From The Breach: Ch.5: Close Behind

Chapter Five:
Close Behind

Branston woke to a dark room, with dim moonlight illuminating the curtained window. He sat up and ran his hands through the shaggy curls of his hair, sighing as his heart pounded.

Just a dream. Just the exact same dream.

The dream startled him awake every time, no waking had been pleasant, and no time was consistent. The same amount of time passed each time in the dream, but sometimes he woke up at dawn, sometimes in the middle of the night.

He stood up and pulled on his thick coat. Pulling on his boots and heading out the door of his room, he decided he would have a drink.

He stepped lightly through the carpeted hall of the second floor, scratching at his beard. He crept down the curving stairs until he came to the common-room, which was dark as well.

Oh, right. He had forgotten, this late at night the bar would be closed. He sighed, sometimes his mind didn’t work right after waking.

Though the fireplaces were dead, moonlight still flooded in from the windows, illuminating the tables. Somebody was sitting at a table. The ex-Dragon Guard Olivar, by the wide-brimmed hat.

Branston strode across the room, his boots thumping on the wood floor, before coming to a stop before the table.

Olivar looked up at him and said nothing.

“What are you doing down here?” Branston pulled out a chair and took a seat.

Olivar mumbled, “I can’t sleep. Why are you here?”

“I thought I could get a drink,” Branston snorted a laugh, and Olivar smiled. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“I’ve been having nightmares lately.”

Branston froze, and slowly asked, “What kind of nightmares?”

Olivar sighed and said, “Every night I dream of falling. Same dream, same place. I wake up feeling like I actually have fallen.”

Branston frowned and asked, “Every night for three weeks?”

Olivar looked up at him quickly, his mouth falling open. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Because I’ve been having dreams since then too. I want to ask you something.”

“Alright, what is it?”

Branston leaned back in his chair and said, “You left the Guard?”

“Yes,” Olivar said, sounding suspicious.

“When?”

“About a week and a half ago.”

“So you were there when the dragons fled?”

Olivar scratched at the red curls under his hat. “Yes, why?”

“What happened? Were you connected to a dragon when it escaped?”

Olivar shivered and pulled his coat shut. At length Olivar spoke. “I was connected to one when it escaped. I felt fear, mostly. My dragon was afraid, and hostile. She didn’t attack anybody, and I couldn’t see her, she was hunting. Anyway, I felt the connection break, like a rope snapping in my head,” he pressed two fingers to his temple, “and I saw her fly over me, she continued on, not stopping. She was going north, I feel like that’s important. I don’t know why.” Olivar sounded confused, and scared. Just as Branston felt.

Olivar went on. “The day she left was the night my dream came. And it’s come every night since.”

Branston nodded, twirling his beard around a finger absentmindedly. “Why did you leave the Guard?”

“Because of the dream,” Olivar said. “I felt the dream was important, just like the feeling I get when I think of the dragons and north. I found out all the Guard were being sent after the dragons, and I didn’t want to face whatever was up there.”

“Whatever was up there?” Branston leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What do you mean?”

“You know about the Second World?” Olivar asked. Branston nodded and he continued. “A team of wizards went there recently, trying to find more artifacts. Only two came back, and they said that something was in there, gathering an army.”

Branston shivered. So Krassos was sending people into the Second World now? “What kind of army?”

“They say they came to a place where millions of souls were being held. ‘A massive arcane cage’ they called it. They said something was stalking them. They’d turn to look and see nothing, but they’d feel eyes. You know, the way you do when something’s watching you.”

Branston nodded, trying to think of possibilities. Everything felt connected, but how? “Can you tell me anything else?”

Olivar sat back in his chair and ran his gloved hands down his face, shaking his head. “I don’t know anything else.”

“Do you know why we were gathered?” Branston asked.

“No, why?”

“We’re being enlisted. Faldashir told me the other day.”

Olivar’s mouth lips parted, and his eyes blazed. “What do you mean?”

Branston lowered his voice even further and whispered, “I don’t know what Krassos tells Guards nowadays, but the signs point to war. I think something is coming from the Second World, and it means to take our world.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I’ve been to the Second World, I’ve seen the things there. I’ve seen what it looks like. Nothing will want to live there.” Olivar was obscured by tears. “The last time I went there, it was with my father. Something latched onto his soul and got into our world. My father,” Branston paused. He wouldn’t cry, he had to hold back his grief, and his terror. “It got over here, and it took over his mind. But my father was a wizard, and he fought off the thing. For only a moment.” Branston’s voice shuddered on the last word as the memory came to him. Olivar watched with sympathy in his eyes.

Branston sniffed and continued. “So I took his knife, and just then it – whatever it was – spoke to me. ‘Don’t make me go back,’ it said. I saw the look of desperation in, in my father’s eyes. Never had my father looked that frightened. But I knew it was...I knew it was the creature. I knew it couldn’t exist in our world. So I stabbed my father.” Branston sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand and dabbed at the tears that slid down his cheeks. “While the creature was in my father, there was a yellow light in his eyes. Once I stabbed him, it was gone.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Olivar said. “But what’s your point?”

“My point is this: The things on the Other Side are trying to get over here. The thing inside my father was afraid to go back. So either something’s over there, or they want something here. Everything in the Second World has tried to kill us whenever they get a chance. Even the thing in my father, it lunged at me after it pleaded.

“Worse, you said something was stalking the wizards, and the arcane cage you mentioned is not normal. The things over there are preparing something. I can’t imagine it’s good.” Branston sat back in the chair, staring at the table but not seeing it.

“And Faldashir means to enlist us, you said,” Olivar said grimly.

“Yes.” Branston’s voice was quiet, but hard. “He will take us to Veresses, and his king will make us find the dragons and use them.”

Olivar stood suddenly, his chair scraping on the floor. “I do not want to fight this war!” His voice was a sharp whisper, and he was speaking as if it were Branston’s fault.

“Well,” Branston crossed his arms. “You can always run. Go someplace nobody can find you, and you won’t have to fight.”

“No,” Olivar said strongly, his hand arcing through the air. “Vigo wouldn’t allow it, he’d find me. Him or the others out to get me.”

“There are others?”

Olivar’s hat dipped as he nodded. “Bounty hunters.”

“I’ve got some following me as well. Faldashir saved me.” Branston looked toward the stairs.

“Apparently I’m not good at staying hidden,” Olivar said, “They found me quick, and by how fast they caught on they may have been following me for some time.” Olivar slowly settled into his chair, propping a leg up on the table.

Branston stared at the sole of Olivar’s boot and said, “I wonder about that, myself. I’ve been hiding for three years. Isn’t it strange how we’re both hunted at the same time, and I’m found by two countries just as the world needs us?”

Olivar’s lip curled, “You’re not talking about fate, are you?”

“No. Not fate. I just think it’s strange, that’s all.” Branston wasn’t afraid of Olivar, the young man looked rather bony, and his demeanor wasn’t hostile at all. But the tone of his voice on the mention of fate was strange….

“So you’re staying?” Branston asked. “You’re going to come with us to Veresses and join the war?” Branston leaned forward and looked past Olivar’s boot. “Are you sure you can handle it?” Faldashir’s words echoed in his head, “If you want to hide, do so. We can't have cowards on the forefront when war comes.” Of course Faldashir was a much blunter man, Branston would never say such a thing; but he meant it.

The room rang with silence as Olivar stared at the ceiling, and Branston watched him, his face hidden under the shadow of his hat.

Finally Olivar spoke. “I don’t know.” He took his leg off the table and sat up to face Branston. “I’ve never been in a fight. Not even against a bully, I don’t know what good I’ll be out in battle.”

“Well I don’t think the Guard will be out in battle,” Branston said, “I think the most dangerous thing we’ll have to do is search for the dragons. If we find the dragons, and we dominate them, then the fighting is up to them. I think whoever leads us will keep us at a safe distance. He’ll let us use the dragons, and we’ll be far from the forefront.”

“Yeah,” Olivar’s tone was lighter, less burdened, “You may be right. Now we just have to hope the dragons will respond to us.”

“Well,” Branston covered a yawn, “I’ll be going to bed, if you have nothing else to talk about.”

Olivar waved dismissively. “Thanks for the talk, it helped.”

Branston made his way to his room and pulled the covers over his head, ready for the nightmare.

A knock woke him, and when he pulled the cover away, harsh sunlight flooded the room.

He dressed quickly and rushed toward the door, pulling it open.

Faldashir stood in the hall, leaning on an arm against the doorframe. “Get ready. We’re heaving breakfast and leaving.” Without waiting for a response he turned away and headed down the hall.

Branston grabbed his cloak and sword off the floor and donned them while he headed into the hall. At the foot of the stairs Branston saw the others all sitting at one table. Olivar spotted him and nodded a greeting, which Branston returned.

Throwing his cloak over the side, Branston sat down and pulled a plate of bacon and eggs closer, savoring the smell and the warm steam that rose up from them. There was silence for a moment as everybody dug into their food, broken only by a rasping sound as Olivar scratched his stubbly cheek.

Vigo swallowed his last bite and said, “So, how’d everybody sleep?”

Branston said nothing, his sleep hadn’t been well. Having the nightmare twice in a night wasn’t pleasant, and neither was small talk in the middle of breakfast.

Faldashir set his fork down and said, “I took a walk today, and the sky was cloudless; we should have no snow. More, the snow on the ground was soft, and the air warmer than usual.” Branston smiled lightly. He was ready for spring, the cold was always troublesome. Faldashir didn’t sound happy, however.

“Is that a problem?” Branston asked.

Faldashir kep eyes on his empty plate and spoke sullenly. “Without falling snow, our tracks won’t be covered. There should be no trace we were at your village, Branston, and that’s because of snowfall. Our tracks will be open for all to see, and that’s not good.”

Branston yawned behind a fist and said, “Talking about our tracks isn’t going to help us stay hidden.” He pointed to the bartender and waitress, who stood watching them, expressionless.

Faldashir growled a curse and dropped a coin on the tabletop. “I’ll be at the stable.” He stood and left.

Branston looked at Vigo and asked, “You know Faldashir well?”

The other man met his eye and nodded, “He’s always the same. As you can guess, we’re not exactly friends.” He looked to Olivar, who was nibbling a piece of bacon, and said, “When you’re ready, we’ll go.” There was a hint of mocking.

Olivar choked on his bacon, dropping the strip, and pointed past Branston. Branston turned and saw a column of horsemen riding at a steady trot past the building. He cursed and gripped his sword. The owners of the building spoke to each other, but their words didn’t register with Branston.
Branston bared his teeth as he saw the Takinthad banner, the Sun and Star hanging limp in the still air.

“What do we do?” Olivar hissed.

Branston straightened in his chair, seeing the bartender and waitress whispering to each other. Would they turn him and the others in? And Faldashir had spoken of hiding tracks.

“We have to get out of here,” Branston muttered to Olivar and Vigo. Strangely, Vigo looked out the window with out a bit of expression on his face, he looked at ease. “Vigo!”

Vigo looked calmly to Branston and said, “Panicking is not the way to go about this.” He brushed his gray-frosted dark hair back and stood up, adjusting the belt that held a long curved knife. “No, we need to stay calm. Stand up, the both of you.” The last was a mutter.

Branston stood, his cloak suddenly very heavy, and Olivar rose with him, if slower.

“I wouldn’t go out there,” the bartender said. Branston met the man’s gaze. “Them soldiers have been up and down this area, giving trouble to villages. It’s best to let them do what they want, and stay out of what you can.”

Branston cleared his throat and said, “Do you know what they want?”

“No,” the old man replied. “It’s none of my business. I suspect they’re meeting with the mayor.”

Branston turned to look out the windows, but looked away when a soldier returned the gaze.

Branston spoke in a low voice, “Whatever the soldiers want, we have to leave.”

“How are we going to do that?” Olivar asked.

“Well,” Vigo said, “I wonder what happened to Faldashir.”

Branston cursed, looking again out the window. The column of soldiers were out of sight now, but that wasn’t reassuring.

“I didn’t see him among the soldiers,” Vigo said, “I suppose he could have gotten into an alley.”

“Either way, we need to leave.” Branston started for the door, but stopped when Vigo spoke.

“Do you expect us to leave Faldashir here?”

“I’m not getting captured for him!” Branston growled, matching Vigo’s stare.

“Faldashir saved you, didn’t he?” Vigo’s voice was cold. “Judging by that slice on your neck, the broken nose, and that way you speak, suggesting your tongue is damaged, I’d say you’ve been in a scrape. Recently. Olivar’s been hunted, and I don’t suspect you’ve been safe. Am I correct?”

Branston’s hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. “Yes, he saved me! But I’m not risking myself for him. Are either of you coming with me?” He looked to Olivar.

Olivar looked sidelong at Vigo, who gave him no attention, then said, “I don’t owe Faldashir anything; I’ll go with you.” Olivar came to Branston’s side.

“Are you still staying?” Branston asked Vigo.

Vigo’s eyes burned, and he crossed his lean arms. “I’m staying. I’ll find Faldashir, and we’ll catch up.”

Branston nodded. “Good, we’ll be heading north.”

He turned and left the building, looking both ways. To a casual eye he was probably like every other citizen standing in front their doors, watching the soldiers curiously. Good.

Branston turned left with Olivar following close behind. Branston looked into every alley he passed, hoping to find Faldashir, but he and Olivar reached the stables at the town wall without seeing him.

He looked over every horse as the stableboy approached him. Faldashir’s white was still there, standing in a stall watching him.

“Your number, sir?” the stableboy asked, looking up at Branston.

“Number three, please.”

“And six, for me,” Olivar added.

The stableboy walked toward the stable at a leisurely pace; too slow for Branston’s nerves. He turned to Olivar and muttered “Watch our back.”

He turned back and watched as the bony young stableboy opened the third stall and gathered the horse’s equipment. Hurry up!

“Vigo’s on the move,” Olivar said.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s heading for the soldiers.” Olivar’s voice shook.

Branston turned to look, seeing Vigo heading for the mansion at the center of town, where the soldiers stood clustered atop their horses.

“Here you are, sir,” the stableboy said at Branston’s side. Branston’s heart jumped at the voice, he had been too engrossed in the soldiers to hear the young man approach.

“Thank you.” He took the reins of his tall white horse, fully equipped with saddle bags.

“Your’s will be ready in a moment, sir,” the stableboy said to Olivar, who seemed not to have noticed.

Branston cursed under his breath, it looked like Vigo was speaking with a soldier. He cast a look back at the stables, seeing the young man saddling a short brown horse in the sixth stall.

“What do you suppose those soldiers want?” the stableboy called out over the door of the stall.

Branston caught his eye and said, “No idea.”

Eventually Olivar was brought his horse, with the stableboy gesturing grandly as one would to a lord towards the open gate.

Branston gave a last look toward the soldiers, grimacing at Vigo and wondering on his intentions, before turning his horse and charging from the gate. The snow was mere slush beneath the rythmic beat of the horses’ hooves. Branston tried to pull his mind away from Faldashir. What had happened to him? Branston shook his head. It didn’t matter, he needed to be far from Takinthad soldiers, at least for the time. He had no doubt he would be fighting alongside them when the world went to war, but first he needed to be safe from them.
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END OF CHAPTER FIVE