- CHAPTER ONE -
No More

Give me a reason to stay here
Cause I don't want to live in fear
I can't stop the rain
But I can stop the tears
Oh I can fight the fire
But I can't fight the fear

-Three Days Grace

Ten years previously…

"He looks just like he's sleeping," Evanlyn whispered, staring down at Will as if he were a ghost. While he was pale—too pale, they both thought—the ash and blood streaked across his face created a very living appearance. Gilan sighed. Were he and Evanlyn any better off? Not likely.

"It's not as if he's dead," the Ranger murmured, trying not to draw the attention of the Skandians, who sat slightly off to the side and away from the Araluens. One of the bigger ones was keeping a watchful eye on the three captives but made no move to restrain them. After all, it wasn't as if they had anywhere to run, out on an empty, exposed plain like this. Gilan sighed again. If he was honest with himself, there wasn't much about their current situation that looked good—that is, aside from the fact that Will wasn't dead. Gilan wasn't sure he could have borne that if it had been the case. "Thank God. How's your arm?"

Evanlyn looked down at the makeshift but neat bandage Gilan had tied around her bicep where one of the Wargals' swords had caught her. The wound wasn't deep, but it had bled enough to frighten her (Gilan, who had years of medical field training, hadn't seemed nearly as fazed). "It's fine," she shrugged. "It hurts, but it's not too bad."

Gilan was about to reply when the burly Skandian who had been assigned watch duty began to make his way over to the Araluens. Gilan shifted subtly so that he was sitting in front of Will. The message was clear, but it turned out to be unnecessary. "There's food, if you want any," the sea wolf said gruffly, making no move toward any of them. "You can come get it." He then turned and walked quickly back to his post, resuming his former stance without a second glance at the three friends.

Gilan looked down at Will, hesitant to leave him. Evanlyn sensed his inner conflict. "I'll bring some back for us," she offered. Gilan looked up.

"Thank you," he said gratefully, and she nodded.

"I don't want anything to happen to him either, you know," she commented, and Gilan sighed deeply.

"I know you don't. None of us do. It's just—before we set off for this mission, I promised Halt I'd look after him. Bring him back safely. And now…"

"But you can't think this is your fault, Gilan!" Evanlyn exclaimed, eyes widening, and the Ranger waved her off.

"I appreciate that, Evanlyn, but there's always something. And anyway." He sighed again. "Will's the closest thing to a son Halt has, and he's a good friend of mine too. But he's young. He's still a boy. You shouldn't be here either, for that matter. You're both too young."

Evanlyn's emerald eyes were dark in understanding—or was it sympathy? It was hard to tell, Gilan decided, and it didn't really matter. "I don't think anyone's ever really old enough for war," she said. There was a depth of understanding in her words—the same sort of understanding that had first made Gilan suspect she wasn't who she claimed to be.

"You either want food or you don't!" the leader of the Skandian patrol shouted over at them, breaking Gilan out of his thoughts. Gilan racked his brains for a name. Erak, that was it. Evanlyn stood.

"I'll be back soon," she promised, turning and walking hurriedly towards their captors before they decided the wait was too long.

Gilan turned to look down at Will, who was showing no signs of waking up. Evanlyn had been right. He did seem peaceful. You could almost imagine he was a normal kid if you ignored the bronze oakleaf hanging on its silver chain across his chest.

Instinctively, Gilan's fingers went to brush his own leaf. A reminder of so many promises—oaths sworn to his friends, to his country, to his family, each a separate burden for him to bear. But one in particular hung heavy on his mind and in his heart. "I swear, Will," he whispered, "I will do everything I can to see you home and safe. I promise."

"You could at least pretend to pay attention to me, you know."

Halt glared balefully up at his old friend, but there was none of the usual heat in his gaze. Crowley sighed. "Halt, one thing at a time. We've a battle to win. Gilan will look after him, you know that."

Halt rose from his seat restlessly and began pacing back and forth. They were currently the only ones inside the main command tent, everyone else having left several minutes ago after the last meeting, and neither had any issue with speaking his mind plainly to the other.

"I should be looking for them," Halt said in obvious frustration. "For all we know, Morgarath could be—"

"And for all we know, they've already escaped and are on their way here right now," Crowley interrupted calmly, effectively cutting Halt off before he could say the word torture and get himself even more worked up than he already was. "Halt, I know how difficult this is for you, but you have to look at the bigger picture. This battle isn't going to fight itself, and there's too much at stake for you not to be one hundred percent on task."

"I am on task!" Halt stated indignantly, but Crowley shook his head.

"No, you're too busy pacing and worrying. Now sit—" he gestured to an empty chair—"and calm down. We've got a war to fight, and you know that if Morgarath wins Gilan and Will are good as dead anyway."

Crowley's words were blunt but correct. Halt obeyed reluctantly, sinking into the chair across from his friend. Crowley was right. His captured apprentices were a small matter compared to the battle that lay before them, and if they lost it would be better for Will and Gilan to be dead than alive. The stakes were high—higher than they had been in a long time. Twenty years' worth of a long time.

Halt stared at the war map spread out over the table, memories of Hackham Heath dancing through his head. "If we could only catch him from behind," he mused out loud.

Crowley leaned over the table and pointed. "Back here?" he asked, and Halt nodded.

"He's expecting Skandian reinforcements, we know from Horace. If we could take out that force and replace it with our own men—but I don't know how we could get them behind Morgarath's forces without taking them through the fens."

Crowley frowned. "Can we not do that?"

"Well." Halt shrugged. "We could, but I'm not sure who we would trust to navigate." Gilan would be the natural choice, of course, but his absence was painfully conspicuous enough without one of them pointing it out. "We would have to pull a Ranger away from somewhere else, and we're spread pretty thin as is."

"Hmm." Crowley's brows furrowed as he considered the major problem with the idea. Halt was right—in a battle like this, they simply didn't have the Rangers to spare. "Do we have to rely on a Ranger?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, do we have anyone in the army who might be familiar with the area? Hunters or the like?" Crowley's words began to speed up as he warmed to his idea. "If we can find a hunting man who lays traps in the fens, he could lead a force through them just as well as any Ranger. Maybe better. And he doesn't need to be a trained military man—if we can find someone else to lead the troops, he can act as navigator and leave the tactics up to someone who's more experienced."

Halt considered the idea. Like many things Crowley dreamed up, it had merit. It just needed refinement. "We'll need to find someone fast," he said thoughtfully. "We'd have to scout men from the local regiments. And we'd have to assemble a suitable force. But if we can pull it off, it'll give us a serious advantage. Morgarath will be expecting reinforcements, not enemy soldiers."

He met Crowley's eyes. Years of training and working together had given each a thorough knowledge of the other's tactical strengths and weaknesses. Individually, they each were dangerous. Together, they were something akin to a force of nature. This battle had been twenty years in coming, and seeing the loss in his friend's eyes, Crowley vowed Morgarath would regret trying to tear their country apart. They would not lose this fight.

A corner of Halt's mouth twitched upwards in satisfaction. "Let's get to work."

His head was pounding like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a hammer. Every bone in his body ached. For a moment, he wondered what stupid, idiotic thing he'd done recently to warrant that sort of pain, and what Halt would most likely say about it when he found out—and then he remembered. Everything came back in a flash. The bridge, falling, Evanlyn screaming, Gilan's eyes going wide as he shouted his name—

Will's eyes snapped open.

The people who correctly guessed the band last time around were CAITHLINN 13 and FEATHERS MCSTRANGE! "Carry On My Wayward Son" is by Kansas, on their album Leftoverture.

This chapter's song used to belong to chapter two, but I moved it forward. It's "No More" by Three Days Grace, from their album Life Starts Now.