Ash to Iron

Chapter XVII

It was still dark outside, but well past midnight. Drips of water echoed throughout the castle walls, leaving the night to the creatures who scurried in the shadows. The breeze was cool and brought chills down Faric's spine. He had been awakened by Orwell if it can be considered that. Faric had not slept very well for the past few nights. He was anticipating the call to action and hoped it would've been later. The two didn't speak as Faric grabbed his bag and was escorted out of the castle. The pair made their way towards the stables, the horses neighing softly from the intrusion.

"Which do you think you'll take?" Orwell asked. "Silvi, she's faster than the lot and still young enough to make the journey without stopping." Silvi's brown coat was hard to see in the dark stable, but it was soft to the touch, more so than the other mares.

"Good. Your mission is simple: remain in their ranks and find out what they're planning. When they move, you move with them. When you feel that it is safe enough, run and report back."

"Understood." Faric looked in his bag. There were clothes from his past, totems, necklaces, knives.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the court, Faric had been among the exiled islands where the Marauders hail from. His tribe, now a distant memory, were some of the most skilled assassins to ever exist. Their movements wouldn't be heard even if they were right under your feet. Faric had forgotten how to move like he once did, but his skills remained sharp. Without thinking, Faric mounted Silvi, and gave Orwell a nod.

"Good luck." Orwell nodded back.

Faric gave a slight smile before kicking Silvi forward and raced off. The night air felt refreshing, almost serene. He knew he was going into the fire and knew the risks. I've lived my life. If it ends, so be it. He thought to himself. The Passing fields swept by through the night with dark villages and little light. Faric could see his way, being trained to notice even the tiniest of details in the dark. As a few hours and villages passed, daybreak had begun. The sunrise was beautiful, it was why Faric had decided to stay in this foreign land. The sun gently rose over the hills and fields, turning the sky an orange blaze. Blue started to seep in as the morning grew stronger. Faric had to pass through the grand river that passed through all of Belethor. The King had commissioned grand stone bridges over the shorter bends, which kept his pace steady. Silvi began to trip, calling for Faric to ease her pace and come to a halt in a grassy field by the forests. Sylvenith isn't far, I'm almost there. Faric stroked Silvi's coat, and she neighed happily. Once her breathing steadied, he continued on, going around Sylvenith's borders to remain out of sight. The road to Portwood took half a day and seemed to be a good place to rest before pushing on through the evening. The stench of rot still hung in the air, as if it seeped into the earth and radiated out. Faric noticed that the mass graves were still untouched by any grass and chose to look away as he stopped by the stone archway. Can I really go back? Can I really endure more of this...? Letting Silvi rest, Faric took a look inside what was left of Portwood. Wood splinters and carts were scattered about. Stores that had caught fire had long since collapsed. It was a desolate place. A dead place. A quiet place.

Faric sighed, "How could they do this?" he said to himself. No longer wanting to look at the remains, he walked over to Silvi, mounted her, and rode off towards the woods. It was dusk by now, and Faric knew that Silvi could no longer go any further.

"Go on, girl. Run back" He slapped her behind, sending the horse galloping onto the main road. Faric knew she would run home safely, but still worried. He walked into the brush for a few minutes before finding a bush to hide behind. He knew he was alone but felt it necessary in case patrols came by. Dropping the bag, he packed, it made a dull clank. Faric undressed, revealing various tattoos and scars all along his body. Most of it was covered with patterns and symbols. A long scar ran down his back, with others crossing it as if to mark each vertebra. This was a traditional practice done by his tribe, but the practice was lost to the world. During the last raids, his tribe was one of many to be wiped from the earth, unbeknownst to him, who had been captured by the King. Faric could remember it clearly, the day in the dungeon when Uthard came and pardoned Faric for his crimes. He was free to do as he wished, no longer bound by tradition. Yet, even if he hoped, those days have not come back. He smeared some dirt on him to fit in more before sheathing his knives and pushing forward. Reports and scouts, or those that had survived, said that the marauders had been seen frequenting the beaches, and so that was where he was headed.