I slipped through the exit—a narrow tunnel carved into the rock face—and gratefully drew in the crisp night air. It was a blissful reprieve from the choking stench of the bandit lair.

  Outside, the Dark greeted me—vast, palpable, thicker than that of any underground cell.

  I stood motionless, willing my eyes to pierce the impenetrable black. It was likely near midnight, and until Tot closed, natural light remained a mere whisper in the endless void. Even the glow of the torches at the lair’s entrance had dulled, barely touching the surrounding shadows.

  A strip of rocky ground lay before me, dotted with stubborn mountain flora. Beyond it—nothing but the suffocating darkness. My eyes would be of little use here. I shut them, and listened instead.

  Only the wind spoke, its whistle slicing through the silence. Its force hinted at a precariously exposed area. The rock behind me offered partial shelter from its cool bite, but little else. Beneath the lingering stench of smoke, my nose caught the dry tang of dust, stale urine, and mountain lichen. Then farther off—tree resin, faint and sharp. There was no hint of human or animal presence.

  I needed to return to the ambush site. If Tarun had survived, he was likely wounded and in dire need of aid. Yet venturing into this darkness would be sheer folly. So I settled with my back to the stone wall, eyes still closed. The chill of the rock seeped into me, sharpening the edge of the mountain air.

  Still, I willed my muscles to relax, banishing the tension from the captivity and subsequent escape. I would not sleep—sleep was too detached, too slow to emerge from. Instead, I descended into the shallower rhythm of my meditations. A half-conscious state where the essence of time thinned and the world narrowed to the slow murmur of breath and distant, indistinct drone. Trouble was unlikely during the Dark, but caution was ever a virtue, especially in unfamiliar locations.

  The rhythm of my heart slowed. My haunting thoughts—the worry about Tarun’s fate, the bandit’s final warning, the overall delay of my journey—all fell away, dissolving into the stillness.

  Time passed. It flowed over me like honey. Then at last, I felt it: rays of moonlight, soft and silver, brushing my eyelids.

  I opened my eyes to the world. Tot had closed. Her bright sister, Ria, now ruled the celestial realm. I found myself seated at the foot of a mountain slope, nestled against a shallow crease in the rock face. To my left I saw the narrow crevice, which held the entrance to the bandit lair. Thin tendrils of black, noxious smoke still seeped from it.

  The ground was rocky, broken by thorns, weeds, and the occasional mountain bloom. Farther down the slope—perhaps three hundred meters—the first trees rose. Though sparsely scattered at this altitude, the moonlight cast their pale trunks into a jagged barrier of shadow. There were no signs of human habitation, at least from my vantage point.

  The brief meditation had revived me—yet the throbbing in my skull had only worsened, blooming like a particularly vicious affliction.

  I pressed my fingers to my brow and found a sizable swelling crusted with dried blood. The touch sent jagged spikes of pain lancing down my spine—a grim souvenir of my ordeal. My left shoulder, too, was badly bruised from the fall, though it didn’t feel severe. With a muttered curse, I rose, slung my travel bag over my hale shoulder, and scanned the slope below for the most expedient path to the shelter of the trees.

  Nothing stirred in the shrouded dark. Only the wind’s hollow wail disturbed the silence. I doubted the bandits had stationed a lookout—such men were too indolent for that level of discipline. Besides, the lair itself was all but invisible beyond a few meters.

  What concerned me more was the possibility of encountering one of the local predators. They rarely approached well-traveled roads, but the scent of blood—however faint—might prove an irresistible lure. Even to a beast that would normally consider me too large a quarry.

  With one hand poised near Aur’Dor’s hilt and the other gripping my bag, I began my descent. Ria’s silvery glow offered just enough light to pick my way through the uneven terrain.

  Somewhere in the distance, the distinct, overlapping howls of a hungry trimouth echoed through the mountain. Others answered farther off. Whether they hunted me or something else, I could not be certain—but I quickened my pace nonetheless.

  Soon, I slipped between the first trees. Thirty paces in, I halted beneath the crooked boughs, set down my bag, and retrieved my pathfinder.

  Old and battered from years of use and dozens of journeys, the device was still reliable. It had room for only three waypoints, but it was attuned to countless major and minor waystones scattered across Anarand. Nearly every step of my wandering life was recorded within that small magitech device. I had no intention of replacing it for a newer model—not until the Mages devised a way to transfer memory parameters between pathfinders.

  For the first coordinate, I set north. It was always wise to mark a cardinal direction, in case something went awry with the waystones. For the other two, I chose Westgate and D’al Vorat. That way, I could triangulate my position by determining the Trade Road’s location.

  One by one, the three small arrows rotated across the glowing edge of the crystal disc and froze in place, each pointing toward its destination. Small numbers appeared beside two of them, indicating the approximate distances to both cities. The number next to the third arrow, as always, remained blurred—ever since the closing of the Do’gaar Portal.

  Still, by rough estimate, I was near the site where the bandits had sprung their ambush.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Perfect,” I muttered as I slung the bag back over my shoulder and turned, pathfinder in hand, southwest—toward the road.

  For four or five segments, I wove through the shadowed canopy. The forest lingered in the final partition before Kalys bloomed. Even the nocturnal hunters had called a temporary truce, slipping into uneasy slumber alongside their prey. Damp foliage whispered softly beneath my boots. At times, the trees pressed too close, forcing me to push through their gnarled tendrils like a swimmer against a slow current.

  The silence and tranquility of the sleeping forest calmed me. Little by little, the tension from the bandit encounter drained from my body. Only one weight remained—my fear for Tarun—which had anchored itself deep within my chest, urging me onward.

  And then I saw it.

  No more than twenty meters ahead, a stone road glimmered in the cold moonlight.

  At this time of night, it lay deserted, winding its solitary path through the forest’s dense embrace. To my right was the direction of Westgate and Kiyar’s Breasts. The pass now felt far closer than it had in the evening before. I, however, turned left—toward D’al Vorat. Dread clawed its way into my thoughts as I imagined what I might find.

  The last images before I struck my head returned in fragments—blurry and menacing. Yet, abandoning Tarun had never been an option.

  I pushed forward for a few kilometers, my skull still throbbing violently with every step. It was only by chance that I spotted it—a trail of blood bisecting the road. I stopped, then backtracked about a hundred meters to where the crimson path veered sharply toward the right ditch.

  Tarun.

  He had tried to follow me—wounded and alone—until his strength had finally failed him.

  I turned toward the trees and followed the trail through the underbrush. A few paces in, my breath caught. A large, still form lay beneath the canvas of shadows. I didn’t need to draw any closer to know it was him. The darkness concealed most details, for which I was thankful. I did not wish to remember my beloved steed in such a manner.

  Nevertheless, I stepped closer. And blessedly, within three strides of the fallen shape, a soft, pained snort cut through the silence like a prayer answered.

  “Tarun!” I rushed to his side, the travel bag falling from my shoulder. Dropping to my knees, I cupped his muzzle in both hands. “How are you, boy?”

  He tried to lift his head but failed, replying with a strained exhale. My fingers moved urgently, searching his flank and chest. The wound was easy to find—and grim to behold. A crossbow bolt, thick as my thumb, was buried deep in his right side. From the angle and depth, it had likely pierced a lung. The blood loss alone should have ended him hours ago.

  But Tarun had endured.

  Even in agony, I knew he had fought—had kept the predators at bay with horn, hoof, and sheer will. They must have decided he wasn’t worth the risk… not while he still breathed.

  “Steady, Tarun,” I whispered, stroking his muzzle again. “I am here. Remain still. I shall tend to your wounds.”

  I retrieved the comm-disc from my bag, my thoughts focused solely on Tarun. Arin’s warning about the devices was, alas, entirely forgotten. The lights flickered to life—and within moments, Daaris’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with worry and sleeplessness.

  “Lord Vorat?”

  “Daaris! Summon a Healer from Kazera at once! I am approximately ten kilometers to the north, along the road to Westgate.”

  “My Lord, what happened?!” His voice cracked with barely restrained panic.

  “Tarun is gravely wounded. Inform me the moment you have news.”

  I severed the connection and sank to the ground beside my companion. Sensing my presence, Tarun stirred faintly. I placed a steady hand on his neck, offering what comfort I could. His body was too cold beneath my touch.

  I took the opportunity to unbuckle and carefully remove his saddle—a task that, thankfully, took only minutes. The makeshift hood he had worn was long lost along the road. There was little left to do but wait… and hope he would endure.

  An eternity passed before the comm-disc chimed again.

  “Daaris, tell me the Healer is on their way!”

  “They are coming,” he replied, calmer now. “They should reach you within a partition.”

  “A partition?!” I growled, bitterness biting the back of my throat.

  “It is ten kilometers, My Lord,” he said steadily.

  “Do you believe I am unaware of that?!”

  Daaris, choosing to ignore my outburst, inquired, “What has befallen you, My Lord?”

  “An ambush,” I replied, forcing my tone back into neutrality. “Mere bandits. They shall trouble no one further.”

  “Are you unharmed?”

  “As well as I could be.” I glanced at my steed. “Tarun, however, was not so fortunate.”

  At the sound of his name, Tarun shifted slightly, and I patted him gently, trying to soothe him.

  “Listen, before one of them succumbed, he claimed they fled from the north—spoke of some vague danger that forced them to abandon their homes.”

  “Are you certain, My Lord?”

  “As certain as one can be, given the dying words of a cutthroat.” I exhaled. “Still—it has been years since organized bandits dared roam these lands. Discover what is transpiring in Northern Amalay that would cause such people to flee. Discreetly.”

  “Rest assured, I shall, My Lord,” Daaris replied grimly.

  “Very well. I shall contact you once the Healer has concluded their work.”

  “Of course, My Lord. May Azur’s light guide you.”

  The connection ended. I pocketed the comm-disc and began listening for the sound of hoofbeats, though it was still too early. Minutes stretched taut as bowstrings, each one straining toward the breaking point. The forest around me stirred with the coming of dawn. Kalys’s faint light began to filter through the canopy.

  Tarun lay still. Only the weak, fluttering pulse at his neck told me he hadn’t yet surrendered.

  Where was that damned Healer?

  Hey, thanks for reading this far!

  I hope you've enjoyed the story until this point and I'd like to hear your thoughts about it. Also, I am trying a new, more contemporary style in my English writing and I am curious to hear some feedback about it. So, let me know in the comments below!

  Boris Khan