Lighting Is The Only Way

Ethan

ETHAN

SERGEI OCCUPIED WEEDYIA

HERENA

It was dark in the barracks, and Ethan perched on his mattress, hoping that his comrades were asleep. He took a deep breath, then crept over to where Ostolaza lay snoring and put a hand under his pillow. It was a long while before his fingertips brushed against the man’s coin purse, during which he ran the gamut of fear, sorrow, disappointment, anger and joy.

Fear, because he was terrified of being caught. Stealing from a fellow soldier carried a penalty of fifty lashes and branding with a hot iron. Few survived the ordeal.

Sorrow, because Ostolaza would soon figure out who’d taken his money. They were friends, and the guilt would stay with him for a long time. Perhaps forever.

Disappointment, because his behaviour was out of character. His mother hadn’t raised him to be a petty criminal, had she? Apparently, yes.

Anger, because of what had happened in the forest. Nightmares troubled him ever since, and he was loath to spend another day in the company of men who thought the rape and murder of children mere sport.

Joy, because the purse was now his!

There was no need to count the money. He could tell by the weight that he didn’t have anywhere near the amount he needed. He’d seen Ostolaza waving a drem about earlier–what had become of that? He looked to confirm that it definitely wasn’t here with the rest of the coins. Shit! Nothing for it but to nab a few more purses…

Throughout his life, enough had happened to Ethan to suggest that he was a singularly lucky individual. He separated girls from their clothing without really trying, for instance. He often won at card games despite not knowing the rules of any of them. And the number of times he rolled four-of-a-kind to win at Carry the Day? Honestly, it beggared belief. So it didn’t exactly come as a surprise when he eventually escaped the barracks, weighed down by the savings of many soon-to-be former comrades. His crowning achievement was pocketing Captain Lamela’s small hoard of silver. He felt no great pride at stealing from his brothers in arms, but not a shred of regret about robbing the company commander.

Just after dawn, Ethan slipped out of the city and headed north. It would have been quicker to take the main road, but the way was heavily patrolled and he didn’t want to run into anyone who might recognise him. He took the dirt track by the river instead. A mile or two later he still hadn’t seen any soldiers, so he decided not to press his luck and took to the surrounding forest. Leaving a designated path carried risks of its own. He could be mugged. And killed. Or accused of banditry, perhaps. And killed. But no one challenged him for luckily he came across no souls in the woods. The walk was not easy, though, and he left shreds of his clothes on thorny bushes.

Despite the profusion of growth, he did not lose his bearings. He soon lost sight of Herena’s great land walls, though, and felt immediately better for it. A few more miles, and the sack containing his mail shirt and sword began to chafe his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he persevered.

He reached the old temple around mid-morning. His uncle had brought him here for the first time when he was seven or eight. The entrance was designed so that casual passers-by would miss it, and even though he most likely hadn’t been followed, he looked around to make sure he was alone before descending the stairs. On reaching the pit, he saw that someone had recently swept the flagstones. The old cistern was full of water, too, and there was even a new offering plate at the foot of Owic, whose stone features gleamed even in the darkness. He smiled at the thought of fellow devotees maintaining this sacred place.

Dumping his sack on the floor with a groan, he stretched his aching shoulder muscles before washing his face and hands three times in the cistern. Then he knelt before Owic and dropped a handful of sen into the offering plate. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the sen out and replaced them with a drem. On this occasion, silver was a more fitting gift for a god than brass or bronze.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Lord Owic,” he whispered, “I profess myself Your humble disciple. I offer You, the Helmed One, Lord of Shields, this sacrifice.” He paused, thinking. With the essential part of the rite complete, he thought about how best to phrase his appeal. “My lord, You know what I aim to do. You know that I do it in Your name. If it pleases You, grant me success.” On reflection, it was a rather brief prayer. Surely that wouldn’t be a problem, would it? He didn’t think Owic would find his brevity offensive, but when it came to gods you could never really be certain of anything.

Worried about dallying too long, Ethan left the temple. His shoulder still troubled him, but his steps felt lighter–praise Owic for small mercies! He walked until mid-afternoon, stopping every so often to take a swig from his water skin.

He reached the edge of the broad northern meadows an hour or so before the sun began its final descent. Though the land hereabouts was green, in reality it wasn’t good for much. Few trees grew, and those that did barely reached the height of a man before collapsing. Things had been different in the past–or at least that was what he’d heard–but he knew little about it beyond that. Few tried to settle here, and most avoided the place. Almost everyone agreed that the land was cursed.

With Herena well behind him, he climbed a nearby hill to get a better sense of exactly where he was. He couldn’t see it yet, but Engund’s Tor was probably less than half a day away. The sun dipped behind a cloud, and as the daylight suddenly faded, so did his courage. Owic give him strength, but what seemed like a good idea yesterday now seemed foolish. Would they welcome him on the Tor?

He sat on the hill until full dark, paralysed by anxiety, and it was the middle of the night before he lay down to sleep. It took several more hours before he reached a state that lay frustratingly far from both sleep and wakefulness. And as it had every night since the murders in the forest, his mind tortured him with bad dreams.