Master of the Loop

Chapter 60

  Red For Blood, White For Snow

Unlike the previous time, this go-around Sylas elected not to be a moron and came to travel directly with the Prince. In fact, the two shared a palanquin and were being carried forth proper. It was a strange sensation, part shame and part bliss, Sylas mused. Mostly bliss, however, whenever he’d glance out into the cold, barren wilderness and the steep path up the mountain.

The plan of the attack was set in stone and, as even Sylas predicted beforehand, it was one of the surprise. Tenner and Derrek would storm the encampment’s flanks while the archers would draw attention to the front. The reason why the archers could be left alone without any vanguard was Ryne, actually, and her talismans. With Sylas’ help, she managed to write some ten earth-melting talismans that would be placed in front of the archers’ squadron. Upon activation, they’d create a moat of sorts some six feet wide and two feet deep. Though certainly not insurmountable, it would buy enough time for the flanks to descend upon the encampment.

Since most men were required for the assault, Sylas volunteered to be Valen’s temporary guard. As for how much faith Valen had him, the fact that for the first time since he met the young man he was carrying a sword spoke volumes of that faith.

“We shall be stopping for the night, Your Highness,” Tenner swung by the palanquin and informed Valen.

“Very well,” the Prince nodded, stretching. “Sitting around all day long hardly tires a man. I’m not even hungry.”

“Then don’t eat?” Sylas said. “Nowhere in the rules of living does it say you need to eat three meals a day. For good chunks of my life, I comfortably lived off of one meal a day.”

“… I am sorry for your tarnished childhood,” Valen sighed, seeming genuinely remorseful. “The Kingdom should take care of its people and yet…”

“…” Sylas muted for a moment. The reason why he lived off of one meal wasn’t exactly because he was unable to afford more—he simply sat around and slept all day long and one meal was more than enough. Furthermore, even if he was unable to afford it, it hardly had much to do with Valen considering they were from two completely different worlds. “Once you’re sitting on the throne, you can make that happen.”

“… can I, though?” Valen quizzed. “How many of my ancestors swore they’d feed and clothe and shield their people? And, as far as I know, there were still the hungry and the cold and the bullied all through their reigns. In what way am I different?”

“You got me.”

“…”

“…”

“Yeah, alright,” Valen smiled gingerly for a moment, shaking his head.

“No, I’m serious—if people are hungry, I will feed them my words! If they are cold, I shall warm them with my love! And if they are bullied, I shall shield them with my blade!”

“… pfft, ha ha ha,” Valen laughed freely for a moment, bemused. “Very well. I will hold you onto those promises. Until then, however, at least afford me the chance to make those changes.”

Sylas was unable to sleep very well that night. After all, the spot they chose to camp at was the same one that they got ambushed on. All night long, he expected torcher arrows to come flying down, scorching the world and killing them all. He expected the caped figure to appear like a phantom in the darkness and cut Valen’s throat. He expected it all… but nothing happened. Short of the few slightly violent gusts of wind that were signaling the upcoming Cold Snap, nothing strange happened. The night was calm, peaceful, and his unrest unwarranted.

In the morning, while everyone began waking up relatively rested, he couldn’t wait to get into the damned box and fall asleep. Yawning, he fetched some breakfast and quickly ate it before retreating to the palanquin, fixing himself into a nice posture, and closing his eyes.

A few days later, they finally came to the last stop before the bandits' encampment. It was a faint cliff extension leveraged against the mountainside, overlooking a rippling dip that wove several paths alongside the carved out edges, some of which led further into the mountains, and two that led toward the closed mines as well as the bandits' encampment.

The atmosphere was slowly beginning to cool as the days went on, with the realization dawning slowly upon everyone that they’d be going into a major battle soon enough. No matter how perfectly they executed the plan, most everyone was certain that some… would never return home.

That night… was heavy. And even Sylas felt it. As such, he didn't mingle or try and talk with anyone. It wasn't as though he was an inspirational speaker or even a priest who could offer some calm to their restless souls. The only reason he wasn't shaking-in-his boots terrified like them was that even if he died… he'd just be reborn. His own death, ironically, meant far less to him than the death of others—especially inevitable ones.

Though he, once again, sat in the final meetings before the invasion, he was largely tuned out of them. His job throughout would be simple—stand on the rear, by Valen’s side, and ‘protect’ the Prince. Nobody expected him to do anything, really—it was mostly an honorary calling, so to say. However, for a change, Sylas was completely serious about the assignment. Out of everyone here, only he knew just how demented Dyn was. It was entirely possible he’d order a suicidal charge toward Valen or order a few of his men to sneak past and try and assassinate the Prince. With that idiot… everything was possible.

Nobody slept—not because they couldn’t, but because they started moving down the mountain and toward the encampment. The plan was to attack in the middle of the night for the greatest possible surprise. They were extra careful throughout the entire journey not to be spotted—as such, before moving forward, advance scouts were sent deeper down the path to see whether there was anyone inspecting the roads. Because of that, it was likely that Dyn and the bandits were unaware of the attack. If they were, then Sylas would simply have to reset again, keeping that fact in mind.

Though it was dark, most men who came along were well-trained, each with at least five years of experience serving in the castle. As such, they’ve lived through quite a few dark, solitary winters this far out from the civilization, making them somewhat more adept at moving about the environment.

It was an hour later or so that Sylas saw the distant flickering of the fire, indicating that they were close to the encampment. The advance slowed down and the ‘army’ slowly split—Tenner and Derrek, each with thirty of the most experienced men, went their separate ways, while the remaining group—all under Valen’s direct command—slowed down considerably more to allow the flanks to get into position.

The general nervousness got even to Sylas—each time a boot hit the ground, the crunching of the snow seemed to grow louder and louder, as though wanting to awaken their enemies and alert them to the attack. The trees seemed to thin out in number and in the make, the previously lush canopies replaced by dead, leafless branches. Shrubberies were gone, open spaces seemingly dominating.

This was with a purpose, of course—in part due to the decline, but in part due to the fact that the bandits had likely cut a good chunk of the forest to use both as lumber as well as firewood. Nearly a mile and a half away, the entourage came to a spot, with one of the men informing Valen that they risked being exposed if they came any closer since advance scouts reported some six-seven patrolmen in the encampment.

Looking down, Sylas saw makeshift wooden walls that were more reminiscent of fences and straw-roofed ‘houses’ that looked like they leaked from top to bottom. The encampment itself was made on several layers, some parts laid on top of the protruding rocks, some in the pitfall-like dips, and some even on the sloped sides. All around, it was clear that it lacked any concise structure and planning and that it was built post-haste.

“Very well,” Valen nodded. “Wait for the signal from the flanks and then rush within the shooting distance.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the man saluted as both Sylas and Valen walked forward. They’d long since been walking on their own, as it was quite difficult to move a rigid, massive box through the forest.

“… God, I hope this works,” Valen sighed, huffing into his palms, warming them up. “These are good men I’ve taken along. If they die…”

“It will all work out,” Sylas comforted by, well, lying. He had no idea how ‘well’ it would go. “They’re in position.” Sylas was, strangely enough, the first to spot the distant specks of flickering fire that they agreed on as the signals. Taking a deep breath, Valen looked toward the commanding archer and, with some hesitation, nodded.

“…” rather than yelling anything out, the man signaled with his hands and ushered twenty-five or so men forward. The minimum shooting distance, as far as Sylas knew, was around two hundred yards. It was a lot of ground to cover, and they had to be fast. As such, they didn’t stick to the formation—everyone rushing forward, waiting until the last possible moment to light up the arrows.

Valen and Sylas rushed behind them, on the far rear. Though Sylas urged the Prince to stay behind, the latter declined, espousing about the Princely duties and such.

Inevitably, they were spotted—still some four hundred yards from the encampment. Torches began to light up like the candles from within the encampment as Valen gritted his teeth. This meant that there’d be far more casualties. Sylas quickly grabbed Valen’s arm and prevented the Prince from following the fading backs of the archers who have begun lighting up their arrows. Some who were more confident stopped around the three hundred yards mark and gave it a shot. Since they didn’t need to be perfectly accurate, and only had to hit something that would burn, they hoped that even a missed hit would, well, hit.

While Valen fumed at being stopped, Sylas quickly put down the talismans Ryne prepared for them. Though the girl wanted to come along, Sylas rejected resolutely and had her teach him how to activate them. Though it took some effort, he was confident in being able to do so… as long as he had about ten seconds of free time.

With the first fire arrows loosened into the night’s sky, the sides of the encampment lit up as well as Tenner and Derrek ushered their forces forward, descending upon the camp. All was set for the battle that could last hours when Sylas heard something. A ripple.

“WHO DARES ATTACK ME?!!! YOU!! YOU SACKED GRUNT! I SHALL HAVE YOUR HEAD!!!” Dyn’s voice erupted, clearly aimed in the direction of the Prince. A shadow emerged from the encampment, warped and twisted and evil, blistering forward against all common laws of physics and reality. It was a shroud of darkness that covered over half a mile of distance within two breaths.

Driven not by experience or foresight, Sylas instinctively reached toward the scabbard and pulled out the blade. Again. There it was. The Ripple. As though guided by the invisible force from beyond, his arm pushed forward in a singular, decisive, picture-perfect motion. Immediately, he felt the sword stab into flesh as the phantom emerged from the shadows—a disfigured, scarred, shocked, disgruntled, angry, agonized, confused, bedeviled face of Dyn. Glancing down, he saw a thin sword shaking faintly, the silver blade piercing directly into his heart.

Red droplets of blood heaved out, one by one, and fell on top of the white canvas. Sylas stood frozen, watching the scene. It was eerie, how well red and white mixed, he mused. The blood bled into the snow and made a macabre painting of death. Red for blood, white for snow.