A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you are all doing well. Next chapter is finally out! Again, apologies for taking a little longer than usual. I was having a little difficulty with this one: especially in regard to finding time to write it. I'm still on the mend and work slammed me a bit harder than I was expecting. But I did finally get it out. As always, I hope this chapter proves enjoyable! Anyhow, enough of my ramblings, nobody came here for that. XD Thanks so much to everyone who reads, comments, follows, or favorites: you guys are awesome and totally make everything worthwhile: I couldn't do it without you guys!

KiiroDora: Thank you, it's good to be back. Also, thanks so much for the review and the encouragement.

Dragonslover98: Thank you, I think I am doing a bit better lately. I agree that Tennyson definitely had it coming. XD Erak and Svengal will be in this chapter for sure and the fight with the Kalkara will be featured too. Thanks again for the review, it means a lo.t :)

Crow1203: Thank you for your kind words and the vote of confidence, it definitely helped :) Glad you think the pacing is okay, I'm always worried about that. Thanks again!

PacificZip16: Yes, the Kalkara XD. Innocent character murder is not often my forte, but I make no promises for the sake of spoilers X). Thanks so much for the review, I really appreciate it!

TrustTheCloak: Thank you! It means a lot to know that you have been enjoying it so far. It's hinted in the early years and The Burning Bridge that they do have a sort of camaraderie between them so it was fun to explore it a little. Tennyson is just one of those characters where you're happy to see them get their comeuppance lol. There might be a ways to go before they get their well-deserved break, but it will eventually happen XD. Woodkid fits pretty well now that I think of it. Thanks again for the review!

CoffeeAndOakLeaves: You're welcome! Thanks for the review, it made my day better too :). It was pretty satisfying to write Tennyson get taken down XD. Well, the battle against the Kalkara might continue that ominous thread so I hope it proves enjoyable. Thanks again!

VanyaNoldo22: No worries! Thanks so much! Now that you mention it, cliffs do tend not to bode well in the books, do they? The Skandians will definitely arrive in this chapter and the battle against the Kalkara will take a big portion of this chapter too. Thanks so much also for the review and compliments, it made my day. :)

Fawnfire: Aww thanks so much! Even now, so many chapters later, that was still one of my favorite scenes to write. Thanks for the review!

RangerShay: Thanks so much! I am glad you are enjoying it so far. To answer your question, I must admit that I'm not really a fan of devastating endings for the sake of being devastating or for shock factor, so I will definitely be bringing some resolution to David and Gilan's relationship/situation. Thanks for the review, it means a lot!

Chapter 28: Moirai Part I

~x~X~x~

Some Years after the Battle of Hackham Heath

~x~X~x~

Crowley sat near the flickering light of his campfire, teeth gritted as he carefully bandaged the arrow wound in his calf now that he had performed the excruciating task of snapping off the arrowhead and pulling the shaft free. He took several deep breaths to steady himself as he wound the bandage around the folded pads of linen he had placed at the entry and exit wounds.

Rangers were a solitary group and were trained to be able to fend for themselves: that included field dressing wounds. But Crowley would be the first to admit that treating one's own arrow wound was no easy task despite the training. He bit back a groan as he pulled the bandage tight, feeling lightheaded. He was just glad that, by some turn of fortune, the arrow had missed hitting any major veins or arteries in his leg. Bandaging done, he leaned against the trunk of a tree to wait until he felt steady enough to go back to where he had left Cropper; then they could both go in search of a proper healer.

He let out a long slow breath. Needles to say, this wasn't exactly what he had had in mind when he had left to deal with the reports of bandits. It was something that, along with the Moondarkers, had become akin to a never-ending problem—one that really was too great for any one man to stop alone. Unfortunately, that was what often tended to happen: the Rangers' numbers were just too thin after the war to be otherwise.

Perhaps, in an ideal world, they would have won the Battle of Hackham Heath decisively: more Rangers would have returned from exile to stand with the King, more would have survived the years of bloody fighting that had followed. Then he would have been able to send teams out, instead of individuals, to deal with the larger problems like this.

It would have been nice, he thought with a pent-up sigh, to have a partner to fight beside him, someone to help when things got bad, or to simply be there to watch his back. Sometimes he just felt so… alone, he supposed, wincing at the admission as much as the jolt of pain in his leg as he shifted. He stared morosely into the fire, watching the flames lick and jump.

It wasn't always this way, his heart seemed to whisper suddenly. And the thought made him shiver as it brought with it an unsettling feeling of déjà vu, like the crumbling faded edges of an old dream he'd nearly forgotten. As so often happened with feelings like that, he came up short when he tried to pinpoint its origin. Perhaps his sleeping mind had invented a best friend for him once. He leaned his head back, snorting softly, a wry smile growing at the thought: a nice fancy that his situation made all the more appealing. But there was no use in longing for what wasn't.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain. He doused the fire before making his weary limping way to find Cropper.

~x~X~x~

The soft grating rasp of metal against metal and metal against stone carried indistinctly to Gilan's ears. It took a moment for the sound to register through the pain and his dazed mind before he placed it: his chains rattling against themselves and the stone floor he lay on. He realized dimly that he was shivering. Whether it was because of pain, the chill of the dungeon, or because of what had just been done to him—that it had even been allowed to happen at all—he didn't know.

He mentally shook himself then, forcibly shoving back the welcoming folds of blackness he felt threatening to claim his consciousness. He clenched his teeth, willing the trembling to stop even as he pushed himself painfully, weakly, to his hands and knees. Utterly spent, he set himself to what should never have become a familiar task: taking stock of himself now that Sir Richard had finally left after yet another of his infamous lessons. Gilan blinked against eyes that were still watering from the sting, the humiliation, the deep hurt, of everything and brought his hands up to check his ribs and other injuries, looking for breaks that the underlying nausea suggested might be there. But, thankfully, there were none: just more bruises, welts, and cuts.

...Just... as if the absence of broken bones made any of this better or more palatable.

It didn't.

Worse still, he was keenly aware that there was nothing he could do to stop it all—or even stop it from happening again in a few days. Sir Richard could do anything to him without the slightest of consequences. Gilan had learned that well enough a week ago when the man had burned him. He'd done it, as he'd said, so that Gilan would, "know how it felt, know a taste of the pain you inflicted on an innocent woman and her child." He pressed a hand over the spot; it still had yet to heal fully. And, like most injuries the knights and Sir Richard had inflicted, it was not in a place that was readily visible, nor quite to a severity that would attract serious attention and investigation—not that Gilan thought it would ever amount to much if it ever was.

The knight had been able to bring in a brazier of hot coals and forging tools into Gilan's cell under the pretext of fixing broken chains. And he had made it clear that his deliberate action would be covered up with a story of how Gilan had attacked Sir Richard whilst he was working with the hot tools and metal in a desperate bid to escape the weakened chains and had been accidentally burned in the scuffle that followed. Nothing near the truth of the matter. But, once Sir Richard gave his word, no one would believe the real truth. No one would suddenly believe a condemned criminal with a penchant for lying—especially not when he'd never been believed before.

A vicious pained expression that was half grimace, half sneer, curled the edges of his mouth as he glanced at the barred door the knight had slammed behind him when he left, as he silently promised himself that he wouldn't be trapped in here forever, that he would remember Sir Richard. But, cathartic as the desperately defiant thought might be, it really did nothing to ease the pain of everything, nothing to stop the sting of helpless tears he couldn't allow to fall. It did nothing to stop the knowledge that that one powerless, helpless, promise was all that he could do.

Helpless… because the ugly, inescapable, truth was that was exactly what he was. As the weeks of imprisonment dragged on, he had slowly begun to learn, to realize, that there really might not be anyone who would do anything to help him, do anything to fix this or make it right: find the real truth and bring a stop to this all. Not even… not even his fa—…

He cut the thought short before he could finish it, closing his eyes against the deep and bitter hurt it conjured. He weakly pressed his back against the prison wall and curled in on himself against the pain, against the nauseous feeling that had only grown in tandem with the spinning in his head. Hand clutching at his torso, he lay against the old straw and cold stones of the floor, consciousness finally and mercifully dimming.

He… He just wanted, wanted…

Halt, his weary mind supplied as he drew his arms tighter around himself. Halt would… Halt had always… when he needed…

Gilan lost his train of thought, awareness briefly returning more sharply as his body was wracked by another shivering fit.

Halt…

Yes, he wanted all of this to halt, to just stop, to be over.

"Halt," a soft and broken plea whispered in the dark.

~x~X~x~

The barn that had become his new home was drafty and let in a late-night chill that matched the one that had been growing in Will's chest steadily as the week had worn on. It cut bitterly into the moisture that was flowing in trails down his cheeks.

He realized sadly that what had happened hurt all the worse, cut all the more deeply because he had actually been happy before—because he had allowed himself to dare to hope. To lose that now was a blow.

Ever since his mother had died protecting people in that raid of Morgarath's and he had been taken in by the village, he had grown accustomed to moving from household to household as it was difficult for the poorer families to feed an extra mouth for any extended period. To add to that, he was often sent wherever the need for another worker was greatest: Will earned his keep by helping out the farmers after all. But, over the course of the past year, he had been spending more and more time with the Hendry family. Their home had become a sort of stable base.

John and Maggie Hendry had had no children of their own to help them tend their small farm and so he had begun staying with them more and more often. They had always been kind, if not overly attentive, and, as the year wore on, he had grown to feel almost as if he belonged. He had thought—had hoped, really—that the feeling had been growing mutual. It had seemed so at first; there had even been talk of taking him in permanently, having him become their ward. That was until Maggie had fallen pregnant. Perhaps it was because, as they had said, they couldn't afford to feed two mouths… or perhaps, as the heavy feeling in his chest suggested, it was because that, now that they had a child of their own, they didn't need Will anymore. But, whatever the reason, they had sent him away: which was how he had landed where he was now, farmer Dorian's ward instead.

It had only been a week since he'd left the Hendrys' and already he'd never worked harder in his life and had never been more miserable either. It was becoming clear that Dorian saw him more like the old plow horse than as a boy. Where the Hendrys had always at least kept up the appearance of caring, Dorian hardly bothered at all. Will settled himself more deeply into the straw that made up his bedding, wishing he hadn't allowed himself to hope, wishing that the Hendrys had wanted to keep him as much as he had wanted to stay. And while he was wishing for impossible things he found himself wishing that his parents were still alive, that neither of them had been killed in the endless war.

His father…

Will took a breath as he thought it and then wiped firmly at his eyes. His father had been a mighty knight, a hero—and heroes didn't give in to despair when things got hard, knights would keep fighting. If Will was ever going to grow up to be like his father then he had to try.

He pulled his worn blanket firmly around his shoulders as he let his mind wander to the mental image that he had often sustained himself with. He pictured his father standing proudly, immovable, in a full suit of armor and shining sword, saving lives. Tonight, though, the vision didn't drive away the hurt or despondency as much as it usually did. But he clung stubbornly to it all the same—so that he would at least have something to hold to. Weariness overtook him and he finally closed his eyes.

Slowly, as he started to fall asleep, the well-rehearsed mental picture in his mind began to morph and change, becoming different from the immovable knight he'd always imagined. The glittering armor faded away into the more subtle greens, grays, and browns of a forester. Will got the impression of dark shaggy hair and grim features that were belied by dark eyes that were surprisingly kind, of warm steady hands, and a quiet voice. And with the image, came the warm feeling of assurance, safety, and connection. He somehow found himself feeling safe, feeling happy, feeling like he belonged. In that brief moment before he fell completely asleep, he found he didn't want to let this new image go, he wanted to remember it and keep it close.

~x~X~x~

Present Day

~x~X~x~

Crowley loosed an arrow, the barbed tip finding its home in a Wargal that had managed to avoid one of the numerous traps and pitfalls that had ensnared many of its fellows. The moment the Wargal lines had been broken, and a wave of the fleeing beasts had entered the forest, was the moment the fight had really begun for Crowley and his archers.

He melted back into the forest only to emerge again to pick off another group of the beasts. Near him, the archers he had chosen were doing the same—whether they, like he, were on foot or concealed in the numerous hides they had constructed. It was clear that, already, the battle had turned in their favor. Their actions and the snares and traps that they had built beforehand had thinned the enemy numbers substantially.

Crowley spotted another Wargal and let loose another arrow. The beast fell. He stepped back again and nearly stumbled over the fallen body of one of his archers. He righted himself quickly, focusing back on the forest only to realize that it had gone suddenly quiet. In the distance, he could still hear the occasional clash of arms or shouts of beasts and men. But, for the most part, silence had descended as the battle reached a certain lull. He got the distinct sense that it was nearly over. Most of the Wargals that had entered the woods had either been picked off or ensnared.

Crowley, however, a veteran of countless conflicts, was too experienced to succumb to the temptation of letting his guard down now that things had quieted. Instead, he melted into the shadows of a tree, using the unsteady light of dusk and his Ranger cloak to render him nearly invisible to the normal eye.

Standing completely still, he allowed his eyes to roam the woods before him, searching for any enemies. That was when he heard it, an inhuman-sounding cry that instinctively raised the hair on the nape of his neck.

That was no Wargal.

He stopped moving entirely, hardly daring to breathe as he strained his ears to listen, trying to pinpoint a location.

Then he heard it again. This time it was closer, almost on top of him if he had to guess… He had the unsettling feeling that he knew the nature of the throat had voiced the sound—and knew also that, if his guess was correct, the camouflage of his cloak wouldn't save or hide him.

~x~X~x~

Llewyn of Cramelford allowed himself a cautious glance around and behind himself to ensure that he was alone. Certain that he was not being watched, he ducked into the house where he had called this clandestine meeting.

The leader of the knights that had helped save the village from the traitorous Outsiders had already set their plan for the defense of the village against the Skandians in motion. The lead knight had taken the place of Tennyson, disguising himself as the leader of the Outsiders so that, when the Skandians arrived, they would see exactly what they expected. Many of the man's knights had done likewise, disguising themselves as members of the cult with their weapons hidden on their person. The rest of his men, aside from the cavalry force which was currently placed around the bend of the bay, were hidden in or behind the houses of the village that surrounded the main square. They would attack when the signal was given. The knight's archers, as well as all the able-bodied archers of their village, had been placed under the command of the hooded mercenary. They stood ready on the rise that overlooked the village.

When the Skandians made landing, which would be soon according to the scouts' report, they would be walking straight into a trap. Llewyn couldn't say he liked the look of the sea raiders' odds. Even though the scouts had reported no less than three Wolfships, he knew that the knights had a good chance to win the encounter.

… But it wasn't enough; Llewyn didn't want just victory, he wanted revenge.

He knew that if the Outsiders' rouse hadn't been uncovered, then his whole village would have been destroyed and he and everyone he knew and cared about would have been carted off to Skandia to live out the rest of their days as slaves… Just like… just like his daughter Karina had been several years ago. He closed his eyes against the pain that the memory brought him as he recalled his daughter's bright eyes and beautiful face.

He could never forgive the Skandians for what they had taken from him any more than he could forgive them for what they had just been about to do. So, while the knights had been preparing for battle, Llewyn had gathered as many able-bodied men as he could muster and as many torches as he could get his hands on.

He would do his part to make the Skandians pay—for his daughter.

For Karina.

~x~X~x~

"There!" Baron Arald said as the gut-wrenching cry of the Kalkara was repeated again and echoed by another. The Baron pointed the sword he had drawn in the direction of the woods where the sound had originated.

Will shuddered. It was unsettling how quickly the monster had apparently moved to flank them. The new cries were on the opposite side of where the first cry had seemed to come from.

"Ranger Crowley is in there," Baron Arald murmured tensely. "And his position would make him one of Morgarath's prime targets; he hates the Ranger Corps." Having made the observation, he shouted succinct orders to the knights around him in almost the same breath, rallying them to him. "Stay here, Will," the Baron told him then. "You'll be safer that way."

Then Baron Arald and the few knights that he had gathered headed quickly towards the woods, leaving Will behind in the earthworks. Will, fortunately, had left his bow and arrows slung over his back on his journey here, instead of securing them to the horse he had ridden. He was immensely glad of that foresight now as he unslung the weapon and drew an arrow to place on the string.

The sound of pitched battle, the screams and shouts of the men, and the skin prickling sound of the Kalkara, drifted towards his ears. Will shifted restlessly from foot to foot, fingers nervously tightening on the wood of his bow as his eyes scanned the trees frantically, seeking any glimpse of the Baron, Crowley, the knights, or even the Kalkara as the sounds of combat grew more heated.

In the distance, almost directly in front of him, he caught sight of another knight rallying his men, directing them towards the woods as well. Will felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease a little. Surely the Baron, Crowley, and all those knights could stop the Kalkara if they worked together.

Even as he had the thought, he finally caught a glimpse of them, dimly, through the trees: the monstrous shape of a Kalkara surrounded by armed men. The beast seemed to roar as it struck forward, three knights were sent flying back, several more reeled. Some of the men seemed frozen, as they stood stock still, heedless of the claws until it was too late. Will recalled with a shudder what Jenny had said about the monsters being able to freeze a person helpless with the power of their gaze alone.

Then Will's blood froze as the cry of the Kalkara was echoed, not in the direction of the woods, but on the opposing side of the field: where he had thought he had heard the first cry. Will spun in that direction and caught sight of another of the monstrous forms standing on the very edge of the clearing before it charged forward in a powerful and terrifying lope as if it pursued something. But the field immediately around the monster was empty… or so he had thought. But he was wrong.

Will's eyes caught on a sudden movement, a ways ahead of the Kalkara; a figure he had missed seeing before was fleeing from the monster. And, now that Will had picked out the lone figure, he recognized the man's shape and the way that he moved. His heart froze.

It was Halt, and he was alone.

Somehow, the former Ranger had gotten separated from the rest of the army. And there was no one nearby that could help as all the knights had headed to the woods to stop the other monster. Worse still, Will couldn't see the longbow or the quiver the former Ranger always carried.

"Halt!" he cried desperately, terrified eyes locked on the horrific scene unfolding before him. Halt didn't stand a chance as he was. The realization filled his chest with a sudden flood of fear and pain and loss that burned with an intensity he didn't quite understand. But that hardly seemed to matter in the moment. Nothing mattered so much as the thought, the realization, that Will had to do something; he had to find a way to help Halt.

~x~X~x~

Erak Starfollower, Jarl and captain of the ship Wolfwind, guided his vessel to make landing on the Araluen beaches. His was the third and last ship to make landfall. Horth, the leader of this raid, was already assembling his men on the beach. Erak ordered his men to do likewise after they had anchored the boat, made fast the sail, and stowed the oars.

His men were trained for this, experienced, and so were able to join where Horth was preparing his men for battle in short order.

"Don't know why we are bothering," Svengal, Erak's first mate leaned over to whisper in his best approximation of what he thought to be a quiet voice—which was, admittedly, nowhere near it. "The deal Morgarath made with these Outsiders made it so that they are handing over the village and its booty without a fight, right?"

Erak grunted agreement but knew it likely wasn't going to be quite a simple as Svengal had painted it. "It always pays to be prepared. Some of the villagers might not be too keen on the arraignment the Outsiders made for them. We may yet get a chance for some practice before we join forces with the main army to storm the castle."

Svengal nodded and readied the large circular shield that all Skandians carried into battle, not looking at all put out by that fact. Skandians always relished a fight after all. But there was no further time for talk.

Erak ordered his men to form up with the crews of the other two Jarls and they made their way quickly and efficiently to the village in accordance with the instructions and plans Morgarath had given them before they had set sail.

This what he and his men had trained for, something they had done countless times before both as raiders and, like now, as hired mercenaries. But, this time, as Erak entered the town, he suddenly got the sharp, distinct feeling that something was wrong. He swept his gaze over the two crews in front of him to take stock of the settlement but saw nothing outside of what he had expected, nothing to explain the sudden ill-feeling.

The white-robed leader of the Outsiders stood calmly at the head of the courtyard, several of his acolytes nearby. There were a few villagers flitting by or peering from houses, but Erak quickly dismissed them as unimportant. He looked back to the leader of the priests as raised his arms in apparent welcome and spoke, addressing Horst as the other Jarl stepped forward to greet him.

"Captain, welcome to Cramelford. I assure you everything has been prepared per our arrangement," he said, even going so far as to offer a respectful partial bow.

Horst, having as much disdain for such shows of submission or fealty as most Skandians, did the traditional thing and ignored the gesture. Settling instead on a simple nod, he stepped closer to the priest to negotiate.

Perhaps it was due to the pervasive feeling of wrongness that surrounded everything, but for whatever reason, Erak found his eye drawn to the way the priest moved as he talked. He didn't move like how Erak had pictured a cultish holy-man might but rather like a warrior. Erak didn't know what exactly it was that gave him that impression. Perhaps it was the way he held himself: the controlled, balanced, and light way he moved. Perhaps it was his overall demeanor.

But, then again, Erak supposed it wasn't impossible. Although it was rare, and he hadn't ever come across any on raids against different coastal monasteries along the Gallican and Araluen coasts personally, he had heard stories or legends of Araluen monks or friars knowing and passing down combat arts. Though these Outsiders were certainly not monks, he assumed that that might be the same for them too. They must have had a least some battling competency if they were to work for the likes of Morgarath. Thinking thus, he attempted to brush aside the niggling worry, but the feeling didn't leave.

Erak had always been a good judge of situations, a trait that had served him well as both a Skirl and later a Jarl, and there was something about this that just didn't feel right. His eye was drawn back to where Horst was talking with the Outsider priest and was just in time to see the Outsider draw a longsword forward from where it had been hidden on his person.

"Surrender in the King's name!"

Acolytes everywhere drew arms similarly, several retrieving the kite-shaped shields favored by the Knights of Araluen and Gallica from hidden areas around the square. More knights, these fully armed and armored, burst forth from the village hovels all around the square at the sound of the cry. All of this happened before the startled Skandian forces had the chance to fully react. But they recovered quickly, turning outward in a circle to face the threat of the knights who had them nearly entirely surrounded.

A trap.

Horst, however, perhaps predictably, didn't surrender as the knight had asked and instead charged the white-robed leader with a cry, many of the Skandian forces doing likewise.

Perhaps it had been his previous sense of unease and wrongness, but, whatever the reason, Erak was the first to pick out the movement on the ridge: archers.

"Shields!" he yelled to his crew, just in time to block the sudden hailstorm of volley after volley of arrows. Many of the Skandians of the other two Wolfships weren't so lucky. It was then that the knights attacked and a pitched battle began. Erak soon found himself contending against two of the armored warriors.

He took down the first after a short struggle and Svengal came to his aid to help him take down the second even as the arrows continued to rain down. Erak knew they needed to find cover… More accurately, he knew he needed to find a way out of this before it was too late.

It was true that Skandians never shied away from combat and relished nothing so much as a good fight, but Erak had absolutely no qualms about saving the lives of his men from a trap and a bad play. Erak had no desire for either himself or his men to be slaughtered in the service of an employer they held no true loyalty to, for a cause that they really had no stake in. He was a mercenary; he fought only for the booty: and any fool could see that there was no chance of that now. If there were no benefits or rewards to be gained by putting his life on the line, then he decided that it would be best if they just cut their losses and got out before things got even worse.

And he was certain that they would get worse.

Either Morgarath had been betrayed by these Outsiders or his scheme had been discovered. Either way, the knights here had had plenty of time to prepare for their arrival. Regardless, Morgarath's plan was falling apart at the seems and Erak had no desire to see it unravel completely. That was the problem with those too clever plans: too many chances for something to go wrong and throw the entire scheme.

Instinctively he knew that his, and his crew's, only chance of survival would be for them to get out of this square and quickly. Keeping his shield up in the direction of the ridge, to shield him from the arrows, he called orders to his men, and to any of the other Wolfship crewmembers who would listen to his orders over Horst's. Only a handful did.

Erak led those few, and those of his own crew that had survived the initial attack, in a charge against the knights that blocked the way to the town's buildings on the northward side. With the combined force of his men and vicious fighting, they broke their way out of the square and into the huddle of houses behind. It was not a moment too soon. No sooner had they made into the relative shelter of the buildings when there came a tremendous clatter of hoofbeats as a cavalry force seemed to appear from nowhere.

They charged into the square to attack the other two crews from behind, and there was nothing Erak could do. The battle was as good as lost, he knew. He knew also that his only chance now would be to lead his men through the village's backstreets out again to the bay. Once free of the settlement, they could make their escape by sea.

Erak led his men through the tumble of streets and houses. He, Svengal, Horak, Borst, and Nordal made the traditional Skandian wedge formation with their bodies, Erak serving as the point, as they worked to battle their way through the town and then to the beach. Other crew members guarded their party's sides and back, while those in the middle supported the wounded they could save. The main battle was concentrated towards the square and so he and his men were able to make short work of the small numbers of knights and townsman they encountered that blocked their way. Soon they had made it to the beach, seconds away from safety.

Erak felt his stomach plummet, even as he got the sensation of someone driving a stake into his very heart. There on the beach, he saw a tangle of village folk wielding farming tools and torches, fleeing from where they had set all three Wolfships alight. Even from this distance, Erak could see that his own ship, Wolfwind, was already too far gone to be saved.

His ship.

It was like watching a family member, a friend, burn while knowing he could do nothing to save them. His mouth opened in a roaring cry born of anger, pain, and loss. But, simultaneously, he knew that it was a loss he would suffer again on a much larger scale if he didn't find a way to get his men to safety. Seeing no other options open to him, he led what was left of his warriors up the coastline, his only thought to find a place to make it past the coastal cliffs and into the countryside where they could hide until they figured out what to do to survive this.

~x~X~x~

Will, hardly thinking of the danger, broke cover from the earthworks. He leaped over the side and then ran down the steep embankment the fortifications had been built upon. His only thought was to try and find some way to save Halt. Already the beast was closing on the former Ranger.

Once Will was only eighty meters out, he stopped short, drawing back on his bow. He took a steadying breath and made careful aim. Better to fire one good shot than many hurried ones. Will exhaled and let go of the string, watching as his arrow swam through the air towards the Kalkara. Hands moving almost of their own accord, the movements almost instinctive due to countless hours of practice, he drew another arrow and sent it on its way. His aim was good and both arrows struck true, hitting the chest of the beast one after the other…

… and rebounding off.

Will's stomach dropped as he saw both arrows ricochet harmlessly off the beast. It didn't so much as hinder the creature.

Halt, clearly sensing that he was losing ground, swerved right. Having neared the tree cover on that edge of the battlefield, he turned into them, seeking shelter amongst the trunks. The Kalkara lumbered powerfully after without so much as a pause, striking out with vicious claws. The former Ranger dodged and wove through the trees, leaping over fallen logs and rocks. But the beast was still gaining on him, plowing through and around the obstacles Halt was desperately trying to keep between them. It was still gaining, and it would only be a matter of time before the chase would end.

Will watched the unfolding scene in horror. His bow was as good as useless and he didn't know what to do. The terror sparked the sudden disquieting feeling that he'd seen this before, been here before—almost as if he'd seen a scene like this play out in a premonition, a dream… a memory…

Fire…

The thought came to him in a rush. He needed fire. And, now that he had thought, he was sure he had the right of it. He remembered what Gilan and Halt had told him about how they had escaped Morgarath. Wargal fur was greasy and easily caught alight. Perhaps being of the same place, and of similar species, a Kalkara was the same. Maybe it was all the grease and oil that made the beats' fur strong enough to repel arrows. Trying to force his hands to steadiness, Will knelt down, pulling items free from the pouch at his side: flint, oil-soaked tinder, and some scraps of cloth. Will reached into his quiver, selecting an arrow and wrapping the head of it in the tinder and scrap of cloth.

Desperately, he struck flint to steel, trying to ground a spark in the tinder. He struck again and got sparks but the tinder didn't take.

Halt broke through the cover of the trees, the monster almost directly behind him. Halt was close enough now for Will to see that he had lost his saxe sometime during the scuffle through the woods. The monster lunged at the former Ranger and he dodged at the last moment. He leaped forward to land in a roll just as the beast's claws swiped over his head. Halt turned the roll into a half turn at the end, leaping to his feet and drawing the only weapon that remained to him: his throwing knife.

But he could see, as well as Will, that the game was up.

Will struck flint to steel again and this time the spark took, beginning to light the tinder and cloth he'd wound around the arrowhead. It started to flare to life… and then guttered out with a hiss and puff of dark smoke.

"No!" Will cried, bringing the arrow close, desperately trying to bring the embers back to life—he needed that much.

But he saw that he was already too late. The Kalkara had closed the distance.

As the Kalkara closed the gap, Will saw Halt still. For a moment, Will thought the former Ranger might have been frozen by the Kalkara's gaze, as those knights in the woods had been. But he quickly realized that that wasn't the case as he saw Halt's knife hand draw back and then forward with the speed of a striking snake.

The Kalkara reeled back, throwing knife embedded deep in its eye. The creature reeled, shrieking its inhuman cry, giving Will just the time he needed to relight his arrow, knock, draw, and fire.

The arrow hissed through the air, smoke trailing behind it, and striking home. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the entire length of the monster flared up in a single spreading whoosh of flames and inhuman screams.

When the flames cleared the monster was gone: nothing but ashes on the breeze.

Will let out the breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding, mouth spreading in a wide smile of hopeful triumph even as his body sagged in desperate relief. The fire had worked, he had done it. Halt was safe. He dimly saw the man in question whirl towards him, eyes likely as dazzled with the sudden burst of fire as Will's were.

"Halt!" Will called, words made bright by that all-encompassing relief.

"Will!" Halt shouted back and started to run towards him.

For a moment, Will was confused by the tone. It hadn't been the shout of someone thankful and relieved to have been saved, but rather the terror-filled cry of a desperate warning.

"Behind you, Will!" Halt shouted.

At the same time, Will got the ominous foreboding sensation of a presence behind him… a large presence.

Will's eyes widened, horror spiking as he realized with sickening certainty that he had made a mistake. Foldar, Morgarath's messenger, had said that there were three Kalkara. One had been in the woods near the knights, the other had been after Halt, and Will had been so caught up in the fight that he had forgotten to keep count.

His mouth went dry as he whirled only to have the nightmare of his worst fears and thoughts manifest into reality before him. And that was when he made his second mistake: his gaze locked with the blood-red eyes of the hulking monster against his volition. He found himself frozen with an inescapable palpable fear.

"Will, run!" Halt's frantic cry echoed distantly in his ears.

But Will couldn't.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading everyone! Feedback means the world; if you have the time or inclination to leave any, I'd be very appreciative. Constructive criticism is welcome too: if you see any mistakes or feel something could be better, let me know and I'll work on it. Thanks so much in advance :) Next chapter will feature Horace and Evanlyn's fight against Foldar, Gilan and David against the remaining Skandians, and the conclusion to the fight with the Kalkara. I must say that I'm looking forward to writing the conclusion to this chapter arc. I hope to get it out a little sooner on account of this one ending on a pretty evil cliffhanger... sorry about that. *sheepish grin*

*History nerds note* During my studies of Medieval Europe, I found that there are actually a few manuscripts depicting medieval monks or friars (monks live a monastic life in a self-sufficient community/monastery where friars lived among laypeople) passing down martial skills, like quarterstaff fighting. So, although it seems most/many did not fight, or chose not to, there seem to be a small few who trained others. (These exist in period stories too: like Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood Ballads). So Erak's observation this chapter does have a bit of historical merit, as well as the observation about monasteries and other religious sites being prime targets for Viking raids: they were actually some of the first places to be notably hit according to written records (and hit hard because most weren't warriors). Generally, the role of a monk was to be dedicated to their faith, to preserve and pass on knowledge, do community outreaches such as passing on farming techniques and other skills, or setting up hospitals where people could get help for free. Some were even dedicated to the arts and skilled in metallurgy. There were also different orders of monks, those dedicated more to peace, faith, and community outreaches such as as the Benedictines, Cluniacs, Cistercian, Carthusians, and Premonstratensians. And there were actually a small few dedicated to martial techniques such as the Hospitallers who were an order created to help the sick/injured and protect pilgrims by learning combat and healing skills. It's a pretty fascinating subject and worth a look if you've time to spare.

(Also, I realized that I probably should be citing these *history nerd notes* of mine, so here's a few if you're curious, though minus the web links cause FFN doesn't allow them:

Mark, J. J. (2019, June 24). Monastic Orders of the Middle Ages. World History Encyclopedia.

Paparella, Emanuel. "Medieval Monasticism as Preserver of Western Civilization." Metanexus, 2008.

Smith Katherine Allen. War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture. Vol. 37, Boydell & Brewer, 2011. JSTOR.)

I wish you all the very best until next time!