The Narrow Pass

At the sound of the horn, all across the dell, the weary stirred. Some Tarlmerefolk jerked awake in fright, eyes wide and searching. Mothers clutched children closer. Men half-rose, fumbling for weapons they could barely lift. Others were too far gone in exhaustion, groaning faintly or not moving at all, even as the echo rolled through the valley. What little murmur of relief had existed among them died away, replaced by the taut silence of dread.

“They’re upon us,” Red gasped.
She struggled upright and, cupping her hands around her mouth, shouted: “Everyone! On your feet! Move! Now!”

It seemed impossible. The horn had roused them, yes – but the breakneck flight that had carried them here had already wrung out every last shred of strength they possessed. What little drove them forward was survival instinct alone, and even that was fraying. A body has limits – how much more a mismatched company, half-starved and footsore? Still, with groans and staggering steps, they began to drag themselves onward, stumbling into the road that, after many long miles, would lead to Dravenholt.
Yet many would not last at this pace. Already, some faltered. Some would fall. Some would be left behind. Red’s thought was only this: save as many as possible.

Kaelen and Lameth came jogging toward her and Brennel at the ruined arch. Lameth had seized a horse as he rose and now pulled it behind him by the reins.

Nothing showed yet on the road below, and from the clamor of the folk scrambling behind them, it was hard to tell if any hoofbeats or marching cries drifted through.

“That horn was close,” Kaelen muttered.

“They’re not far,” Brennel agreed.

The four of them stood, eyes fixed on the road’s far bend. Still – nothing.

Behind, the folk shuffled away in disorder, but not quickly. None had the strength left. Only now were the last stragglers leaving the dell.

“Who’s leading?” Red asked.

The three men glanced at one another.

“Lameth – you go ahead of them,” Red commanded. “Lead them slow and steady. But do not stop. And whoever makes it to Dravenholt is saved…”

Lameth handed Kaelen the reins and set off at as brisk a pace as his weary legs could manage.

“Still nothing,” Brennel noted grimly.

Red sagged against Kestrel, clinging tight so she would not fall down. She shut her eyes, straining to listen. Behind her came the ragged sounds of flight – groans, sobs, heavy breaths. Around her the forest carried on unchanged: alive, indifferent, its birds still calling, its leaves whispering in the wind. Straight down the valley, far off, she thought – though she could not be sure through the clamor – she caught the measured rhythm of marching feet drawing nearer.

♦♦♦

The forest they crossed was indeed bright and, in its own way, pleasant. Far more welcoming than the tangled wilds of Frostshore. In another time, Elias might have paused to remark on it, to notice the dappling of light or the birdsong. But now the road before him pulled him on. He wanted to hurry. He wanted it finished. He wanted to reach their destination – Teranbrath.

A gnawing urgency had taken root in him: speed is of the essence. Cecile’s question had unsettled him, and his own thoughts had wrapped tight around him like chains. What if he never reached the Warden? After all he had endured!

His pace quickened. He kept his eyes on the road beneath his feet.

And if the Warden couldn’t help him at all? The thought clawed at him. He could not bear it. Hope had carried him this far; to have even that stripped away – unthinkable. He needed an answer now. Yes or no. The gnawing impatience chewed at his spirit like a worm in the wood.

He crossed a little wooden bridge spanning a clear-running stream and pressed on, heedless–

“ELIAAAS!” All three of them were calling his name.

He turned, puzzled, ready to snap What? – and then realized. A few paces back, before the bridge, the road split in three. One track turned left, trailing the stream and bending diagonally left behind them. The second –the way the others had taken– curved forward right. He alone had gone straight across, utterly absorbed in thought.

“Sorry,” he muttered, retracing his steps.

“What were you thinking, that you couldn’t hear us the first three times we called?” Bard asked, troubled.

Elias looked away with a guilty glance as he crossed back over.

“Look at his eyes,” Cecile whispered to Bard, trying to be discreet.

Elias scowled, irritation flashing.
Fawks, meanwhile, only stared at him, unblinking.

“They’re going yellow,” Bard remarked quietly.

Elias’s jaw tightened. With heavy steps he brushed past them, forcing Fawks and Cecile to step aside.

“This way to Teranbrath?” he asked –more rhetorical than not– as he strode on without pausing.

After an awkward silence, the others followed in his wake.

♦♦♦

The enemy had not yet appeared –good news for the fleeing Tarlmerefolk– but their march could now be heard clearly, echoing off the ridges that loomed to the right.

Red glanced back. The road curled behind the mountain’s shoulder, cutting them off from sight of the last stragglers. She looked again toward the dell they had just abandoned. She had not expected to see so many things left behind –bundles, tools, keepsakes– foolishly carried all this way only to be discarded here.

“There,” Brennel said, almost flatly.

Far down the road’s bend, the army that had destroyed Tarlmere came into view. Even in the narrow mountain pass they moved in ordered ranks, line upon line. Another horn blast rang out, louder now, followed by the soldiers’ roaring shouts, sowing terror in every ear that caught it. Their pace was measured, relentless. They were not hurrying, but neither did they seem to tire.

“At this rate they’ll be on our heels before we’re halfway to Dravenholt,” Kaelen muttered.
“No one will make it,” Red said grimly.

As if in answer, Brennel suddenly bolted downhill. Kaelen stumbled after him a few paces, curious to see what he would do. Brennel ran – not fast, and not far, perhaps a hundred and fifty paces – then veered left into the treeline. With a sharp whistle like a shepherd’s call, he cried out as though summoning his flock.

And the trees answered. A handful of trunks lurched and staggered into the road, planting themselves squarely across the path. Brennel turned back toward them, pale-faced, and dragged his feet uphill again.

“This–” he gasped for breath, clutching his chest “–this won’t hold them long.” He pulled a dral from his pocket. “But every heartbeat counts.”

The marching shades did not break stride at the sight of him. They pressed on, unshaken.

Following Brennel’s lead, Kaelen stooped, scooped a handful of dirt, and blew it forward. At once the dust rose, swelling into a sudden swirl like a miniature sandstorm, flinging itself into the enemy’s front ranks. The shades faltered in brief confusion, the cloud swirling around their pale dark heads.

“If I can hold it until they reach the trees… good enough!” he said, sweat running down his brow.

Both men turned back and rejoined Red at the ruined arch.

“You, Red – go!” Kaelen urged, grimacing as the effort of holding the storm strained him.

Red blinked at him in surprise.

“You can’t do any more good here,” he explained.
“Yes – go, help the townsfolk!” Brennel agreed, adding, “We’ve got this.”

“What he means,” Kaelen managed through clenched teeth, “is you won’t get far anyway… so…” He gave her a crooked grin.

“This is where we stand,” Brennel declared.
“The narrowest point.”

And indeed it was. The ruined arch was hemmed in by stone on both sides. Unless the shades attempted a vast detour, they would be forced to pass through here, a few at a time. Red’s jaw tightened. She had decided.

“Give me your sword,” she said.

“No, Red, go!” Kaelen snapped. The foremost shades were already pushing through Brennel’s summoned trees.

“Look at you!” Brennel growled, trying another tactic. “You’re wounded, weak – you’ll get us both killed!”

But Red yanked the sword from his sheath, swung up onto Kestrel, and planted herself behind them.
“Thank you,” she said softly. She did not budge.

Brennel muttered darkly under his breath. Beside him, Kaelen released the sandstorm with a shudder; he could hold it no longer, sweat slicking his brow. By now the enemy’s first ranks had broken free of the trees and were striding up the last hundred and fifty paces toward them.

The air grew tight with waiting – hearts thudding, breath shallow, every muscle coiled. The shadows advanced like a tide.

Until, when they were scarcely five paces from the arch… they halted.