Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 73

The glory of the capital city dimmed before Valston at night, a flickering candle compared to a thousand blazing torches. Towers and turrets jutted out, black in the fading light of dusk. The outer walls stood tall, deep trenches cut into them from the onslaught of the snowstorms, like the marks left from the claws of an enormous beast. Vampire guardsmen stood flanking the gates, only their luminous red eyes visible through the visors.

When the company reached the gates, Captain Rivera of Brittlerock stood there awaiting them, her torch held aloft. Behind her were her squad of patrollers. Her eyes scanned the amalgamation of the soldiers of Kinallen and the Silverhaart warriors. She looked pleased.

Captain Walric, Sergeant Wolturs and Lieutenant Evander strode up to her from the vanguard to speak, while the rest waited, some dismounting their horses.

Farren, at the very end of the train however, was having several problems, the biting cold the least of them.

What the leaders of this mission discussed before the gates reached her not, for in her ears rang a shrill cry, footsteps heavy as though her legs had turned to stone. Blade side lowered to the ground, Farren leaned on her axe, breaths coming in steaming wheezes. Exhaustion dug into her flesh and bone, like it had right before entering the forest. She'd lain on the ground then, thinking she was only tired.

Others, of course, dismissed that as one of her usual jests--and Farren intended to let it stay that way.

Tomorrow would be a big day, and she did not want to ruin it by declaring she was having withdrawal from a deal she was solely responsible for.

At the signal of the captains, the train began to roll forward through the city gates where the guards now stood with their weapons lowered.

"Coming?" asked Xenro, who had already gone a few dozen paces ahead.

"No--I need a moment--," said Farren, before dropping to a crouch, the tall shaft of her axe as a support. She forced a grin. "See if you don't regret not granting my wish and giving me wings!"

He shook his head and went on, and so did the rest of the soldiers and mercenaries. Only the wagons of rations and medical supplies remained at the very rear as she panted and gasped, the world blurring around her. She prayed to the heavens above that the agony would soon come to pass. The temptation to lie down on the frigid ground was strong. Just a few moment's rest, nobody would even notice. Would that be so bad?

Thump.

Someone climbed down from one of the wagons, a pair of boots appearing in her line of vision. A figure crouched before her the next moment, healer's insignia glinting at his chest. Farren pulled off her hood, hoping it would ease her breathing. Creating a scene was the last thing she wanted--but it seemed little escaped the perception of healers.

"You good?" said Foxward. Crowder came up too, hauling a large pack with him.

"Having the time of my life," she said between wheezes, even as her weapon slipped from her slackening grip and clanged onto the ground. Not having the strength of pretending anymore, she sat down heavily. The ground spun and swayed under her gloved palms. "I'm fine...or I will be. I think?"

"Sure," he said in a drawl as he checked her pulse and breathing. The healer looked up. "You look awful."

"You ain't the handsomest healer out there either," said Farren.

Crowder snorted, which he promptly masked into a cough as Foxward shot him a glare, much resembling his own mentor, Eliora.

"As for you," he said as he helped Farren back to her feet, "you're breathless mainly because of the altitude, is all. And the withdrawal worsens it just a bit. But no need to fear. Without that deal of yours, you'll be all good in a moment with regular healing. See?"