Chapter Twenty: Courage

“Courage can come from the most unexpected of places.”

—Dalan Kelethar, Thirteenth Commander of the Legion

Ein was alone on a beach, staring into a stormy skyline. The sand was a dark grit that matched the colour of the sky, the waters an inky black. It was deathly quiet save the soft sloshing of the sea and the dull wail of the wind, and Ein’s steady breathing within his chest.

This dream again, he thought. Bits and pieces of it were familiar to him, like a distant memory from long ago. He’d been in this place before, seen the cragged spires and bluffs that protruded from the horizon. The smell of the storm was in the air. Its song was in his ears.

“…the storm sings to none other…”

He caught the last line as the wind picked it up and carried it far away to the stone formations beyond. Someone had been singing, had just finished singing, and they were starting up again. It began slow and tranquil, matching the lap of the sea against the shore and the low booming of thunder on the horizon.

Ein moved towards the voice, trotting across the wet sand, feeling the spray of brine against his cheek. He’d had this dream twice already, maybe three times, every night since the incident on Founder’s Eve, and each time he’d woken up before he could find the owner of the voice. He knew he would forget the moment the dream ended, but even so his curiosity burned and demanded he get to the bottom of it all.

The song grew louder and more urgent, building up as the clouds came rumbling from the distance. Forks of lightning cracked down to the ocean. The waters lurched and began to froth violently against the shore.

Ein carefully traversed a series of jagged rocks at the base of a cliff before coming to a small stretch of sand between two ridges. It provided a wide, spacious view of the sea for miles into the distance where it met the sky in a flat line. The song was at its loudest here, each chord striking terrible fear and awe inside him, and it was in this small outlet that he finally saw the singer.

She was a woman with long, tangled hair and a ragged dress, and that was all Ein could make out. She stood far in the distance, atop a broken rock jutting out of the sea, and her song rolled under the clouds and across the waves with a frigid vehemence. It climbed higher and higher, arcing to meet the lightning in the distance, so loud it was a roar now, a string of thunderclaps that shook the ground…

And then it was gone, replaced by the pattering of rain, and Ein was being shaken awake into the cold, wet hours of the early morning.

“It’s your turn,” the young trouper said, and Ein nodded. It was his turn to take the night’s watch.

He sat up and took his place beneath the tarp, pulling his furs into a snug cocoon around him. Rain trickled through the trees and onto the ground, turning it into an unstable bed of slush. Before long, the coldness had seeped through the blanket beneath him and into the seat of his pants.

According to Herod, the Children of the Wind usually had groups of two or three keeping watch every night, though it depended on what part of the world they were in. The closer to the main roads and cities, the more people they placed on watch. In a quiet place like the Sleeping Twins, one person was enough—even if there were relicts about. Ein scanned the small tents and the sorry pile of wood that marked the remains of a fire. Everything was still. Everyone was fast asleep, or pretending to sleep.

He pulled out the ebony box from his pocket just as Merrill emerged from one of the tents. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, his face weary. Merrill noticed Ein and crawled towards him, squelching through the mud. Ein pocketed the box and made some room, and they both huddled under the tarp.

“Can’t sleep?” Ein asked. The sky blinked and grumbled. Merrill shook his head.

“It’s just…” he hesitated, hugging his knees to his chest. “I never really gave it much thought, but we’re really far from home, aren’t we? I’ve was so focused on following you that I never realized it.”

“Yeah.” Ein fiddled with the handle of his sword by his waist. He thought about telling Merrill what Alend had told him regarding his heritage, but decided against it. Somehow, he felt like he needed to find the answer to his problem on his own. Instead, he looked at the tent where Evaine and a few of the other troupers slept.

“She’s not going to hold back, you know,” he said. “No matter how much she cares for us, she’s not going to let that get in the way of what she wants. If you stay with her, you could well end up on the other side of Faengard before she comes to her senses.”

“I know,” Merrill coughed. “I think I’ve always known, deep down, what I’d have to give up for her.” He laughed shakily and stared at the wood around them. “I’ve made a huge mistake, haven’t I? Falling in love with a person like Evaine. There’s no way she’d ever feel the same way for me, a coward and a weakling.” He fingered the quiver of arrows by his belt. “I can’t even fight and protect her head on. I have to run and attack from the shadows.”

“There’s no shame in that. It’s not cowardice to use your brain. Besides,” Ein said, “I’d say you’re plenty brave, just for mustering the courage to set foot outside the village. There’s a saying Koth told me a long time ago. There are three things all brave men fear—a love that goes only one way, a man with no face, and—

“—the first step on a journey away from home,” Merrill finished, bursting into a violent fit of coughing. It was a wet, throaty noise, and Ein half expected to see him throw up his insides. Instead, Merrill spat a thick glob to one side, where it splattered across the mud and was quickly washed away by the rain.

“Are you okay?”

Merrill found his breath and wiped his mouth, nodding. “It’s just a winter chill.”

Ein brought his hand to the other’s forehead. “You’ve got a bit of a fever,” he murmured. “How many nights did you spend out in the cold?” He frowned, remembering the state Merrill had been in when they’d first found him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t pack any furs at all? Did you at least light a fire?”

Merrill broke into another fit of coughing. He wiped his mouth and looked away guiltily.

“You idiot,” Ein growled. He racked his brain, quickly taking into consideration all the basic cures Alend had taught him for a fever. None of them could be made from the ingredients they had on hand. Unless the troupers had something to offer, there was a real chance Merrill’s fever might get worse, especially if the storm persisted.

“Don’t tell Evaine,” Merrill said, sniffing. “I don’t want her to worry even more.”

Ein sighed. “You could have been a bit better prepared before leaving, you know.” He stripped off his outermost layer and offered it to Merrill, who shook his head.

“I can’t take that, otherwise we’ll both get sick.”

“Get in the bloody tent then,” Ein snapped. “At least you’ll be out of the wind then.”

As if on cue, a strong gale whipped through the campsite. A fork of lightning flickered in the distance, followed by sharp thunderclap.

“I’ll be fine,” Merrill insisted. “I don’t want to wake the others up with my coughing. A real man would grit his teeth and tough it out.”

“You’re walking a fine line between courage and stupidity, Merrill. Go to sleep—”

Merrill jerked upright, turning to one side and startling Ein.

“What are you doing?” Ein asked, puzzled. Merrill raised a finger, signalling for him to be quiet. He kept his head cocked, even as he looked Ein in the eye. A moment later, as the wind lulled and the thunder quietened, Ein heard it as well. It was distant and barely audible above the increasingly loud drumming of the rain, but there was no mistaking it.

It was a howl.

“Shit,” Ein said.

He sprung to a low crouch and tilted his head to the sky, listening. The howls came again, louder this time, closer. There was no mistaking what they were, not when they still haunted him every time he closed his eyes. He suddenly felt cold, and it wasn’t from the storm.

“Wyd almighty,” Merrill quivered. “Could it be?”

The bestial howls tore through the night. They were coming. Not just one or two but three, five, ten, maybe even twenty. A whole pack of them.

“Wyd almighty,” Ein agreed. “Anturia, Cenedria, Lauriel, Eolas. Kalador, Aoshan, Zaxiem.” He named them all, all seven of the First Gods of Faengard. If any of them existed, he hoped they could hear him. “By the Pantheon, it’s them.”

The Worgals were coming. They needed all the divine intervention they could get.