Spear of The Winds > Chapter 2–The Fork In The Road

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Three horses wound through the mountain trail in late afternoon shadow. Gall and Riasean rode side by side, the dark-haired man and blonde half-elf silent as the trail narrowed ahead. Behind them, the third horse followed on a tether, across its back the dwarf Vig slumped unconscious, his rumpled clothes flapping in the wind.

Gall’s jaw tightened as he glanced back. The dwarf had drunk too much again.

“Should we wake him?” Riasean asked, brushing his hair back to reveal slightly pointed ears. The young man’s gaze lingered on the unconscious dwarf with concern.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Gall replied curtly.

They rode in silence until the unpleasant smell of smoke and refuse reached them. Ahead, the trail widened into a battlefield of discarded hope. Excess clothing, broken weapons, scattered cooking utensils, and rotting apple cores littered the path’s edges alongside piles of horse dung. Deep wagon ruts and countless boot prints had churned the earth into a muddy scar that stretched toward the horizon.

Gall pulled up on his reins, bringing his mount to a halt. The sight before them told a story he’d seen too many times—people fleeing with whatever they could carry, then abandoning even that when survival demanded it. Riasean stopped beside him, both men studying the devastation.

“Where do you think she’s headed?” Riasean asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.

“Southeast until the trail forks south toward Tenoach.” Gall’s voice carried the weight of certainty.

“We might be able to catch her before she reaches the city.”

Gall started to respond, then caught himself. Riasean wasn’t speaking of Faline—he meant Larah. The realization struck hard, and he turned to find the young man watching him with knowing eyes.

“When we reach the trail fork, we both know which path you’ll take,” Riasean said, a slight smile playing at his lips.

“The same could be said for you.” Heat crept up Gall’s neck, but he forced himself to meet Riasean’s gaze. The truth hung between them like drawn steel.

Gall gripped his reins until his knuckles whitened, then exhaled slowly. “Faline is weaker than ever. Now would be the opportunity to end this once and for all.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth. “I’ve brought enough chaos into Larah’s life. She deserves better than having me drag more darkness to her door.”

“You don’t need to justify your choices to me.” Riasean’s voice softened. “But know this—Larah is my path now.”

The simple declaration hit harder than any accusation. Gall studied the young man’s profile, seeing the quiet determination there. “She fled Landros without telling us her intentions. I’m not certain what sort of reception you’ll receive.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.” Riasean stared toward the distant mountains. “Do you think she’d stay with the caravan?”

“She’ll go where she’s needed most,” Gall answered, and the truth of it carved another piece from his heart. “So yes, she’ll be with them. Come on—daylight is burning.”

He spurred his mount forward, and Riasean followed. They rode in contemplative silence as their shadows stretched long before them, two men bound by their love for the same woman, divided by the nature of that love.

When the trail finally forked, both riders drew up their horses. The moment Gall had been dreading had arrived. To the right, the path wound through mountain passes toward Tenoach and whatever safety Larah might find there. Ahead, it continued toward Faline and the remnants of the army that had laid siege to Landros.

Gall turned in his saddle and extended his hand. “Good luck, Riasean. Do whatever you must to keep her safe.”

Riasean gripped his hand firmly, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “I will. And you—” He paused, seeming to weigh his words. “Don’t let your ghosts consume what’s left of your honor.”

With that, the young half-elf spurred his horse toward the mountain pass and disappeared into the gathering dusk.

Gall remained motionless for several heartbeats, watching the empty trail where Riasean had vanished. Then he turned and yanked sharply on the rope behind him. “Vig! Wake up. You’ve had enough time to sober up.”

The dwarf groaned and lifted his head, blinking in confusion. “Just kill me already and be done with it.”

“I tried that once. It didn’t work out well for either of us.”

“Don’t remind me.” Vig leaned over and retched violently onto the ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and looked around with bloodshot eyes. “Where’s the boy?”

“Gone to Tenoach. He’s following Larah.”

“So we’re not going after her?” When Gall didn’t respond, Vig nodded grimly. “Probably for the best. She’ll be safer without you around to draw trouble.”

The words stung because they echoed Gall’s own thoughts. “Are you finished? We need to pick up the pace if we’re going to catch Faline.”

Vig rubbed his temples and winced. “And what exactly will you do when you catch up to her? The Caretakers made their position clear.”

Gall’s jaw clenched. The prohibition against killing Faline sat like a stone in his chest, a constant reminder that even his righteous anger served purposes beyond his understanding. “I’ll put her back behind the Mordwahl, where she belongs.”

“Easier said than done, especially with your hands tied.”

“Make haste,” Gall replied sharply, tugging the rope.

“If you insist.” Vig maneuvered his horse beside the larger man. “I’d still like to know why you’re so obsessed with her. She doesn’t appear to have much power left.”

“We’re wasting time.” But even as Gall said it, he knew Vig was probing at something deeper. His pursuit of Faline had become personal in ways that went beyond duty or divine mandate.

“Fine, don’t share,” the dwarf muttered.

As darkness settled around them, they rode on in silence. Above them, stars emerged one by one in the clear mountain air, indifferent witnesses to the choices of mortal men.

* * *

The moon hung like a silver coin in the star-drunk sky as Riasean urged his horse through the winding pass. Time pressed against him with each hoofbeat. Once Larah reached Tenoach, she could vanish into the sea of refugees flooding the ancient city. His best chance lay in finding her while the caravan still moved through the mountain passes.

The wide swath of debris and hoofprints made tracking simple work, though the sight of it troubled him. Broken wagon wheels, abandoned possessions, and the occasional carcass of a horse marked the desperate flight of people who had lost everything. His half-elven eyes pierced the darkness easily, and his ability to remain alert for days would serve him well.

By dawn, smoke from cooking fires drifted up from the valley ahead, and armed riders appeared on the trail before him. Riasean recognized some of them as Preytar mercenaries Queen Britta had hired.

“Ho there!” called their leader, a weathered man with steel-gray hair. “State your business.”

“I seek someone,” Riasean replied, reining in his mount. “A young woman with dark hair and brown eyes, likely wearing traveling clothes of green or brown. She’s—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “She’s beautiful, and she’ll be helping wherever help is needed most.”

The guards exchanged knowing glances and smirks.

“Sounds like half the young women in our company,” one replied. “But there are many people here. You’d best ask quickly—we’re breaking camp soon.”

Two guards flanked him as they rode into the sprawling encampment. True to their word, people were dousing fires and loading wagons with the efficient haste of those who had learned to move quickly. Riasean’s eyes swept each group they passed, searching for Larah’s familiar silhouette, but she remained elusive.

At one wagon, he noticed several refugees sporting fresh bandages around their arms and heads. Some of the guards bore similar wounds.

“Trouble?” he asked.

“Tamorian slave raiders,” spat one of his escorts. “Cowards kept their distance during the day, but tried to snatch people from the camp’s edge last night. We made them pay, but they got away with a few.”

Ice formed in Riasean’s chest. Of course slavers would prey on refugees—desperate, displaced people with no one to protect them. “Are there healers tending the wounded? The woman I seek would likely be among them.”

The guards led him to a cluster of wagons where the injured rested. Several healers moved among them, offering what comfort they could, but Larah was not among their numbers.

“Is this everyone?” Riasean asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

“All except for one,” replied a guard, scratching his grizzled chin. “We left someone on the trail yesterday—a healer tending to a woman in childbirth. Now that I think on it, she might be who you’re looking for.”

“Did she make it to camp?”

The man shook his head. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of either of them.”

The words struck Riasean. He gripped his reins tightly as dark possibilities flooded his mind. If the slavers had taken Larah along with the woman and newborn child, they would be making for the coast with a day’s advantage. From there, ships would carry them to Tamor—that golden city of broken dreams he had hoped never to see again.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, to think clearly. There remained a chance, however slim, that Larah had stayed with the woman and child, perhaps finding shelter along the trail. He needed to search before assuming the worst, though every instinct told him that hope was a luxury he could not afford.

The morning sun climbed higher as Riasean turned his horse back toward the trail, leaving the refugee camp behind. Somewhere ahead, in the maze of mountain paths and hidden valleys, lay either salvation or the beginning of a journey that would take him to the heart of his nightmares.