expression.
"I didn't burn breakfast more than five times." Horace protested indignantly
"Five times is five times too many," Will shot back.
Despite their laughter and their byplay, however, Gilan could see that neither boy seemed completely mollified by his words and so he tried again to reassure them.
"I'm actually feeling much better, honestly—and this," he gestured to the pastries, "is more important anyway. I'm not going to ruin your birthdays on account of my having a little cold." Before either Will or Horace could protest, about 'little cold' being the understatement of the year, and protest also that he wasn't completely well yet, he continued on, "I thought that, since it's your birthdays, you both can have the day off of training, and can pick what we do today."
Both boys brightened at the news and Will and Horace lapsed into an animated discussion of all the things that they could do on their day off. In the end, however, they decided to go swimming in the nearby springs Will had discovered the day before. It was something that would be enjoyable and relaxing for all of them.
Having decided, they all went back to eating their breakfast and joking around with each other when a thought struck Will. This was already turning out to be the best birthday he'd ever had (despite it being the only one he could really remember clearly) and he wanted to make certain that he returned the favor—something he couldn't do when he didn't know a certain fact.
"Gilan," he began, "when's your birthday?"
Gilan's smile faltered for a fleeting moment before he managed to bring it back.
"You know what? I haven't the faintest idea anymore."
Though he said it cheerily, it was noticeable to Will that he didn't meet either of their eyes as he spoke. A lie, Will was certain—especially since Gilan knew his exact age: he'd told Will and Horace that when they'd asked a couple of weeks ago. Horace, however, didn't seem to notice this.
"If you don't celebrate your birthday, then what do you celebrate instead?" Horace asked curiously.
"Another year that I've managed to stay alive," Gilan answered promptly, wholly honestly this time. "And when you think about it, it's about the same thing."
Will didn't quite agree with that, but he decided to let the matter drop.
Horace didn't seem to mind at all. "How do you celebrate that?" he asked, intrigued.
"With a drink, usually—of coffee," he added with a grin.
Horace nodded. "Then we should do that too."
Will took up a cup of coffee that Gilan had brewed for breakfast and raised it as he had seen the villagers of Bawtry do at festival celebrations.
"Here's to birthdays and all of us surviving another year!" he said, grinning broadly and the others did the same, echoing his words.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter proved enjoyable. As usual, feedback is very, very, appreciated, so please leave a review if you've a mind to. Don't hesitate to let me know if you see any area I can improve in, have any questions or complaints etc. XD
Next chapter will probably be mostly about Halt, Crowley, and Evanlyn. I haven't picked a name for the next little arc yet... I think I might go with 'The Mountains of Rain and Night', but I'm not sure yet. I'm am pretty excited to write for it though.
Side Note: So, a little note on the flashback; I am aware (in case anyone was wondering) that King Duncan specifically doesn't approve of dungeons and that the books expressly state that Castle Araluen does not have dungeons, but this is said rather like it's an oddity, comparatively speaking. Also, the books also consistently show that the Barons have a good deal freedom to govern their fiefs as they see fit (something that holds especially true in the world this AU has set up where King Duncan holds much less power than he did in the other time). If you have a Baron like Arald who holds similar views to the King it probably wouldn't be an issue, but not all Barons are like Arald. In fact, it's hinted that many are not. This is actually something I'll get more into later when it becomes even more relevant to the story. I also wanted to promise that neither Gilan nor his father (or even Baron Douglass XD) did anything really out of character to get into that situation (in case you were worried) I can and will explain... eventually...
I wish you all the very best until next time!