She watched him go. She watched as the last of the trees bent and swayed in the enemy’s departure. Vhalla was not naive, not anymore. He would leave and return with more men and women. More she would not be able to handle.
There was one thing that stalled her forward progression. Grabbing one of the fell Northerner’s blades, Vhalla hardened her heart completely and drew it across Baston’s throat. A horse had more blood than she expected, and it coated her hands. Vhalla considered the War-strider, the noble steed of Prince Aldrik. Baston deserved to die a quick death rather than lie writhing on the ground in agony. She was beginning to have a suspicion that she would not be so lucky.
Vhalla checked her bag, running her bloody fingers through the papers. They were all accounted for. The compass in hand, Vhalla began her march upon wobbly legs. She stumbled and tripped over roots. After an hour, she collapsed for the first time. Dirt and blood mixed with hopelessness as the real possibility of death closed in upon her.
The image of Aldrik, prone and wounded, flashed before her eyes. Vhalla cursed. Elecia had been right to let Vhalla see him. With a grimace of mad determination, Vhalla pushed herself to her feet once more.
She relished the pain. Vhalla would buy his life from the Gods, her payment being her body if that must be the price. The cruel and unfair Gods, demanding and relentless; Vhalla would have thought that two lovers trapped in an eternal distance as the Mother and Father were would earn her more pity for her plight.
The day had faded to late afternoon, and her whole body hurt so much that it gave way to numbness. Her feet tingled at first, but now dragged like stones along the ground. She was thirsty, she was tired, and she was hungry. Her hair clung to the dried blood on her face, and she lacked the strength to wipe it away. Sweat drenched her clothes under her armor, and her breathing was shallow and weak. The world was reduced to her left foot, and then her right foot. Vhalla pressed onward and onward to somewhere that she had never been. Somewhere that might not exist.
Somehow, even in the midst of exhaustion, her ears picked up the murmur of motion from behind her. It was the whisper of the forest, indicating that people were after her again. The one who had fled had made it back to his tree city, and Vhalla’s enemy was already advancing with reinforcements.
The sounds began to grow and the sun hung low in the sky. A walk turned into a run and Vhalla realized that this was it, the last of her energy. When her feet stopped they would not move again for some time. In truth, if she fell, she would likely not ever rise as they would be upon her.
Judging from the rustle of trees and the consistent din of horses, the Northerners were gaining—and fast. Vhalla cried at the futility of her mission, agony coursing through her. All at once she broke through an artificial tree line into a blackened arc of earth.
The sunset was painfully bright compared to the dim forest, and Vhalla blinked in confusion as she heard a horn ring out to her right. It was a familiar sound that sparked hope in her once more. She turned to see two riders making their way toward her.
It only took a short assessment for Vhalla to be overwhelmed with relief; she collapsed to her knees as they came close enough for her to see that one’s armor was cast in black steel. She looked upon members of the Black Legion and the Imperial swordsmen.
The swordsman dismounted and gracefully drew a thin rapier. Vhalla blinked in a daze. He had a strong jaw, angular features, and straight black hair that fell around his ears. He was so familiar that it was almost like looking at a ghost.
“Who are you?” The man’s sword was at her chin and all familiarity to the crown prince vanished as Vhalla was absorbed by his cerulean eyes.
“Head Major Jax,” she croaked. “I must ... get to Head Major Jax.”
“Who are you?” the Firebearer demanded.
“I must get to ... Head Major Jax.” Vhalla pushed against the ground, ignoring the sword at her neck. Surprisingly, the man let her rise. He was silent and Vhalla’s eyes fell to his sword hand. His gauntlet was plated in gold. “You ... You’re ...” She struggled to remember everything Daniel and Craig had said about the Golden Guard on the march.
“Who are you?” Fire crackled around the fists of the Black Legion soldier, but Vhalla remained focused on the man before her.
“Lord Erion.” She finally remembered the name of the other Golden Guard still at Soricium. The Western man’s eyes grew large with surprise. “Lord Erion Le’Dan of the Golden Guard. Take me to Head Major Jax. The Northerners are coming and we don’t have much time.”
“They won’t cross the patrol line,” he said, neither confirming nor denying his identity. “They know this is our territory now.”
He didn’t realize how sweet the words were to her, and Vhalla swallowed relieved laughter. She kept her face from crumbling into a mess of emotion. “I have a message I must deliver to Head Major Jax. Take me to him now.”