Revenant Rising 1.3: Ocean of the Sun

Blood slipped to the floor, staining into the pelt laid as a carpet.

Just a single drop.

Enough to bring him to consciousness, his eyes flashing open in instant readiness, for whatever might come.

But he was alone in the tent.

Emitting a few groans as he sat up on the cot, his finger brushed the underside of his nose, a thin coating of red coming off.

Red.

Such an ugly color.

He hated the desert, everything about it. The fact that it was as dry as the stale bread they’d been eating for the past two days was only the beginning of his dislike for such a forsaken place.

How anyone, or anything, could choose to exist here, was beyond him.

One thing was for certain, though; they would not be much longer.

Oh how he longed for Arribinthia once again. The cobblestone streets. A quiet meal, alone, alongside the shores of the placid lake. A luxury long overdue.

Rising, he went to wash his face, hoping the splash of mildly cool water would clear the grogginess from his body.

There was a ruffling at the tent wall, perhaps the wind? A moment later, though, the cloth curtain was separated and a man entered quietly, dressed in traditional garb of a soldier. The half plate mail, purple on white with the Emperor’s three-pronged crest emblazoned across the front of the tunic.

A grey shoulder cape was draped over his right spaulder, to signify rank.

“General,” he opened, “if I have disturbed you….”

“No, Grinvelld,” his commander returned, “you shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”

Grinvelld looked sheepishly at the ground, and then said, “I figured that you needed it.”

Heavy eyes glanced up at him, fixing his gaze. Not angry, just, thoughtful.

“We all need more sleep, my friend. This hellish desert wants to take us all.” was Feilden’s reply. Strapping braces to arms and sword to his side, he stepped to face Grinvelld. “Sleep is for pompous kings and fat dogs.” Proffering a half smile, he slapped the soldier’s arm, raising his eyebrows.

A comical gesture, of sorts.

And to finish, added, “Sleep is only a vision, a dream, and it fades quickly.”

“Then,” came Grinvelld’s comment to such a thought, “I am most certainly a visionary man.”

A hand of Feilden’s rested on Grinvelld’s shoulder. “Well, this is some kind of dream that we’re stuck in here.”

Chuckles, in agreement.

“Yes, it is. But remember one thing,” the soldier returned, “you picked it for me. If I had my rathers, I would be sitting in front of the fire back home, with a mug in my hand and my wife strumming soft tones on the lyre.”

“Aye, so would we all.” Feilden’s face tightened for a moment as his mind wandered to some far off place and lost itself in a hopeless vision. But only for a moment, before snapping back to the reality at hand. “Emaar, it’s good to have you with us.”

A few moments of silence hung in the air. A bit stale, perhaps, but not wasted.

“So, why did you interrupt my moment of solitude?”

Right, Grinvelld had completely forgotten. He answered quickly, the smirk fading from his features as he slipped back into the role of his position. “The men,” was his reply, “they are ready for you.

- - - -

He was tall, for his age.

A stocky child of the western hills, bred from unforgiving elements and a constant struggle for life, no doubt. His mop of dirty blonde hair partially covered his face, but there was no need to see anymore, Feilden already knew. The boy’s eyes reflected spirit, and an ultimate courage which showed in his straightened form and slightly raised chin.

He certainly was not afraid. Bravery alone, though, was only a willingness to step from the edge. No, there was something else there.

Ignorance.

Naïve. The young man, though deceivingly large of stature, had not sprouted his wings. Still just a fledgling in a world of buzzards. They eat their own. Cannibals, in every sense of the word, and it was this that worried him the most.

“How old are you, boy?” He probed. Not that he needed to know, as he could have guessed it as it was from the moment he was brought in. Similar situations, he’d seen them before.

“Old enough.”

Bold, but a lie. The kid had guts, to be sure. But what intrigued Feilden the most was the fact that the child, who could have been no more than fifteen, also knew that the ranked commander standing before him was aware, entirely, of his ruse. And yet, he stayed his course.

Perhaps frightened of consequences to come, were he to admit his guilt? But no, eyeing him from head to toe revealed a lowly farm boy in peasant’s clothing, evidently a runaway. This ragged appearance screamed of a hatred for the lowly life, and a heart bent on achieving something great.

Reminded him of someone he once knew.

“And how are you with the blade?”

The boy cocked his head to look at Feilden without moving his shoulders, as if to make some snide remark, and answered smartly, “As good as any man.”

For some reason he was drawn to believe that this, by chance, might be true. If so, it was the one diamond among the rocks, and was all that had carried him this far.

Who was he to let the boy in? Every responsibility rested on him to do as he had with all the rest. Some came for protection, others to seek out alleged fame and fortune. All in vain. All too young, and too ignorant to know that this fate was not the one that they had dreamed for. No, it could not be….

“What’s your name, boy?”

The statue broke from its stoned form as he glimpsed the door opening before him. Lips curling at the edges into a partial show of excitement. Feilden watched as the fire jumped from his pupils, and for a moment he thought the boy would erupt in emotion, fists loosening their iron grip of the air, the chest falling from its high position.

But control regained its footing and the thickset youth snapped to attention.

“Matthias, son of Arrimour of the household of Dras-En.”

He would certainly make a good soldier. Feilden’s thoughts betrayed what he knew he must do, but how was he to refuse?

“Death, Matthias, son of Arrimour, does not wait. Not for you, not for anyone. Are you prepared to stand in the face of it?”

When he spoke of her, I was there.

Listening.

Almost without hesitation the boy drove his reply home, “Nur-es brathak tain!”

Usage of the well known Elder Tongue phrase brought memories flooding back across Feilden’s mind. Memories long since buried beneath ash heaps of blood and gore.

Immovable. I am immovable.

There was no way back now.

But no! He could not! Too much was at stake, and the consequences would go too far. Not this time….

“No one will watch your back out here, mind you.”

He couldn’t believe the words as the spilled from his mouth, helpless to halt their ushering out of his lips and slipping to the dry wind. And so he continued, “Every man’s life is his own, and you take ownership of it, today. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir!” His exuberance at this sudden ray of hope showed, but only for that second, and then his chin snapped back to its rigid station, eyes forward.

The boy’s heavily tanned arms showed strength and raw determination as muscles flexed and toughened sinews pressed at the skin.

Feilden exhaled hard, to mask his inward sigh. Underneath, he knew, was still just a young child.

Only as old as you were. He shot to himself. Do not forget that. What was he to do? The remembrance of his own past weighed heavily on his conscience, bending his will and forcing his hand. For him, there was no other option.

The boy would stay.

- - - -

Darkness had veiled the desert valley that lay below, but it was easily broken. Fires of the camp dotted in the blackness.

There were less than he had thought, a fact which spread some relief over his aching mind. His men, he knew, were of no concern. What was a handful of desert nomads in comparison?

But something still tugged at his thoughts, nagging and mocking in chattering tones of reminder.

“When should we move?” Grinvelld asked, coming to stand just to his left.

Seven days journey into the heart of Corbith-Atar, all for some trader’s goods. It seemed a waste already, and blood had not yet been spilled. But there was this commodity that could be bought only at the highest of prices.

Reputation.

The White Wastes, stretching from the southernmost part of the empire, Standing’s Point, to Vraaldes Aldice, the southernmost edge of the world.

That boy’s body still laid on, out there, somewhere, aimlessly adrift on sandy depths. The spectre of Feilden’s waking nightmare, and he couldn’t shake his mind from it….

“Sir?”

“Now, we should go now, while they still sleep.”