Page 73 of The Shadowed Oracle
Raidin and Tyla were the first to dismount, covering their noses with the collars of the tunics underneath their armor. They checked the mess of remains for any signs of early decay. Despite being so close to their destination now, they needed to know how long ago this battle had occurred. To know if any soldiers might still be searching for the bodies of friends or ranking officers.
In Ealis, it was customary to bury the dead in shallow graves covered with brush and flowers and seedlings, returning them to Ealis’ soil in an infant pose, naked as the day they were born. And since none from this battle were given the proper rites yet, itwas only a matter of time before healers and clerics flooded the fields.
“Still warm,” Raidinn said at a wary volume. “Let’s go.” He made to leave, but Dean held up a hand.
“Not before we know where these soldiers came from. We’re nearing Maradenn. They might’ve joined the fight.”
All three nodded and returned to the crude graves.
Ingrid held her breath as she picked through the garments of the carrion, not entirely sure what she was looking for, but hurriedly doing so anyway.
“The mountain sigil,” Tyla called out, referring to the kingdom of Banebrook’s sigil. “That’s all I’m seeing.”
“Me too.” Dean was close by, searching with far more intensity than Raidinn and Tyla were. He’d moved on to the soldiers who lie alone in the open field.
Ingrid watched him a moment before mimicking his technique. She scampered back and forth, checking with both hands, shuffling limp arms and legs. Banebrook mountain sigils, blood, mud, cold skin, and more mountain sigils—that was all she saw. She continued digging through shattered bones and dangling ligaments. Digging and digging until her nostrils no longer registered the foul stench. Digging for anything. Anything that might?—
She stopped, squinting.
She couldn’t make out what it was at first. The stitching was stained with blood, torn a bit from the blade that had cut the soldier down.
“There’s some sort of wolf!” Ingrid called out, stammering over her words. “A different sigil! Not Banebrook’s! It’s like the creature Sylan brought with him!”
“Weycus wolves.” Raidinn exhaled heavily. “These are Maradenn soldiers. They have joined the fight. I can’t believe it. Nestor has answered the call.”
“But for what side?” Dean added. “Any educated guesses?”
“I’ve got more than that,” Tyla said from a kneeling position. Her voice was slightly shaking as she beheld the scene below her.
It was a Banebrook captain, wearing a nearly identical uniform to the one Ingrid had put out of his misery in that unexpected brawl. The dead soldier in front of Tyla was younger, but no less weathered by war. His hand still gripped his sword. He was large, would’ve seemed a powerful opponent if it weren’t for the small dagger protruding from his neck.
What was attached to the hilt of that dagger, though, was what Tyla’s gaze lingered on.
It was a young woman. Sun-kissed blonde hair and freckles. Her lithe body had fallen atop the Banebrook captain and stuck there limply like a sleeping child in its mother’s arms. Viator could retain a youthful look for well beyond forty years, but this Maradenn soldier, donning the customary white and gold armor and the Weycus wolf sigil of Maradenn, appeared to be no older than sixteen. She was just a girl.
Ingrid’s throat swelled. For the first time since the attack, she thought of the soldier she’d killed. He may have already been on his way to the afterlife, but Ingrid had given that last push. She had put her sword through him. Ended a life. And she had felt nothing but relief and exhilaration in doing so.
A cold, empty feeling overtook her now, tears still welling up. Overcome by how much her life had changed in only a few days. How easily she could lose herself when ignoring the path she had travelled to get to the present. She was no killer. No soldier. But she would have to become one.
Raidinn approached his sister, offering a hand. Tyla swatted him away, jumping to her feet. She started toward the mounts and, with a furious tug, ripped the blanket sewn with the Banebrook flag off her horse.
“Might attract arrows now.” Her voice burned with a fire Ingrid hadn’t yet heard from her. “Ditch them. And hurry. We don’t have time to waste. It has all started without us.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ingrid hadn’t been toldwhat to expect the kingdom of Maradenn to be like, but she was more than a little surprised to find the streets completely empty.
The last few miles before reaching their destination had been dark. The only road was a strategically narrow one through mountainsides winding around perilous cliff-sides. Once they were through, the city hanging over the sea seemed even brighter in comparison, brimming with life, with history, with power.
It stretched around a long, flat, coastal bluff. Tall pillar-enforced structures and a large, domed church peaking out in the center. The royal castle was strategically placed between the mammoth, uninhabitable mountainside to the north and the ocean to the south. King Nestor’s home was made of near-white stone with enormous gold and glass windows at the very top, with well-manned battlements, spiked gates, and giant crossbows sitting below.
She expected the streets to be just as impressive. Hordes of people all dressed in colorful handmade garments, going about their day at the markets, couples eating at cafes, soldiers patrolling in glistening armor, merchants bartering over theprice of leather boots and fur coats. But the only contact with any other Viator was upon entry.
When they reached the gate, an impersonal shout came down from one of the archers stationed above. He asked what their business was, why they rode enemy horses, and Tyla had explained everything in her best affected accent, sounding almost identical to the Viator they’d met with thus far. Her and Raidinn’s native dialect was much closer to the English they spoke in Ealis so it was decided she’d be the spokesperson. While Dean had practiced the cadence as a boy, he chose to be cautious, and Ingrid’s harsher American twang might’ve alerted any educated Viator that they were from Earth— something they didn’t want known until it had to be.
Tyla conjured up a story. Something close enough to their actual intentions for being there so that it sounded not only sincere, but in Maradenn’s best interest for them to pass. The guard balked at first, kept them waiting a minute as he went through some unseen protocol, then shouted a command to his fellow soldiers to open the gate, revealing a skeleton of a city.
This, Ingrid thought, was the reality of war.
