EPILOGUE! THANKS FOR REVIEWING!
So this is the beginning of the sequel to The Shadows of the South. This is basically what's typically going on now that the Shadows and Araluen have been allied. This describes a typical battle, along with a bit of foreshadowing for the newest installment of the plot...
Please read and review, I know that this is long and what not but it's giving you a good idea of what the sequel will be about, and what's happened in between The Shadows of the South and the coming sequel. Part 2 of this epilogue will be shorter, I promise. =]
Rain pelted down from the swollen black clouds overhead, blotting out the night sky. A crack of thunder roared and rolled over the forest, the trees rattled and shook in the breeze. Along a heavily used dirt path a long legged horse charged, hooves flying over the sodden ground with dire urgency. A sole figure was hunched in the saddle, clinging on to the devoted steed with all their strength. A cloak obscured their features as the sweat soaked gelding burst free of the trees. Behind them roared the pounding of many horses, they were being pursued with a force that would easily overtake them if they slowed. Fighting wasn't an option, and dying from the stroke of a sword was not what the cloaked rider had in mind as a fitting end.
"Just a little further, Whiplash!" The rider's words were stripped away by the wind, but the horse seemed to have heard enough.
The dark horse tossed its head as if to agree to its master's soothing words. Ahead the trees thinned, horse and rider whisked out into open air. A howling gust of wind sent rain blurring into the rider's eyes. Through an obscured squint they could see the flat ground that was stretched out ahead of them. A dark blob in the distance was the farthest edge of the forest. A river cut its way across the path that awaited the horse and their rider. The water swished along its bank like black obsidian streaked with splotchy white light.
The banks were flooded, and a wave of white washed water reared above the ground and gushed around the gnarled roots of the nearest trees. The rider had no chance to slow their horse as a crossbow bolt buried itself in the horse's lower flank. Whiplash's gallop faltered as pain lanced through the beasts' hind leg. Slipping sideways on the muddy turf the horse lost its footing as its hind leg gave out, the horse toppled to the floor, still moving at a gallop the horse threw his rider.
The cloaked figure slammed into the ground with a thud, their feet had been ripped free of the stirrups as they were flung out of the saddle. They lay unmoving on the muddy bank, motionless in pain. From the forest came a small party of armed men on horseback, they rode towards the fallen rider without hesitation.
From their place on the bank the injured rider could count the legs of at least six mounts. That meant there were at least six mounted men coming for them. Hastily they tried to move, sending a searing line of pain through them. The approaching hoof beats stopped and the rain kept pounding down. The lone figure glimpsed their steed as the beast limped along the bank, one hoof never touching the ground.
The shuffle of weapons and saddles alerted the cloaked figure that they were close. Their second attempt to drag themselves to their feet was a little more successful, and the sodden figure was rising slowly to their feet when rough hands grabbed them.
"On your feet!" someone ordered briskly, hoisting the fallen rider to their feet. The burly man stripped back the cowl of the figure's cloak; beneath the smudges of mud and the streaks of water drenched hair was the face of a young woman. She struggled against the hand that found its way around one of her arms. A knife prickled her side and she fell still, glaring with silent contempt at her captures.
The leader made his way forward to stare at his prisoner, his short cropped hair was dark with rain and plastered against a tan forehead. He smiled, white teeth flashing brightly against his sodden black beard.
"Well well, if it isn't the infamous Deputy of the Shadows."
Strider smothered the emotion off her face until she felt like stone. "I don't know who you're talking about."
The man only widened his infuriating smile at Strider as lightning lit up the sky around them. "You're not fooling me, Strider."
"I've never once heard that name before," she snarled back at him defiantly.
A glint of dark light flared to life inside his eyes as he stepped forth and took hold of Strider's right wrist. He turned it over with a sharp movement, causing a grunt to escape from his captive. Without hesitation the Cult member drew a knife from his belt and slit the leather wrist guard lengthwise. Giving Strider a malicious look, he pulled away the ruined leather, holding Strider's hand with crippling strength. He tapped below her wrist with the tip of the knife none too gently, drawing the attention of the soldiers nearest them to the elegantly etched tattoo there. Even in the faltering light of the frantic lightning with the rain pouring over her wrist it was all too easy to see what was there, printed neatly just below her wrist. The unmistakable image of a snarling wolf stood out against her skin. She knew as well as he just what the symbol meant. The dark ink that stood out against her skin proved who she was better than an outright confession.
A triumphant gleam in the Cult members eyes made Strider want to cheerfully choke him. "Only Fell's Deputy has a mark such as this," he tapped her wrist again with the knife, this time applying enough pressure to barely nick the skin. Strider winced as the razor sharp edge left a line of fire across her wrist, drops of scarlet rain formed around the thin cut as rain fell on Strider's wrist.
"I think it's safe to say that you're a prisoner worth keeping."
With a nod to one of his comrades the burly man moved back to his mount while Strider was bound and gagged. Strider's horse was retrieved; though the horse was limping they collected his reins and led him along. They led Strider along the same way, tethered beside her injured mount. She walked along side her lame horse as her captors led her off into the night. She could feel bruises across her shoulders from where she'd hit the ground, along with the stinging ache of a few sprained ribs. At least I've given him a fair enough chance.
Warily she cast a tear glinted gaze over one shoulder to the forest that was fading away from them on the far side of the swamped river bank. Through the slanting rain Strider gazed steadily at someone she hoped was far away.
Keep running, Glade.
Glade's weary legs moved despite the wound across one thigh and his lopsided gait. He didn't know where his mentor was, nor if she was even alive. The last time he'd seen her she'd been riding off into the storm, a troop of Cult barreling after her. The instant the hoof beats had faded into the howling wind Glade had began to run. The small party of Shadows they'd been with was nothing more than a few stragglers now, all lost in the tangle of trees and the roar of the storm. Thinking back to it now, Glade couldn't believe it.
They'd been sent out on a mission by their leader Fell who commanded the rebels called the Shadows. Recently allied with the Kingdom of Araluen they were participating in an attempt to win back a Fort belonging to Araluen. Strider had been placed in control of a small attack party of roughly a dozen Shadows. Set on the edge of Meric Fief, the fort was easy enough to scout out. Taking it was another matter all together, if Strider had known what awaited them on the far side of the wooden barricade she would've turned back without a moment's hesitation.
The Cult had known all along about the Shadows that lay slinking in the brush of the woods around them. They'd set a trap fit for the unsuspecting, a trap that crippled the Shadows force, and sent them running for the hills in the dead of night. The dozen Shadows had been split, singled out by three or four mounted warriors at a time and dealt with easily. Glade was one of the few that had gotten away, and only so because of his mentor.
Tears stung his eyes, I wish she was here, he thought ruefully as he continued his trek through the thick undergrowth. Glade had been wounded, his trusty mount bombarded with cross bow quarries as they rode away. One of them had sunk into Glade's left thigh, searing through muscle and flesh in an instant. In the end as their pursuers closed in Strider had left Glade in the shelter of a large holly bush, rain spilling over him mercilessly as his mentor remounted her frantic steed.
"I'll be fine," She promised him, "I'm a Shadow remember? We're as hard to catch as the night itself."
Glade wished what she'd said was true. Her last orders rang wildly in his mind as he shoved past a screen of brambles barricading his way. "Get as far away from here as you can. Stay off the trails, find someone you can trust and find Fell. He needs to know what's happened."
That's exactly what Glade was going to do, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
A guard gave Strider a rough shove into the cell that awaited her. They'd removed her bonds and gag before they left her to confinement thankfully, and Strider rubbed her wrists sorely where the heavy rope had cut into her skin. With three walls of nothing but sturdy rock and a set of iron bars for the forth, the cell was puny. Strider guessed if she that at her full height, with her hands stretched out above her head, she would be able to touch two corners of the dungeon's filthy cell with her finger and toe tips. Strider brushed aside the idea however; she was soaked to the bone and cold, not to mention a newly unprivileged prisoner. She didn't need icing on the cake she called her most unfortunate raid ever, yet.
The cell had one window that she noticed as the door of rusty bars clanged closed behind her. On the wall parallel to the iron bars set high in the stone just above the ground level was a small window. The bars that blocked the meager gap in the wall were in fairly well condition, without a speck of foul smelling rust on any of the bars. With a sinking feeling Strider realized that water would spill into the cell through the forever open window if the rain continued to pound down from the swelling clouds.
All this Strider took in with a swift look; her eyes coming to rest on a bulky shadow crouched in one corner. Most of the cell was shrouded in shadow, and her eyes had yet to adjust to the dim, dreary lighting. For a moment she thought it might simply be the trick of the light, but then two dark eyes caught her own hazel glare. The figure rose to its feet and slipped from the shadow and into the scarce firelight provided by a torch mounted in a bracket outside the cell. More shapes moved behind him, but none rose to their feet.
Strider took a defensive step back before she recognized the face beneath the mix of dirt and blood that masked the figures face. He wore a cloak, similar to Strider's own. He stood at least half a head taller than Strider, with oddly light blonde hair that set his blue eyes glittering. The features, although distinctive, were barely recognizable under the dirt and dried mud that clung to the figure. Despite his would-be handsome features, a scar ran parallel to the line of his jaw from his left ear to his chin. The wound was one dealt by a curved dirk and it deprived the warrior of much of his good looks and made it look as if he was always scowling. He was a rather lanky and almost gaunt man, but his appearance was deceiving. That's how most Shadows were, undeniable and infuriatingly deceitful in almost every aspect of their ominous lives.
"Strider?" he asked in disbelief.
"Scorn?" retorted Strider, and found that her eyes were adjusting better to the darkness and noticed more forms among the cell.
"Who else is here?" She asked, not sure she wanted to know. "How many of us did they get?"
Scorn's shoulders slumped, "Including you and me, there are six of us. What do we do now?"
Strider shrugged and found the driest place next to her comrades who sat lined up against one wall together. She took a quick moment to assess each Shadows health. A broken arm, a dislocated shoulder and a sword slash to one leg showed just how hard they'd fought. Each and every Shadow was bruised heavily, and each held minor scrapes and cuts that stung and ached. Strider bit her lip as she considered what to do. As the Deputy of the Shadows, she would essentially carry a particular amount of weight against the Shadows sworn enemies, the Cult of Day. Having captured someone involved in the string of the Shadows command, the Cult would be looking for a use for her, and her captured comrades.
That's what had Strider puzzled. How did they know? Strider was always careful when they planned an attack or raid of any sort, having a reception waiting for them was something that rubbed Strider the wrong way. Something wasn't right. There was nothing she could do about it now though, and she might as well sweep it aside for the moment.
How do we escape? The question seethed through Strider's mind as she deftly ran her fingers through her hair. It had lengthened and she reminded herself to find the time to shorten it again soon, if she ever got the chance. They aren't trying to maim or kill us yet, so we might be of some use to them.
"Maybe they'll keep us as hostages," Offered Claw, a Shadow with a claw shaped scar on one cheek. He was darker tanned than the rest, standing at an average height for a man in his early thirties. He had the black eyes and hair of a desert nomad, with a hooked nose and a thick mane of hair that he kept tied back in a taut pony tail.
Strider had thought about that as well, the Cult had never taken hostages before, but now that they were preparing to got to war against all of Araluen along with the Shadows, they might change their tactics. Strider also didn't think that they would be kept alive very much longer if they were hostages, what use could they be to the Cult? The fact that the Cult's barbaric leader was Strider's blood brother, and that he had made it very clear that he intended to kill her the next chance he got didn't make things any easier.
"I don't think they'll keep us alive very much longer, to be honest." Strider voiced her opinion, gazing evenly at each of her comrades in turn. "Unless they're planning to try to get a ransom for the lot of us, we won't really appeal much to them, will we?"
"No, we won't," Scorn said from his place beside her, "So what should we do? Give them hell?"
Strider smiled wickedly, but the gesture never reached her defiant eyes. "We're going to do that anyway." She forced a look of hope onto her face, "On the upside, we might still be saved before they decide to torture us to death, or just kill us modestly."
Claw cocked an eyebrow, "Enlighten me."
Scorn had always been a quick thinker, and he proved his wit now. "Six of us have yet to be caught; they might still be out there, in the forest. By now they'll have gone off for help."
Jag let out a snort of contempt, "Or they're dead."
Strider felt a pang of sadness. Her own apprentice was out there in the dark swirling stormy night, wounded and alone. The thought of him being dead made Strider want to forget the world. But as the Deputy of the Shadows, she swore against it.
Gilan kept Blaze on the shallow sloping path with ease. The bay tossed its head as mud stuck to his hooves with every step. Gilan, hunched over the back of the horse made a silent promise to give the horse an extra bay of hay that night for his dedication. The storm was beginning to let up, and Gilan felt the veil of misery from being soaked begin to lift. The thought of his cabin, warm and welcoming brought a smile to his face. He wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed after a long day.
Suddenly Blaze's ears flicked to the trees bordering the path on Gilan's right side. The Ranger could hear something rustling in the bushes, and then from the undergrowth sprang a mottled shape. The figure stopped in front of Blaze as the bay slowed his trot to stare accusingly at the shape before him.
Gilan had his bow half drawn at the slight figure in the blink of an eye. A flash of lightning illuminated the mud smudged and thorn scratched face of someone oddly familiar to Gilan.
"Gilan!" The figure cried in a scarcely audible voice.
"Glade?!"
Gilan lowered his bow and slipped down quickly from Blaze's back, the horse stood stock still as his master swept forward to eye Glade critically. Shivers racked through Glade's body and his vision blurred with sudden tears, everything seemed to land on his shoulders in a rush. He felt the world swirling around him as he fell, a stab of pain rearing up inside his left leg.
Gilan caught the apprentice easily. Concern was flickering in the Ranger's eyes. He knew Glade from a previous battle fought in Redmont; the boy was Strider's apprentice, someone that Gilan had fought alongside against a force of Cult not long ago. The young Ranger had known about the raid that the Shadows would be leading on the small fort. Finding Glade in his current state of shock and fearful dread wasn't good, and Gilan felt a stone form in his stomach. He knew that Strider had been leading the attack as well.
The rough bandage on Glade's thigh drew Gilan's attention immediately. He took a moment to inspect the wound before remounting Blaze, pulling Glade into the saddle with him. The Ranger's cabin wasn't far off, and now he nudged Blaze forward into a steady lope that was somewhere between a casual gallop and a rapid canter. Riding with one arm firmly around Glade was difficult, and the familiar sight of the cabin nestled under the storm battered trees dragged a sigh of relief from the Ranger.
Reluctantly, Gilan left Blaze by the lean to, giving him the order to stay while he moved Glade into the cabin. The apprentice was half a head short than Gilan and he was slighter in build than the Ranger. Levering him on one shoulder wasn't a difficult task, trying to move him without jostling his wounded leg was another thing completely. Gilan's cabin was lit by a smoldering fire in the hearth, and the kitchen living and dining room was warm, compared to the biting chill of the frigid rain. The oak table and chairs, the rug and rocking chairs were all neat and tidy, just like Gilan had left them. Two doors led off into separate rooms of the cabin, but both were closed.
Glade let out a choked grunt of pain as Gilan lowered him onto the flooring of the cabin. The Ranger didn't think that Glade would be able to sit upright in a chair in his current injured state. He had doubts about settling Glade onto the extra bed in his cabin, it was hard to sleep well when you were soaking wet. The floor would do for now he decided and left Glade alone for a moment while he went in search of blankets and a pot of healing salve and bandages.
He found them quickly and returned to see a feverish looking Glade staring up at him with a petrified look in his eyes. Gilan found a place to kneel beside Glade and rolled one blanket into a ball and slipped it under Glade's head. The Shadow fidgeted fitfully until Gilan calmed him with a soothing voice.
"It's all right. You're going to be fine, the wound isn't deep."
Glade was shaking his head and trying to stay awake, the surprise attack was still fresh in his mind and he felt exhaustion threatening to close his eyes. His voice was feebler than he'd wanted it to be, a harsh effect of being cold, wounded, and frightened out of his wits. "It's not me I'm worried about."
Gilan looked up at Glade sharply, his hands continuing to work deftly at the water drenched bandages around Glade's left leg. Gilan eyed Glade evenly, a question brimming in his eyes. "Who exactly are you worried about?"
It was as if someone opened the flood gates, and Glade heard himself reciting the night in just a blur of words as Gilan listened intently, still tending to Glade's wounds. Finally the apprentice fell silent. Gilan's face was shadowed with thought as he took what Glade had told him into consideration. Glade had only left out one detail.
"Where's Strider?" Gilan asked, but he already suspected the answer.
"I-I don't know. She ran off so I could get away, they followed her. I…" Glade paused and an encouraging nod from Gilan nudged him to go on. "I think she was caught." Even though Glade hadn't seen his mentor's capture he found it only made sense. He'd known Strider long enough to know that when one Shadow fell, they all did. It was one of his first lessons under her wing. Never leave and let them fall behind, you fight together and you fall together. Glade was beginning to think that he'd made the wrong choice leaving his mentor behind.
"I'm sure she's fine," Gilan said, resting a hand on Glade's shoulder. The young Ranger wished he could believe it. Gilan shared Glade's view of Strider, he might not be a Shadow but he didn't have to look far to see the loyalty that bound Strider to the Shadows and her leader. He had always got the vague impression that as defiant as Strider was, she'd take full responsibility for something similar to the battle. Gilan knew in Strider's place, he'd be blaming himself for the destruction scattering and capturing of her force.
Glade sat up, wincing as he did so. "I've got to find Fell, he needs to know. He'll want to do something about this."
"Fell's in Redmont, but you're right, he does need to know. In your condition, I don't exactly think its best that you venture out to meet him."
Glade looked stricken, and Gilan went on before Glade could object. "I'll tell the Baron of Meric, Fell will know soon enough. Until then, you need to rest."
Submissively, Glade nodded. "Alright."
Gilan helped Glade to his feet; he looked him over and eyed him critically for a moment. "I think I have some clothes that might fit you."
Glade ducked his head shyly, "That would be heavenly, if it's not too much trouble."
Gilan smiled, finding Glade's modest mannerisms similar to that of Fell, the Leader of the Shadows. The Ranger found clean clothes for Glade and tended to Blaze. He fed and watered the horse, giving him a bit of time to rest before he rode out to the castle. Once that was done he prepared a swift dinner for himself and Glade. The Shadow helped, limping along carefully as he placed two steaming cups of coffee on the round oak table.
They both ate ravenously and in a companionable silence. Gilan sipped his coffee, enjoying and savoring every sip. The rain was beginning to let up, but the night air was cold, something Gilan was finding highly discouraging for his midnight journey.
The Ranger pulled on his half dry cloak despite the discomfort lying ahead, he showed Glade to the spare room before he left. He made sure that Glade would be alright alone, and turned towards the door to leave.
"Gilan?" Glade said coyly.
Gilan turned to met Glade's gaze, "Yes?"
The Shadow smiled warmly, "Thanks, for everything."
The morning dawned bright and airy on Castle Redmont. Blazing rays of sunlight flooded over the castle, turning the reddish mound of rock that served as it's foundation to a smoldering pale orange. Inside the protective walls of the magnificent castle the main courtyard was already teeming with activity.
Overlooking the bustling castle was Baron Arald of Redmont. He was comfortable in his wide office, seated before his large oak wood desk. Paper work covered the desk, covering every visible space. One large window overlooking the courtyard of the castle stood open, heavy weather shutters were pinned open to let in the dawn light and showing the light blue of a clear sky.
Despite the heart lightening cheery demeanor that hung over the castle the Baron carried a bit of a burden with him. With war drawing closer by the day there were many preparations to be made, and more and more paperwork continued to pile up. Arald wondered if he'd ever find his desk underneath all. On top of the coming war with the Cult of Day came many sieges. The Cult attacked in small forces and raided villages and outer lying forts at each and every chance they got. The size of the Gallican army was impressive and Araluen was glad to have the force of the Shadows on their side, even if the rebels were a meager group.
Now, standing before the Baron was the leader of the Shadows himself. Fell was rather tall, with sandy brown hair that was cropped short, giving him a lofty look. His eyes were liquid emerald, set under eyebrows that arched easily. Fell was young, and many times his youth was mistaken for inexperience. The Leader had seen more than his fair share of battle, he had the scars to prove it. His nose was straight, contradicting the fact that it had been broken countless times in the past, his jaw wasn't square, but it was strong edged. Fell's shoulders weren't very broad, but he was lean muscled and a force to be reckoned with. Among the Shadows, he was well respected.
Fell was in Redmont, meeting with Halt, the Ranger of the fief. They'd fought side by side in a battle for a village previously and Fell held a high regard for the grizzled Ranger. He'd learned his fair share of lessons from the older man, one of them being to stay on the Ranger's good side. Fell didn't share a liking for deadly arrows, and he knew very well how well rounded Halt's skill with the bow was. They'd been preparing for the battle and Fell had brought news of the Cult's whereabouts, plans and strategies. He'd shared the information gathered by the Shadows with Halt as well as the Baron.
Standing before the Baron now set an alarm off in Fell's mind, like a sixth sense. An instinct told him that he wasn't going to like what Baron Arald had to say.
"No word of the rest of the Shadows, my lord?" Fell asked, his stomach churning and his head pounding.
"None yet. Glade is safe with the Ranger of Meric fief, but the rest of the raiding party has yet to have been found. They were singled out and ambushed." Baron Arald had the solemn duty of explaining to the Leader of the Shadows the whereabouts of his comrade's raids.
The faces of the raiding party that Fell had organized flickered through his mind painfully. Twelve of them and only one had been found so far. What about the rest? What about his Deputy? Fell's heart clenched, was Strider dead? He shoved the thought away vehemently, he wasn't sure that losing her was something he could handle.
The plan of action was simple, with a force of fifteen men at arms and fifteen Shadows they would take back Fort Rigby and free the Shadows imprisoned there. Gilan would lead the party through the forest along a woodland trail that would allow them to attack the Fort from multiple sides when they divided their force. Along with Gilan, Fell planned to take part in the siege as well. The crippling destruction of the raiding party was enough to set a trail of fire down the Leaders spine. Knowing his Deputy and the force she'd led, he half expected them to be six feet under. They'd go down fighting if given the chance, and the Cult didn't take well to anyone defying them, hence their hatred for the Shadows.
Glade was still recovering from his wounds and Fell denied him permission to accompany the raiding party. It had been almost five days since the failed raid. Fell knew that Glade would want to go after his mentor but he couldn't allow it. Being a Deputy had brought forth a tremendous amount of dangerous sieges, raids, and even assassinations that Strider had taken part in. Snooping through the Leader of the Cult's own home had been one of her many fear plagued assignments. They both felt it was in there best interest to keep Glade out of the direct face of danger while he was still an apprentice, and he was bounced from mentor to mentor whenever Strider was called away. Fell himself had taken part in Glade's training, and he found it unnecessary to risk the young Shadows' life in the siege.
They set out on foot, with several sentries on horseback that scouted ahead and behind. The sentries' horses' saddlebags were loaded down with medical supplies, extra clothing, and provisions. They planned to stay a while at Fort Rigby and they were prepared to do so. The foot soldiers were armed with swords, long and short. Some carried daggers or dirks along with them and a flask of water and scarce provisions. The Baron of Meric had made it very clear that he did not want a repeat of the failed Shadows attack, and Gilan had seen to it that each soldier had enough to get by on by themselves if they were separated from the group.
Gilan and Fell moved quietly through the forest, the following force doing their best to stay unseen and quiet. The Shadows were fairly well at this, but every now and then a twig snapped loudly or the branches of a tree stirred in a windless air. Above them nestled in a star streaked sky a full moon floated. A light haze of wispy silver clouds scuttled across the sky, momentarily blotting out the moons light. The wind was a light brush, cool and refreshing against Gilan's face. He noticed the forlorn look plastered across the leader of the Shadow's face.
Still a ways away from the fort and moving impossibly slow Gilan knew he could share a few words with Fell, but he choose no to. He didn't want to encourage any form of noise among the group, even if Fell was looking oddly disturbed.
In truth, Fell was thinking back to a night similar to the one he stalked through. He remembered lying under the stars, stretched across a flat rock staring bewildered up at the twinkling stars and radiant moon. His Deputy giving off waves of warmth beside him as they talked, it was all still fresh in his mind. They used to talk about anything, not just their places in the Shadows but about everything and anything. We might never do that again, he thought gloomily. Sullenly, Fell trekked on.
Strider heard the heavy footsteps of a guard and recognized the eerie glow of a torch coming towards them. The Shadows were kept at the farthest end of the cavern that made up the Rigby dungeon. The air was thick and seemed to catch in their throats with every ragged breath as the musty odor threatened to choke them in their prison.
Strider signaled for no one to move as the guard approached. Harlem, the guard that patrolled the dungeons stopped at their cell. The orange flickering flames of light casted long shadows against the walls. Six glares rose to meet the cold eyes of Harlem. The guard was a burly man in his late thirties. He had jet black hair that had an oily shine to it and a beard that was cropped short. Harlem was a relatively portly man, and he walked with a hobbling gait, keys jingling at his belt with every shambling step he took.
Finally after a few moments of studying the Shadows he pointed to Claw. The Shadow snorted at him in disgust, his distaste for Harlem clear in every line of his body. With one injured arm there was little Claw would be able to do to fend off Harlem on his own. Of course, this had been something that Strider had planned for. They all expected the inevitable, which seemed to be torture or a slow and painful death at this point. Dying alone however, was not inevitable. When one would be taken, they all would. The six Shadows had already talked it over, and now it seemed that they were going to have to do their best to follow their vows.
"You, come with me." Harlem's voice was deep, and it seemed to resonate off every solid surface in the dungeon. The guard was carefully unlocking the door, and the keys rattled in the rusted keyhole. Then there was the softest of clinks, the guard pulled the key free and let the iron bar of door swing back on its hinges, screeching its protest. In one hand Harlem held a heavy club as he shuffled his hulking form forward. He beckoned to Claw once more and this time went for the injured Shadow.
The effect was dazzling. Five prone forms lunged at him at once, threatening to over power him. The bulky giant was a lot quicker than any of the Shadows had anticipated, with one flick of the baton he held in one hand he sent Scorn tumbling to the ground with a grunt of pain. Strider was next, and the massive guard swung the club at her heavy handedly sending it crushing into her side. She hit the wall that stood only a few mere inches behind her.
The air left her in a deflating whoosh, and she dropped to one knee before she struck forward again with her comrades. More guards were coming, their boots slamming into the filthy rock beneath them as they made there way to Harlem.
The Shadows were weak from the scarce food and water they were given, and Harlem battered them back as two more guards slipped into the cell behind him, both carried clubs. They finished the rebellious Shadows with several more heavy handed swipes, but they didn't stop there. With the Shadows unable to fight back Harlem finished what he'd ventured to the cell to do. This time however, he chose a different victim than Claw. His rage flecked gaze came to rest on Strider and he snatched hold of the Deputy's hooded cloak and tunic. When Claw rose to object one of the guards slammed his baton against the Shadows twisted arm.
With a ragged grunt of pain Claw crippled to the floor and curled himself around his wounded arm. The rest of the Shadows were in similar condition, the ones who hadn't injuries stood over their comrades. They watched their Deputy with sorrowful eyes. Harlem had to half drag Strider from the cell and up the stairs out of the dungeon.
The defiance in Strider's hazel eyes made Harlem smile a twisted, malevolent grin. One way or another he intended to break the Deputy's spirit.
Gilan beckoned Fell to him, and the Shadow slunk to the Ranger's side. He plucked away the mask that covered the lower half of his face, making a face appear from the shadows of the Leader's cowl almost instantly. The mask was one that most Shadows wore for more than one reason. It disguised the wearer for one, and made grudges against the Shadows hard to hold. It muffled their breathing and any sound they might make as they crept through the night, much to their advantage. It also gave the Shadows an uncanny appearance as a faceless ghost when they lurked in the shadows of the night.
They were lying across the rocky knoll of a hill that over looked Fort Rigby. A wide river slithered by, a silver snake among the hills. It flanked the Fort on one side and curved around it before swerving off into the trees. From the heavy rain that had recently fallen the river had flooded, breaking free of its banks to sweep over the cobble lined shore. The moonlit water lapped hungrily at the mushy soil as it leeched away the dirt held firmly in place by the gnarled and twisted roots of the trees nearby.
Fort Rigby itself was quite a disappointment. It was little more than a fenced clearing from the knoll. Lying in between the slate grey boulders on the coarse grass offered anyone a decently unobstructed view of the Fort.
The walls were heavy pine trunks, sharpened at the tops and reinforced by large rocks and small boulders that had been dragged into place and mounted against the withered and peeling bark of the long dead trees. Ramparts lined the inner wall and sentries paced along their lengths as they peered out into the gloomy night. Underneath the ramparts were small room like structures that formed the barracks and mess hall of the Fort. What Gilan and Fell were focused on was the odd behavior of the sentries. Many times they'd turn to look at something going on behind the walls of the Fort. Gilan and Fell strained to see what was so interesting that it drew off the attention of the sentries.
They were only thirty yards away from the Fort, but the shadows shaded them from sight, not that the sentries were all too observant to notice them anyway.
"What d'you think they're looking at?" Fell whispered to Gilan.
Gilan shrugged dismissively, "I'm not sure, let's get closer." And with that they did, this time staying absolutely silent as they crept closer. Gilan led the way and Fell followed in the Ranger's foot steps. A rock with a higher vantage point became their new post. They laid belly down on the weather smoothed slab of rock, their cowls pulled around them.
Fell gazed down into the clearing in the center of the Fort, a set of stone steps wound their way under the earth on the side farthest from them and opposite of the large wooden gate that served as the door. For a moment Fell thought he might be sick. His heart wrenched painfully inside his chest as he stared down on his Deputy.
Strider looked as gaunt and as pale as a corpse. Her cloak had been reduced to tatters and thick purpling bruises dotted her skin. She moved with a troubled gait, and as much as she tried to hide it Fell could tell that she was pained from the way she limped along. The only thing that hadn't changed about Fell's Deputy since the last time he'd seen her was the raw defiance in her blazing hazel eyes. Even from where he was he could feel the out right rebellious demeanor that followed her like a storm cloud.
Gilan gave Fell a wary look; he wasn't sure how Fell would react to his Deputy's imprisonment. The Ranger felt the need to tell the Leader that it was good that she was at least alive, but he had a feeling that Fell wouldn't care. His Deputy wasn't looking very lively, and from the way the Cult members looked on, Gilan didn't think they planned to keep her around very much longer. He didn't share his thoughts with Fell but something told him that Fell was thinking something similar.
Despite Strider's obvious position as a prisoner there were no bindings to hold her, only a sloppy ring of guards that trudged along side her. One guard muttered something to her that sounded like an order. Strider's reply was short and taut and it stung the guard like a thorn. He backhanded her suddenly, sending the frail looking Shadow staggering sideways. Fell started forward, rising from the rock with anger blinding his emerald gaze. Gilan caught the Leader's shoulder and Fell remained where he was, he gave Gilan a troubled gaze and returned his mournful eyes back to the scene unfolding before him.
Strider regained her balance and turned back to the guard, one eye was clenched shut and a fine line of scarlet across one cheek showed where the guard's ring had dug into her skin. Fell itched to join the fight, he hated standing by watching helplessly as one of his rebels, one of the Shadows he'd known for years facing a slow and torturous death. Tonight we'll change her fate. He promised himself silently.
The more guards that crowded around Strider, the more often she was sent sprawling into the dirt. Each time she was struck she could do nothing more than get back up, and each time she did this yet another blow was dealt and another round of boisterous laughter erupted throughout the clearing of Fort Rigby. This time as Strider gathered her dwindling strength she saw something in the shade of the ramparts. Protruding from the soft dirt was the hilt of a knife. Only a few inches away from the downed Shadow it was a simple matter for Strider to take the knife. The blade was long, at least six inches of silvery length. As Strider realized it was dirk she slid it into her boot, thankful for the way her cloak fell over her and obscured the guards sight.
Strider staggered to her feet, this time as she faced Harlem the ghost of a smirk touched her lips.
Horace led the way through the leafy foliage, watching his step carefully as he moved forward. Behind him followed a mixture of Shadows and men at arms. The man at his shoulder was in fact a Shadow, one that Horace had gotten to know rather well in the recent skirmishes they'd taken part in together. As the sieges of the Fort's and outer lying garrisons of Araluen had began Horace had been called off on several occasions to fight in many different fiefs.
Meric, the Shadow currently at his back was a formidable warrior, someone that Horace found a decent amount of respect for. In turn, Meric admired Horace's easy ability to lead, along with his impressive swordsmanship skills.
Now as they prepared to lead the siege against Fort Rigby Horace was glad to know the burly Shadow would be at hand. As would every other soldier among the attack party. Each men at arms was paired with a Shadow, and they'd been instructed specifically to fight this way. The tactic was highly effective.
The sentries on the ramparts were leaving their posts rapidly, and Horace called the order for the attack. The force of thirty men at arms, Shadows and a few odd Ranger's and Knights surged forward. Four were mounted, bearing the heavy wooden rams needed to knock the gate of Fort Rigby back on its rusted hinges.
The Cult never saw it coming, one moment they were preoccupied with the massacre of a guardsman in their own Fort, the next they were fighting desperately for their lives.
Horace drew his sword and lunged for he nearest Cult member, Meric not far behind. Horace's engagement was short lived, the Cult member he'd stepped forth to fight was ill prepared for battle. The startled man ripped his sword free of his belt and slung it at Horace. With an easy parry and counter attack against the Cult member Horace led the siege.
Gilan moved forward, slipping along in the shadows with his sword in one hand. Instead of taking up a position outside of the Fort to bombard the Cult members with arrows Gilan had decided that he'd engage in close quarters combat with the rest of the attack party. Besides the moonlight and the eerie glow of the torchlight in the Fort Gilan would have scarce light to shoot by. It seemed he could do more good with a sword in one hand and a Shadow at his side.
The commotion taking place in the center of Fort Rigby was soon enough explained. The next guard that had made an attempt to strike out at Strider had met the ragged edge of the dirk hidden in her boot. The instant that Strider had plunged the blade into the man's chest a riot like scene had erupted. The guards closest rushed forward, ignoring the man that had fallen prey to the defiant Shadow before them.
Then the sound of hinges grating and wood snapping dragged everyone's attention to the heavy entrance gate as it gave way, letting a force of cloaked and armor clad warriors pour into the Fort.
Fell spotted his Deputy immediately, and his heart sank painfully. Strider was cornered, her back against one wall, a menacing looking Cult making his way towards her with his sword in one thick arm. The rage on the man's face was as easy to read as an open book. Fell made a break for his Deputy, and Gilan fell in step easily beside the Shadow.
"Strider!"
Fell's voice was muffled by the mask that covered his face. With it on it was hard to recognize him as anything but another Shadow, let alone their Leader.
At the sound of Fell's voice Strider's gaze flicked to his for just a fraction of a moment. Fell's heart clenched, his Deputy was so close, and yet so far away. A long knife held in her right hand was her only defense against the guard that rushed her. At the swordsman's first swipe Strider ducked. The sword skipped off the stone of the barrack behind her and Strider swept forward. The dirk in her hand slashed across the Cult member's sword hand. With a cry of pain the man dragged his sword back into Strider's exposed side.
Fell heard the sickening snap of bones as the hilt of the sword slammed into Strider's ribs. The dirk slipped form his Deputy's hand, she crumpled to the floor. Strider was lying ominously still as the Cult member slunk closer, blood spilling down his hand and onto the hilt of his sword as he moved to stand over the limp form of Strider.
This time, Strider didn't get up.
Fell's heart pounded against his rib cage, each beat driving pain through him. He was too far away, he wouldn't make it in time, and Gilan had fallen behind and out of Fell's sight. Strider was ominously silent and she hadn't moved since she'd fallen, till now. She struggled into a half sitting position and found her back pressed against the cold stone of the wall behind her. She gazed up fearfully at her killer as he approached before she turned to lock gazes with Fell. The yards between them seemed like miles.
Strider's fawn colored eyes cried out to Fell in a silent plea. Somehow the absence of words was the loudest sound that Fell had ever heard. He felt it in rattle in his bones and scream in his head. The fear took him like a tidal wave surging over a rocky shoreline. The unspoken words roared through his mind like fire through a dry forest as he ran for his Deputy. And still her eyes pleaded.
Save me!
It's a cliffhanger, I know. Part 2 of the epilogue will be less long, and probably less mushy.
So here we get to see the developing feelings of Fell's affection for Strider, but just how in the world can they be together? And what does Strider think of Fell?
I know I know. WHERE'S WILL?! It seems as if none of the Shadows of the South, or this sequel will have anything to do with Will. BUT! Fear not, I will try to include him somewhere along this winding path I call my story.
Please review. I know it seems like so much, just to click the pretty green button and give this young writer a bit of advice, a compliment, or maybe even a little reassurance. To me just a few words about this here story and my writing is a monumental inspiration. So please, read and review!