FTB: Chapter 2: The Sun and the Star

CHAPTER TWO:
THE SUN AND THE STAR


Branston stooped to pick up the rider's sword and slid it behind his belt.

"Do you know how to use those?" Faldashir asked.

"Not well, but it's better than nothing." He adjusted the blade so he wouldn't slice his leg walking. "I need to get a few things from my wagon. You don't happen to have a horse, do you?"

Faldashir shook his head, "My horse died three days ago. Fell into a ravine."

So they made their way back to the road, where the bodies of three men and two horses lay. Branston grimaced as he climbed into the back of the wagon, and tossed the tarp over the side, exposing the furs and wines he had intended to sell. What a waste of time. With a scowl he moved aside sacks of pelts until he found his bag of food, while Faldashir picked through the pockets of the dead men.

"I don't think these men were sent by Krassos," Faldashir said. "Look."

Branston looked over the side and Faldashir tossed up a small leather pouch. Coins jingled as he caught it, and he looked inside, gawking at twenty gold coins. That was more money than he'd seen in quite some time. Among the coins was a small rolled-up piece of parchment. Unrolling the parchment, Branston read to himself: Tall, blonde hair, scar under right eye, dragon markings on each palm. Deliver to Sal' Tathern alive. An accurate sketch of the dragons marked the bottom of the page.

Branston sighed, his breath icing before his face, and crumpled the paper. "They were after me." That, he had already guessed. "Bounty hunters, maybe." He dropped the paper into the bag and tied it shut, pocketing it. It just might cover his loss of sales. "Anything else?"

"No, these men were ill-equipped. If they come from nearby, we need to be more careful than before." Faldashir pulled back his hood, exposing shaggy gray hair as he looked around at the trees. "If they're not from nearby, they traveled. In which case, where can we find the rest of their belongings?"

"What if there are more hunters?" Branston slung his large bag of oats and beans over his shoulder and jumped down from the wagon. When he landed his knee almost gave out. Even though the arrow Faldashir had shot him with had held no blade, Branston was sure there would be a bruise.

"I don't expect these to be the only people looking for us." Faldashir gestured with a thumb to the treeline, "I just hope no more soldiers come after us. If you're done, let's go. I have a camp nearby I need to get a few things from."

Branston looked forlornly at his wagon, and the horses. Many hard days of labor had gone into paying for them.

He followed Faldashir into the forest on the other side of the road, slipping his arms through the straps of his pack. Branston stared at the back of Faldashir's head, the man's gray locks thrashing with the howling wind. Who was this man? He told Branston King Dendlo had sent him, but Dendlo ruled a different country, Veresses, to the north and east. The man was good with a bow, quick with his hands, maybe, the way he had to have removed the arrowheads.

"I think it's time we talk about why you're here." Branston called over the wind.

Not turning, and keeping his odd slow pace, Faldashir replied, "My king is gathering every Dragon Guard he can, I've already found four. My king wants to find the dragons, Krassos said it's time to use them."

Branston cursed under his breath, he had hoped the dragons wouldn't be put to use in his lifetime. "It sounds to me like Krassos and Dendlo are in league."

"They are," Faldashir said. "Though each man has a different agenda. Surely you know Krassos wants to kill every Guard who was on duty the day Sal' Tathern was razed. However my king wants to find that team, as they have the most control over the dragons."

Branston scowled, that hadn't been the case when.... Branston shook his head, denying himself the memories. Too much pain. Too much terror.

Instead Branston said, "Your king wants that team, he won't get them all. My father was on that team, and he's dead now."

Faldashir nodded faintly, but what his face showed, Branston didn't know.

Faldashir pointed, "We're almost there, just over the hill."

"I haven't said I'm going to fight for your king." Branston said. His stomach clenched waiting for Faldashir's response.

The other man stopped and turned, fixing an unreadable gaze on Branston. "Then leave. You have no reason to follow me to my camp if you're not helping."

Branston froze, running scenarios through his head. And wondering, could he really trust this man? "Your king needs me?"

"No," Faldashir said bluntly. "He will use you. The world needs you, and he'll make sure you do your part. However," Faldashir crossed his arms, awkwardly with his bow in hand. "there are others like you. If you want to hide, do so. We can't have cowards on the forefront when war comes."

Branston shuddered. He had hoped the Enemy would stay locked up for much longer. "I'll go with you." he decided, "But I can't promise I'll fight." Then Branston noticed the red patch on the side of Faldashir's white tunic. "You're bleeding!"

"It took you long enough." Faldashir growled. "Of course I'm bleeding, I was shot!" He looked down at his ribs, where his white coat was torn and red. "The rider nicked me. Besides I'm wearing leather underneath. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure your rib's not broken?" Branston couldn't help wishing the man wasn't hurt too badly. He may be lying to me, but he saved my life.

"Of course a rib is broken!" Faldashir said, "Now let's get going, unless you have anything else obvious to point out?"

Branston gestured ahead, and followed Faldashir forward. The jingling in Branston's pocket brought the bounty hunters to his mind. What if Faldashir was a bounty hunter? Branston would need to escape the man quickly, even with the older man's injury, he didn't think that would be easy.

They came to the top of a hill, the snow hindering their footing, and Branston saw Faldashir's camp.

No campfire had been lit in the clearing, and any traces of footprints had been snowed over. A sleeping bag lay half-buried in the snow, and a backpack lay propped against a log.

Faldashir growled a curse and shuffled down the hill, his boots disrupting the snow. Branston followed, watching ahead for anybody else.

"You traveled alone?" He looked at the back of Faldashir's head.

"Yes." Faldashir pulled his sleeping bag out of the snow. He whipped it, sending flecks of snow flying. Faldashir growled viciously and doubled over, dropping the sleeping bag and clutching his wound.

Branston rushed down the hill to Faldashir's side, stopping before Faldashir's extended arm.

"Stay away!" the old man snarled. He drew in a deep breath and growled in pain. Branston had met many men like Faldashir; they always wanted space when in pain.

"Are you -"

"Shut up!" Faldashir slowly straightened, and he looked at Branston. "Would you roll up my bedroll and put it in my pack?" He spoke slowly, with restraint.

Branston picked up the sleeping bag and brushed off snow. The sleeping bag was light, and compact when it rolled together.

"Top pocket," Faldashir announced.

Branston complied, and took the bag in his hands. "I'll carry this for you."

Faldashir only gazed ahead, pain in his eyes. His breathing was steady, and deep. The old man was calming himself, Branston realized.

It was a few minutes before Faldashir turned to Branston, who at that point had gotten anxious, and said, "Give me the bag." He stretched out his arm and wiggled his gloved fingers.

"Are you sure?"

Faldashir's face turned to a glare. "My bag." He motioned for Branston to hurry.

Branston slowly handed him the bag, and Faldashir carefully slid his arms through the straps. He winced when the leather touched his wound.

"Don't you want to patch that up?" Branston asked, his voice broke the silence that permeated the forest. Even the wind had stopped.

"I would like that, yes," Faldashir's voice was very tight. "But when my horse fell it took my medical supplies with it."

Branston chewed his lip in consideration, then said, "I have bandages at my house. Let's go."

"No," Faldashir said, pain laced his voice. "We need to get to Murindin. We have a long way to go."

"There's something else I need to get at my house. It'll help us," Branston argued.

Faldashir held Branston in a glare, then said, "Fine. Let's be quick. And don't let anybody see you packing."

So they headed west, staying off the road. Faldashir's injury slowed their pace more than Branston would have liked, and behind him Branston heard the man cursing, probably whenever a jolt of pain occurred. Branston had had a broken rib once, years ago, and he remembered the pain, and the agony of breathing

While they walked, Branston got to thinking. Eventually he voiced his thoughts aloud to Faldashir. "What do you suppose the chances are of those bounty hunters finding me, and you being right there to save me, and one of Krassos' soldiers being near enough to find me right after?" He looked back at Faldashir, who walked bent slightly over.

Through gritted teeth Faldashir responded, "Pretty good, seeing as how it happened."

Branston came to Faldashir's side and kept pace, "I'm just saying, that's a lot of chance encounters in such a short amount of time."

"What are you getting at?" Faldashir growled, his breath icing outwards.

"I think you've been following me," Branston said bluntly. "Watching me, and waiting for the right time to gain my trust. Saving my life is a good start, saving it twice is better. Maybe you knew what lay ahead, and waited to strike."

Faldashir stopped, and Branston followed suit. Faldashir straightened slowly, squaring his shoulders, and said, "Am I about to travel with a madman?" His short breaths frosted before his face.

"No," Branston said, matching Faldashir's suspicious glare. "I'm cautious, not mad."

Branston walked ahead, leaving Faldashir to stare at his back.

"How far 'til your house, anyway?" Faldashir asked, followed by the sound of his boots crunching on snow.

Branston winced as a strong wind blew through the trees, stinging the shallow slice on his neck. At least the cut hadn't hit a vein. His broken nose throbbed and ached terribly, though.

"We're about seven miles away."

Faldashir growled something too quiet for Branston to make out.

So they trekked wordlessly over the snowy forest floor, wind slowing their progress about as much as Faldashir's injury. In places they trudged ankle-deep in the snow, and Branston was glad for his fur-lined boots.

All the while Branston thought, considering his options. Faldashir had proven to be a skilled shot, but Branston didn't quite trust him yet, and that skilled shot would be deadly if Faldashir were against him. Branston rotated his shoulder where Faldashir had hit him with a blunt arrow. He was sure it would bruise.

Even if the old man were to be on Branston's side, even if he never betrayed him, the outcome was deadly. He had made it clear that if Branston were brought before his king, his king would make him fight in the coming war. But that would mean going back to Krassos to be reassigned to the Dragon Guard.

Maybe not. The dragons did escape, so he says.

Branston stopped suddenly. He could see the plumes of smoke rising from his village, from other people's chimneys, but it was what he heard that worried him.

"Stop," he held up a hand, and Faldashir obeyed. There were too many horses. He could hear them whinnying and stomping, in the village just over the thick treeline. He turned to Faldashir and whispered, "Stay here."

Faldashir scowled nervously, but he didn't look like he would follow. So Branston dropped his bag and crept to the treeline and hedge, the border that obscured the village from the forest. He crouched before the low branches and high bushes, and peered through gaps in the foliage.

The village looked unharmed, the dozen log buildings were undamaged, but all the citizens were gathered before a company of horseman.

The dozen villagers shook, against the cold or from fear, and stared wide-eyed at the horsemen. Branston held his breath as he looked upon the surcoats of the men sitting atop stationary horses. Each rider bore the golden Sun and Star of Takinthad on the front of their white coats. These were King Krassos' men.

So it wasn't chance that brought that rider to me!

Branston recognized one man as their captain, only by his helmet. The helmet was tall and cylindrical, but unlike the rider's, this man's face was exposed. He wore a thin black beard, his face showing faint signs of age. The captain was speaking with Branston's neighbor, Mister Taldor.

Branston couldn't hear them from this distance, at least, he couldn't hear the captain. His lips moved, but he wasn't loud enough, whereas Mister Taldor responded with his natural booming voice. But still Branston couldn't make out his words.

Branston needed to leave quickly, but he needed his saldacrosse. He saw his house, and horses without riders stood with reins tied to his porch. He suppressed a curse, they were searching his house.

Krassos knew Branston had escaped with the saldacrosse, and more than for his ability, Branston was sure that Krassos would hunt him for the object.

Branston's fist tightened around a branch, he needed to find the object before the Takinthites did.

He spun on his heels and got a safe distance from the hedge before rising full height.

"What did you see?" Faldashir whispered.

"There are probably thirty Takinthad soldiers in the village, I -"

"Alright, we're leaving." Faldashir grabbed Branston's arm.

Branston jerked his arm free and growled, "No! I need to get to my house, there's something I need."

Faldashir's narrow eyes flared with anger. "What could it possibly be?"

Branston gestured with both hands for the other man to be quieter. "Do you know about magic?"

Faldashir frowned, but shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

"Magic let's people manipulate the world, it's how the rider escaped us earlier."

Faldashir's face soured even more. "I don't understan -"

"This is a conversation for another time," Branston waved dismissively. "What I need will help us escape. And it may help in the war. I need it. Even if I don't fight, I can get it to somebody who can use it properly. I need help. Please, help me." Branston watched Faldashir, he saw Faldashir thinking, running scenarios through his head, assessing the risk.

"What do you have in mind?" Faldashir's face was expressionless now, but his tone was tight.

"The village isn't large; you can see the whole thing from the hedge. Right now some of the men are searching my house, - "

Faldashir quickly switched to a glare.

" - and I need you to distract them." Branston continued. "I need to get into my house, but there can't be anybody else in there. I need -"

"Wait," Faldashir held up a hand, displaying his bow. "I hear their horses, and I'm assuming you need the soldiers far from your house. So it would be better if the distraction were quick."

"Yes, what are you getting at?"

"With my injury I can't move fast, you need to do it."

Branston groaned, but Faldashir was right, and he knew it.

Faldashir grunted. "But I will help you still. I will go into your house once the men are far enough away. Now, what do you need?"

Branston pulled the shortsword from his belt and said, "I'm not sure, it needs to be quick, but it needs to attract all of them for a long enough amount of time."

"Have you ever killed before?" Faldashir asked suddenly.

Not directly, he thought bitterly. "No, I've never killed. Why?"

"You may need to."

"If it can be avoided, no." Branston said adamantly. "For now, Krassos has no good reason to capture me. If I kill his men, then I'm an outlaw."

"You seemed ready for me to kill that rider," Faldashir noted.

"That would have been better for both of us," Branston replied, "Now I think we can avoid being caught."

"But first we need a plan."

"No," Branston shook his head. "First you need to know what you're doing. My house is the one closest to the hedge. It's not big, it only has three rooms: the living room, my bedroom, and the kitchen. The living room and kitchen are un-divided, it's the bedroom you'll be going for." Faldashir nodded, his eyes locked on Branston's. "Hopefully you'll be going through the back door, and my bedroom will be on your right. Got it?"

Faldashir only nodded.

"In my bedroom there will be my bed, under it will be a small box, it's alone so you can't get it confused. Bring the box to me, un-opened."

"Alright," Faldashir said, his tone suggested he was insulted. "But do you have a plan?"

"No, not yet." Branston said. "Let me scout the area a little." Branston had memorized the area in the three years since arriving; what he needed was the enemies' location.

Gesturing for Faldashir to stay put, Branston crept again to the hedge.

His neighbor Taldor was done talking, and the innkeeper Harvey was being questioned by the commander.

The soldiers were spread out more, now, and the bare horses still stood tethered to his porch.

A hard wind came through the village, waving the commander's blue cloak like a flag, and disturbing the branches before Branston.

Branston cried out as something struck him in the eye. He fell onto his back and cupped a hand to his watering eye. A branch! One of the twigs had hit him in the eye!

Faldashir was at Branston's side as he sat up, but worse, Branston heard voices shouting to one another on the other side of the hedge.

Faldashir growled in his ear, "Look what you did, idiot. Get up!" Faldashir dropped his bow and pulled Branston to his feet.

He shook Faldashir off and looked to the hedge, though only one eye was open. He couldn't believe his horrid luck!

But he could hear horses charging toward the road on their left.

"We have to get out of here!" Faldashir snarled, tugging on Branston's sleeve.

Branston turned to run once he saw a dozen riders come into view, they had passed between the makeshift gate of the hedge and turned from the road to meet them.

Branston took off, with Faldashir right behind him, howling in pain.

But Branston changed his mind. He turned for the hedge and ran full speed into it, pulling out his sword and hacking away a branch while keeping pace. Shrubbery pulled on his backpack. The riders had nearly gained on him, and he had no time to worry about Faldashir, whose howls were reduced to savage growls behind the hedge.

"Back in! Back in! Retreat!" came a man's call from the other side.

When Branston stumbled through the bushes, he came to the village, where the citizens--his neighbors--stared in fear at him.

There were also soldiers, mounted and charging. He dashed madly toward his house, narrowly avoiding the swing of a club, and he heard the horses turn and pursue, following close.

Branston had never run so fast in his life. His lungs struggled for air, his legs were fire, begging him to stop. But he made it through his open door, and the men shouted curses, and warnings.

Two soldiers were still inside the house, and one charged Branston the moment he came through the door. With his quick reflexes, Branston threw a fist, striking the man's eye. But Branston hadn't stopped moving, he passed the cursing man and jumped over his couch, which had been slashed in his absence.

The second soldier stood waiting for him, and he twisted to avoid the swipe of the man's sword, and responded with a swift kickto the groin. The soldier screeched and fell to his knees, and Branston rushed past him.

Through the open door of his bedroom he flew, taking in the scene with a look. His bed lay across the room, tossed, most likely, and his bed-side table had been reduced to a pile of splinters. Worse, his small black box was open.

He fell on his knees next to the box, muttering a string of curses. They had it!

He stood, and sliding the sword behind his belt, he heard soldiers coming. He needed the saldacrosse, but he couldn't get it in his fatigued state. He quickly grabbed his mattress from the floor and charged from the room. Soldiers cursed confusion as he knocked one aside with the mattress. He twisted to drop it behind himself, which bought him a second as the soldiers stumbled over it.

He dashed to his back door, vaguely aware of a pain growing in his leg, and kicked the door open, keeping his pace while rushing to the hedge which stretched all the way around the village, even his house.

Drawing his sword and cutting his way through the hedge with men close behind, Branston was glad no horsemen had yet gone there. As the first soldier came through the hedge, he spun and swung. The soldier recoiled with blood streaming down his forehead. The wounded soldier's retreat stalled the other soldiers, so Branston took off running into the dense treeline.

As he ran, the sounds of men cursing and yelling orders disappearing behind him, the thought nagged at him. You still need the saldacrosse.

Later.
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END OF CHAPTER TWO