From The Breach: Ch.3: Saviors & Outlaws

Chapter Three:
Saviors and Outlaws

Branston stood with his back against a tree, panting while his legs shook from exertion. He had lost his pursuers half an hour ago, but he had ran farther for distance.

And now he stood on the top of a cliff, trees preventing anybody from miles down seeing him. He huffed and panted, his voice coming out as well. He hadn't had a proper breath in near to half an hour, and he was suffering for it now.

With a growl he pulled his sword free from his belt and cast it away, drops of blood spiraling through the air. He cursed violently. The blade had sliced his leg during his escape!

Blood soaked his dark fur-lined pants, and the wind blowing through the rip chilled the wound. He never had learned if cold was good for a wound or bad. Either way, he pressed his hand to his left thigh, hoping to stop the blood.

Why he had chosen to run uphill was beyond him now, all he could think was that he needed air!

He looked out over the landscape before the cliff. The land below him stretched east to a far horizon. He had been to this cliff before, it was the tallest vantage point for leagues in any direction. Trees spread east, though with no leaves they were no good at hiding the snowy ground below. The land rose and fell in long hills, if not tall ones. Far ahead he could see a river, a branch of water that had trailed off from the rapids of the great Margoren River. It curved south, towards the ocean.

He threw off his wool hat, exposing his shaggy blond hair, drenched in sweat and clinging to his forehead. The cold certainly didn't bother him now, his heart pounded and sweat poured from every inch of his body. He turned to look down the cliff, the way he had came.

"I can't keep going like this!" he managed through his ragged panting. And with his luck, he soon heard a horse approaching. At least, he thought he did.

At this distance he couldn't see anything, and there was a steep rise towards the top, where sharp bushes created a barrier. Branston had gotten past that barrier, but he would be surprised even if a horse had made it all the way up.

No, there was a spot of rock a yard or two down. The horse most likely had stepped on that. The wind was silent now, allowing Branston to listen closely.

He heard a man curse, and say, "Alright, take her down."

Branston swore through clenched teeth. Why had he not realized it before? The soldiers didn't need to chase him, they only needed to wait for him to wear out, than track him through the snow!

With a hand still on his wound, he limped to his sword and picked it up. The cut in his leg was shallow, and he was sure it wouldn't do any harm on it's own, but walking on it still hurt.

He raised his sword and waited, watching the tall shrubbery. A minute passed, and his breath returned, though his heart still raced, and the foliage began to rustle. A hand reached through, and the man cursed as the thorns slashed the back. The man grasped the rocky ledge and pulled himself up. It wasn't a sheer drop, but close.

Branston's eyes widened. It was the fisherman of the village, Hythern. So, Branston's poor luck continued. Hythern was the largest man in the village, and while Branston was fairly large, Hythern was head and shoulders taller and nearly twice as wide.

"Stay back, Hythern," Branston warned.

Hythern looked at Branston from beneath curly locks of brown hair. "I'm not here to hurt you, Harold."

Branston hadn't told them his real name, and he had been going by Harold for three years. Fully for one and a half...
"Then why are you here?"

"To help you." Hythern grabbed the large sack that hung from his belt and held it up. Something was in the sack, something round. "Truth is, we've already helped you. Those men came into our village, demanding to see you. Branston, he called you. I and Sindy have heard your father call you that, and we never questioned it. Well," Hythern shrugged guiltily, "We never questioned you about it. We figured you were on the run, but we didn't know why, we -"

"We?" Branston began to lower his sword.

Hythern nodded. "We: the village. When you and your father came to us, we told you we would be close. We watched after each other, and you and your father did the same. You remember the wolgs?"

Branston nodded slowly. The winter before last, a pack of the massive canines had attacked the village, and Branston and his father had been at the forefront, fighting them off.

A strong wind washed over the cliff, chilling the sweat on Branston's skin and swinging the sack in Hythern's hand.

"Branston, you are a part of our village, we protect you as you protect us." Hythern's low voice turned deadly. "Those men came, from another country, and demanded to see you, ransacked your house. I heard them talking, a few of them were out of earshot - so they thought. They didn't have good plans for you, and our minds were made up once you charged through that hedge, and they chased after you."

"Your minds were made up about what?" Branston asked slowly, looking at the grim set of Hythern's eyes. Another gust of wind swung the sack.

"We decided to help you," Hythern said. "You can trust us."

Hythern up-ended the sack, and out fell a man's head.

The cylindrical helmet atop the head dented the ice, and the dead eyes stared toward the sky.

"You killed the commander!" Branston breathed. His eyes were fixed on the face.

"Him, and every last one of them," Hythern confirmed.

Branston stomach roiled, and if he had eaten that day, he was sure he would have vomited. He looked at Hythern, who stared back stonily.

"Wh-why would you..."

"Because, Harold, - Branston, - whoever you are. You're one of us. We protect each other, remember? We weren't about to let those men take you."

Branston stared wide-eyed at the head, then he looked at the large one-sided hacking sword that hung from Hythern's belt. "Hythern, I can't stay here anymore. I have to leave."

"I know," the large man said sadly. "We all know, that's why we've prepared you a travel bag."

Branston nodded, hoping he was telling the truth. He couldn't help glancing at the head again. "Hythern, was anybody...hurt, in the fighting?"

"Hammond is dead."

The words twisted Branston's gut. Hammond had been only a boy, sixteen years old. Tears blurred his vision of Hythern. "I'm sorry, Hythern." The tears escaped and rolled into his beard. "I'm sorry I caused this." He couldn't believe the boy had died because of him.

Hammond Dane, on the list.

"Don't be sorry, Harold." Hythern stepped forward, the ice crunched beneath his boots. Branston wiped his eyes and looked at Hythern. "We made up our minds. We knew the risks."

"I don't think Cally feels the same," Branston said unsteadily. Cally was the boy's mother.

"No, probably not. Are you ready to go?"

Branston nodded slowly and pointed his sword at the severed head, "What are we doing with that?"

"We're leaving it. Here," Hythern tossed the sack at Branston, who caught it with a scowl.

"What do I do with this?"

"I suggest you patch up your leg."

Branston nodded, dropping his sword and taking the sack in both hands.

"Do you need help?"

Branston shook his head. "No, thank you. I got it." He tied the long sack around his wound, the wind hindered him for a
moment. He stood up, wiggling his leg to adjust to the pressure, and asked Hythern, "What now?"

Hythern crossed his bulky arms and said, "Taldor is holding onto three horses at the bottom of this cliff. One for each of us. You can come back to the village and get supplies. That man Faldashir says he's going with you."

Branston raised an eyebrow, "Why not bring the supplies here? It would have been easier."

"Because," determination hardened Hythern's voice. "If we brought you the supplies, you wouldn't come to the village and say goodbye to us."

Branston nodded. He owed them that; that and more.

So he and Hythern struggled past the thorny high-growth and down the sheer rise below it. From there, Hythern led the way down the steep hill, through the trail made in the snow until they came to the bottom of the cliff, near a half hour later. By then night had fallen, and a lantern showed Taldor sitting atop a tall brown horse.

The fat old man held the other horse's reins, and the steeds looked cramped, so close together.

Hythern took a second lantern from Taldor's stubby hand and lit it, looking at Branston. "The white one's yours. It'll help you blend with the land." Hythern climbed into the saddle of a short but tough brown horse with a shaggy gray mane.

Branston climbed onto his tall white, taking the reins from Taldor.

"I see the commander's gone," Taldor said, his boisterous voice making Branston flinch.

Hythern nodded. "Let's go, I'm sure Harold wants to be far away from here."

Branston couldn't help feeling that was meant for guilt, but Hythern wasn't that way. Branston felt the guilt all on his own.

They headed away from the cliff, through the trees following a path trodden through the snow. The bobbing lanterns flung their shadows across the trees, causing Branston to keep a harder eye out. The cold numbed him, and he regretted leaving his hat behind on the cliff.

The whole trip, guilt had twisted his stomach, and anger began to boil. A boy had died for him. He had tried to hide from his past mistakes, he tried to find peace, and still murder found him.

Branston wiped a tear from his eye, Hammond deserved better. Everybody did. All their lives were changed because of him.

"Hythern, Taldor." Branston said through clenched teeth. "I need to tell you something. You'll hear again later but for now I need you two to know...."

And so half an hour later, they came to the village, spotting the glow of a large bonfire from afar. They took the road into the center, past the hedge-wall, and approached the large flame. The entire village sat around the fire, their hands stretched out to the flames that flickered in the wind.

They turned to the riders, and Branston looked on all their faces, struggling to believe they had fought and killed for him. It was easier when Hythern had simply told him it had happened, but looking at them now, he couldn't believe it.

He spotted Cally, the old woman stared at him with a wide tear-stained face. His eyes watered at the look of grief on her face. Taldor dismounted and offered to take the other horses, and when Branston's feet were on the ground he walked toward the bonfire.

Every eye was on him, and his throat dried, it took effort to swallow as he thought of the right words.

He took a deep breath and said, "I wanted to thank you all, for what you did. I know there's no way I can repay you, and I'm sorry I have to leave. Never have I met such good, loyal people." He meant it, and it hurt him to have to speak the next words. "I'm afraid I have more bad news." He looked at Hythern, whose eyes blazed. The news Branston had given, and was about to give, had made the man quiet. He had clearly been pondering the future.

Branston looked to the rest of the village, who watched him intently, and he took a deep breath before speaking. "Every one of you is now under risk of being hunted, just like me. Eventually the soldiers will be recognized as missing, when they don't return to their homeland. Most likely more men will be sent here, as one man escaped to confirm I was here. Once they arrive, they'll mark you as criminals, they'll arrest every one of you. Your best chance is to leave here, forever."

The innkeeper, Harvey stood up and snapped, "This was self-defense! When King Julionne hears that foreign soldiers crossed his land and provoked us -"

"No," Faldashir broke in. He stood up, and looked to Harvey. "Your king will have given permission to the Takinthites to come here, or they wouldn't have. More, the soldier who escaped will take the knowledge that Branston was here, and King Krassos will hear about how we attacked him, and the dots will be drawn. Krassos will come to the conclusion that the two of us, -" he gestured to himself and Branston, " - can't have wiped out the whole force. Krassos will guess that the nearest village attacked his men. He'll probably send more to arrest you, and maybe he'll try to get information from you."

The villagers grew quiet, and for a minute the only sounds were that of the wind and the flame.

"Cally," Branston said quietly, "I'm so sorry about Hammond. Tell me how to make things better, and I'll do it."

The old widow looked at Branston, tears glistening in her cold eyes, "There's nothing you can do to make this better. Just leave, and never come back. Don't get caught, whatever you do. Hammond can't have sacrificed himself for nothing." Her voice broke on the boy's name, and she turned and sat down, staring at the fire and sobbing. Taldor came to her side and put an arm around her.

"You know -" Branston's voice cracked, and he wiped tears from his cheeks, "You all know you have to leave, too. You can't stay, and I can't leave until I've made sure you all are safe."

Faldashir spoke up, no emotion in his voice, "You all can go north, if you must stay together. It would be better to split up, if all of you come new to a place at the same time, suspicions will no doubt rise."

It was then Branston noticed the bodies that fueled the bonfire. So, they intended to burn the evidence.

"You should take the ashes to the river," Branston said, "And I need to know something. Did any of you find my father's pendant?"

Harvey stood up and reached into his coat-pocket. He handed the pendant to Branston, and Branston looked down at the stone fish, near an inch long. Finally. He pocketed the saldacrosse and said, "So what will you all do?"

Nobody answered, and the air was filled with the sounds of Cally's quiet crying, and Branston sank into a squat. He listened to Cally's weeping, remembering his father's words.

"Branston, never forget those who died for you. Or because of you."

He looked at the back of Cally's head, his eyes blurring, and he only knew Faldashir had approached when the man spoke.

"Are you almost ready?" His voice held a little sympathy.

Branston ran the back of his gloved hands over his eyes and stood. "I'm ready." Louder, "Do any of you need anything else? Can I help any of you?" His eyes lingered on Cally, who stayed turned away.

Hythern strode over and clapped Branston on the shoulder, "Be careful, friend. Be safe, remember what Cally said, don't make today a waste."

Branston nodded, and said quietly, "You'll make sure everybody leaves? Hythern, you all have to go far. And quickly."

Hythern nodded reassuringly, "I'll make sure, we'll all leave in the morning."

"Good, thank you." Branston turned to those gathered around the fire. "Thank you all so much. I'm so sorry this happened."

Hythern removed his hand and said, "Let's go, both of you." Branston and Faldashir followed Hythern to a pair of white horses, laden with saddlebags. From each saddle held a case which protected bow and arrows from the elements, and each saddle held a sword, taken from the Takinthad soldiers.

Hythern handed a horse off to Branston and said, "Each of you have spare clothes, food and water, enough to get you to the next town, anyway."

"Thank you." Branston said with a nod, and to his surprise, Hythern pulled him into a hug.

"Stay safe, we've said it enough but it needs to happen," Hythern said. He pulled away and said, "Don't worry, I'll keep the others safe."

Banston nodded his thanks and climbed atop his horse. Soon Faldashir was seated, and Branston looked to his friends around the fire. "I'm going now. Goodbye, all of you. Thank you again."

They replied -- all but Cally -- with sullen goodbyes and warnings to be careful, and soon Branston and Faldashir rode out of the village, heading north into the darkness, and Branston wept silently as the village disappeared with distance.
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END OF CHAPTER THREE