Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 46

He was drowning again.

Water gushed down his throat, the cold sinking a thousand needles into his limbs from all directions. He reached out with an arm, but above was nothing but a murky sky and ashen sun and gusts of merciless wind. The water on his lashes began to freeze up, eyes stuck shut while the screeching storm swallowed his cries for help.

"You call yourself a soldier, Valerius?" an awfully familiar voice called out-- one that he wished he would never hear again. "You can't even swim across this damned puddle of a lake! Snap that sword in half, set your worthless armor on fire, and grab a shovel. Or better even, rot in that mine."

"Father, please--"

A whip lashed across his face and below the surface he went again, choking and gasping, limbs flailing for purchase, lungs aching for air.

This was but a test. Upon the opposite bank of the lake gleamed a marble staircase leading up, and up and up... and beyond the clouds and the sky-- steps Linder must ascend to become a part of the elite force tasked with the protection of the Midaelian Crown: the Royal Guards.

Yet how would he make it? Bound to his numb legs with thick, rusty chains were wagons of coal, and bundles of ledgers and unfinished paperwork-- all the way to the dark depths of the lake.

So much work to do...so much left...

"Is everything in order in the mine, Valerius?" Commander Del's voice rang inside his head, garbled as though speaking from beneath the water.

Nothing was in order. He was losing track of the prices. Everything was slipping like sand from between his fingers. The killer was right there, and the soldiers refused to believe him.

Far at the end of the staircase across the lake, a figure materialized out of thin air. Karles, clad in the crimson and gold of the Royal Guards.

"All you want is fame." He sneered at Linder's struggling form. "Justice never meant anything to you, it's simply a facade for your despicable lust for power. You're pathetic."

Karles vanished up the stairs, ignoring his cries for help.

Linder's vision began to fade then, Father's shouts drowning somewhere in the distance. Yet he made one last effort. Kicking his legs, he swam closer to the surface.

The lake had frozen over, forever trapping him within its glacial depths. His fists pounded against the solid layer of the ice. No!

I'm sorry, Father.

I'm so sorry--

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

His eyes flew open, breaths coming in labored gasps.

The candle flickered low in its stand. The wooden ceiling of the infirmary came into focus, the small bed creaking noisily as he shifted his weight. Linder felt for his face, as though to see whether he was truly drenched in lakewater, but it was only cold sweat.

So many years had gone by since he'd left home, yet such dreams would still haunt him sometimes, cobbling together the most bizarre scenarios that resembled the actual happenings of his life in a vague mockery of symbolism. The ideas seemed almost laughable when he awoke, but they felt awfully real when they played out in his sleep.

He didn't care what the healer said, he needed coffee. He would ride to Brittlerock tonight if need be, but he would not let himself drift off to sleep again.

Only when he was about to get up did he realize a warm hand was clasping his wrist-- fingers pressed to his pulse. Someone's coarse, bushy hair brushed against his forearm which dangled off the bed. Before he could react a silhouette rose from kneeling and emerged over the edge of the bed.