AHEAD chapter two

The second chapter of the story "Ahead," which I recently published here.

II.

It was probably out of great joy that I and my money had stayed that the landlady ordered her husband to light a fire in my room. It was my first night at this inn, spent in pleasant warmth. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't sleep a wink, and by all accounts, I should have been sleeping like a baby long ago. I had been lying in the same position for a long time, and although it was comfortable at first, after a while I began to feel a rapidly increasing discomfort. To combat this feeling, I had rolled onto my back several times that night. The fire was dying down, and I still couldn't sleep.

This day had been exceptionally strange, even for me. First, the whole thing with Tib, and then the incredibly difficult ordeal with the old man.

"You really don't understand the situation you're putting me in!" Grandpa, after a moment of peace, resumed the argument.

"And what is this situation? Perhaps you could tell me?" Only then can we start talking normally, I tried to steer the argument towards the meager beginnings of a conversation.

"You can't possibly know! Are you deaf when I talk to you!? Your mother warned me, but old fool that I was, I had hoped.

" "If you don't tell me what's going on, I'll go my own way, and you, old man, do whatever you want."

"What did your mother tell you before you left? You can't—

" "That's out of the question!" I snapped at him furiously. Old feelings resurfaced.

"If your mother had heard—" the old man was visibly saddened, his anger gone.

"Old man. If she had heard her own words, what she once screamed at me, she would have felt much worse. She really did.

" "It was a long time ago. She wasn't in control of herself—" he desperately began to explain.

"Many things were a long time ago, and in many ways I wasn't in control of myself, just like my mother, but I would never have dared to do what she did."

I tore from him my long-held, deeply buried anger and left with a slam of the door.

***

I heard the sound of an explosion. It threw me forward. The blade plunged into his corpse. I hovered over him, losing track of time. Somewhere behind me, I heard cries and howls. Cries and howls of pain. I, too, suffered. My heart ached. I killed him with his own sword. The sword he had given to his youngest and dearest son. The son who had become his executioner. I killed him, one might say "unintentionally," that it was an "accident," but I'm not sure if, if not for that explosion, I wouldn't have done it. But for the first time, accidentally, and for the first time with joy and such immense pain. Never before, no one and nothing, had I been so torn apart. I don't know who I am, that my father's death became for me joy and liberation, and the suffering and torment of the rest of my life.

***

I stood motionless. From behind me, a woman's scream grew louder and clearer. My mother ran toward me, tear-stained eyes, in a dirty, tanned dress, with filthy hair. She rushed toward my father's body. Kneeling over him, she hugged him in despair and kissed his bloody face. I couldn't bear to watch. How could she cry for him? I felt immense reproach for her, but at the same time, I understood her. She didn't know so much about this man. She loved him with an immense love, and my brothers and I couldn't tell her many things without breaking her heart.

My mother cried and cried, and I watched with unfathomable pain. This man had been hated by me like no one else could be. And yet, looking at my mother's grief and his lifeless face, I felt a shadow of emotion, a faint anticipation of love for him. Love for my father.

***

My mother looked directly into mine with her green, glassy eyes. I was terrified. She had never looked at me like that before; I always thought a mother couldn't look at me like that. And yet.

"You murderer!" she reproached me with hatred. "His own father!" Tears streamed down her face. "My son brutally murdered his own father! What did he and I do to deserve this!?" she asked, asking empty words. "For what?"

I wanted to explain. My brothers and I should have done this long ago. But she couldn't listen; she had to let out the pain.

"You monster! I hate you! Do you hear me!? You're not my son! What did I do to deserve this!? How could I give birth to such a monster!? I hate you!"

Her words were terribly hurtful, but they weren't the worst. It was her look. There was pure hatred in her eyes, devoid of a mother's love. I felt rejected and hated, deprived of a mother. It was a terrible feeling.

***

She quickly realized what she had done to me. Maybe someone had explained it to her. She wrote me countless letters. I read every one, and forgiveness came with understanding her situation. But I was stupid. I was overcome with honor, didn't answer any of them, didn't go to see her. After a while, I started explaining myself to myself. Day by day, one thing piled on top of the other, until I finally became convinced that I had done the right thing, that my mother truly meant what she said. Over time, I built up a story that my mother had always hated me. How stupid I was. Now I know.

***

As soon as the long-awaited sleep had taken hold of me, I awoke with the slam of the door against the wall. Someone burst into my room.

"Get up!" he shouted at me with panic. I recognized the old man's voice.

"What now?" I stammered sleepily.

"Get dressed and get down to the stables as quickly as possible! I'm going to help Tibrin with the horses.

" "What happened?"

"Quick! There's no time!" the old man hurried out.

Only after a moment, when my grandfather was no longer shouting, did other sounds reach me. Hurriedly dressing, I listened intently. Outside, someone was shouting in a commanding, strong, masculine voice, immediately followed by a woman's cry of despair, only to give way a moment later to children's screams, followed by a tremendous uproar and a moment of silence, after which the scene repeated itself, even louder, even more terrifying.

I ran from the room, dashed across the hall, almost fell over the stairs, narrowly avoiding falling, and fell into the hallway. The room was dark, and in the meager moonlight streaming through the windows, I could see many silhouettes. I heard the faint voices of women and children. Slowly, laboriously, I began to make my way to the side door. The room quietly resonated with moans, sobs, and cries. Pushing through the crowds of women and children, I initially wanted to ask anyone what had happened. But hearing the distressing cries of the children, I decided against it.

I quickly crossed the dark garden. A red aurora loomed over the high wall. The terrifying sounds continued to echo.

A moment later, I reached the stables. Loud neighing and the clatter of countless hooves emanated from inside. I entered. The horses were bucking frantically, and every now and then one was banging on his stall door with such force that it seemed to break it down. The entire building shook from the constant blows of the enraged animals. The animal sounds were filled with something terrifying. A chill ran down my spine. I didn't know what was happening. But I was certain it was nothing good. The room was dark, the only light coming from the flashes of fire coming through the open door, where a short man was leading two dangerously bucking horses.

I started running towards him, the sounds growing louder. The stable was exceptionally long. I ran into a beam of light that blinded me. I ran through the door and immediately understood the source of the sounds.

***

Some of the buildings were on fire, others were partially destroyed. Fiery missiles rained down on the city every now and then. The streets were full of distraught people. A constant wave of panic swept through the city.

A dozen or so steps away from me was a stone building. Right against its wall stood Tibrin with an old man and his horses. I ran to them.

"Where have you been!?" the old man shouted, trying to shout over the chaos.

"What's going on!?" I asked as loudly as I could.

"We don't know! This must be some kind of attack! We have to run! Follow me!" he started walking slowly. A moment later, he turned and looked at Tib. "Don't get on the horse, you fool!" he roared with all his might. "It'll spook and throw you!" he yelled just as loudly. Tib dropped his leg as if struck. After a moment, however, Grandpa added much more calmly. "Hold the reins as tight as you can! The horses can't spook us! They can't! Do you understand!?" he shouted emphatically. "Follow me!" he repeated the order.

Obediently, we moved cautiously along the relatively safe stone wall. When suddenly, a burst of flames flew above us and struck the stables close to the ground. Fortunately, the building had a stone base about a meter high, which temporarily protected the wooden structure from catching fire. Tib, seeing this, slapped me on the back and handed me the reins of his horse, then ran back to the stables.

"Fool!" the old man shouted upon seeing Tibrin.

As I turned my head, the terrifying neighing of the horses filled my ears. I don't know where this feeling came from, but I felt a tremendous sense of compassion for these trapped creatures, condemned to blind fate. I ran after my friend.

"Damn you!" the old man shouted, tying the reins to the railing and following us a moment later.

The

building hadn't yet caught fire, and that was fortunate, because otherwise we wouldn't have been able to help these animals. We flung open the huge doors and began releasing the horses from their stalls. They fled as fast as they could. It was a great feeling knowing we might have saved their lives. Horses are magnificent animals, but so underrated. The roads were

quickly

emptying. Women and children fled in panic toward the temple, the custodian, or the citelline, hoping to find shelter underground. Some women decided to seek safety in the tavern, as it was located a little further from the citelline and thus had a better chance of survival. The tone of the evacuation was set by five local bells, ringing with all their might. The city was constantly echoed by the smaller bells of the outposts, as well as the marching calls of gongs from the towers, and the single, powerful, unceasing roar of the war trumpet. Each sound heard was invaluable information for the commanders that individual outposts were still holding out.

We were passing beneath the stone walls of the citadel, just as a guard was lighting a Parma fire under a pile of igmite wood, more than a hundred cubits above us, atop the Gnosis Tower. The stronghold was instantly illuminated by a bright, flickering light. We hurried towards the custodian. We wanted to get away from the citadel and the Gnosis Tower as quickly as possible; we had a hunch what was coming. Soon, out of breath, we reached the krasti, the square in front of the custodian. It was full of fully armed guards, locally called hartypes. A briefing was underway, and the commander was speaking, trying to boost the morale of his men.

We stood by the wall and watched, simultaneously trying to catch our breath after the long trek through the stronghold. The commander seemed to have just finished speaking, for the hartypes roared loudly and clashed their spears against their shields. As if on cue, at that very moment, live fire flew from behind us, from over the wall. It descended, heading straight for the Gnosis Tower, and a moment later, narrowly missed, destroying a small hut. Immediately behind it, a second missile flew, aiming, like its predecessor, directly at the tower, and hitting. The top of the Gnosis Tower tilted ominously to the right, but it didn't collapse, and the flames continued to burn.

In the distance, a group of people poured out of a partially burned and destroyed monastery on a hill. They were quickly heading toward the center of the stronghold.

One of the soldiers approached us.

"The commander summons you!" he called in his strong voice.

"What for!?" I asked, but the soldier had already moved away.

"Let's go," the old man ordered, moving forward at a faster pace. "We need to help them."

A moment later, we found ourselves with the commander. He was standing over a huge map of the stronghold and its surroundings. He was a tall man, dressed in a green robe, mostly covered by full armor. His crudely crafted spear leaned against the table. The people of Telmir had always been known for their rational approach to every matter and their cool demeanor. Throughout the vast valley of the Lamera River, they were known as a people of exceptional skill, and their warriors were referred to as "mantoeu xers," which, translated directly from the Endrophic language, means "many poor ones." The Telmir wore armor made of crude steel, devoid of any inlays. The same was true of their weapons and clothing. This was unheard of in this valley, exceptionally rich in its deposits of black imitation. Thanks to such frugality, the Telmir were able to maintain a larger, battle-ready army, and within the city itself, life was thus at a much higher standard. Unlike other cities, Telmir had no problems with commoners, the poor, beggars, or the homeless. Thanks to efficient management, the city was able to provide its inhabitants with the bare minimum. This attracted more and more newcomers.

Three women watched over the table, constantly, dictating every piece of information, changing the position of the multitude of figures: armies, buildings, military fortifications, and natural obstacles.

The commander noticed us only after a moment, after taking his eyes off the map.

"Could you be useful in battle?" he asked quickly, without unnecessary formality.

"Of course," the old man replied for all of us. The question clearly dissatisfied him, but it didn't worry him either.

"Who are you?" The man turned his gaze to the newly updated board.

"I am Valkamir of Tyrrhenian in the land of Slantamirri." It was difficult to introduce myself to a man with his back to me.

"Ah... It's you. Fine. Everyone can be useful." His face twisted slightly. I wasn't surprised by his reaction. For some reason, everyone in this city reacted this way to me.

"And you?" Tiba asked.

"Tibrin of the house of Hafrdika, a Tyrrhenian stronghold in the land of Slantamirria," he recited, bowing respectfully.

"Hector!" the commander called loudly. A young boy ran up to us. "Take Mr. Tibrin to the armory.

" "But there's no need!" Tib broke away, taking his sword from his holster. "I have everything I need."

The commander looked at me with appreciation. With a gesture, he dismissed the boy.

"And you, old man?"

Grandfather showed the commander his staff.

"Alchantor, white mage of the land of Alantia," he introduced himself, one eye glancing at me with curiosity.

What? My throat caught. He's a white mage? And from Alantia, at that! I couldn't believe it. He was behaving so normally. And wizards are usually at least a little "crazy." Although, actually, he wasn't that normal either. His constant concern for keeping secrets. His impulsiveness. He wouldn't have gotten away with it in the monastery, so he's catching up on his "freedom." I wondered how my mother knew the white mage? And why did he know her so well? I'd always thought he was simply her servant, so I hadn't bothered with the question of his origins. But if he is a white mage, then that's a completely different story.

A voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"Really?" The commander seemed shocked.

"I serve you sincerely and steadfastly," the old man added a gallant tone to his voice.

"I am Penthar. Governor of the City and Steward of Telmir." The commander finally introduced himself. "I think, Magus, you would be invaluable in saving the city. If only you would... Of course.

" "The mission of the white mages is to aid the oppressed. I feel obligated. How can I help you? "

The commander turned his head toward the city.

"The city is burning," he said regretfully.

"I understand," the old man hurried through the ruins.

"Tibrin, could you help this unit," he nodded at the men in front of him, "defend the main gate?"

"As best as I can.

And he could. Few could wield a sword so skillfully. And yet I rarely saw him in combat; he probably didn't like it. Though I think his religion held him back.

"You could support the cavalry unit," he said to me. "I've heard you're a great rider, and your horse is second to none. It may be rumors, but in this situation, even mediocrity is worth its weight in gold." He sneered. My lips twitched slightly. "No. Don't say anything," he added with exceptional insight. "A good warrior thinks a lot, not speaks." One of the hartypes ran up to him and whispered something in his ear. The commander thought for a moment and replied. "Surely you don't want to dispel your heroism?" he asked. That he could even afford such remarks in this situation.

"Where should I go?" I asked humbly, through clenched teeth. Although I'd wanted to ask him what exactly was going on here, after that brief conversation, I didn't want to talk to him anymore. He didn't know me, and he already had a baseless opinion of me. He looked down on me. On the other hand, maybe there was something wrong with me. Perhaps the first signs of hypersensitivity, so harmful to a warrior, were beginning to appear.

"Troops are gathering at the eastern gate; we want to perform a certain maneuver." He turned his back on me, signaling the end of the conversation.

"I'm on my way.

" "Very well," he added, as if reluctantly.

With my horse at my side, I followed the wall. A dozen or so meters above us, the city's defenders calmly awaited the assault. Between the armory and the warriors, small boys constantly shuttled, laboriously creating a supply of arrows and percula—clay balls filled with Parma fire—for each defender. The city still burned, accompanied by the sound of bells and gongs. I tied my horse to a protruding beam and headed for the walls to assess the situation and check the cavalry. Despite the situation, the city was slowly calming down. This was likely due to the end of the live-fire bombardment, but also to a certain calming down and adjustment to the situation of the people. As I climbed the walls, I listened to the sound of my black cloak scraping against the stone steps. The sound reached me, and that's a bad sign during a siege. The enemy was too quiet.

I'd been to a castle under siege several times before, but this time I felt different than usual. Perhaps it was because it all came as a huge surprise. I simply hadn't expected it.

I found myself on a hill. The sight was terrifying. Some distance from the castle, on the hillside, opposite the main gate, was the enemy army. A multitude of enemy torches flashed before my eyes. They must have been moving, as most of the flames were in motion. This was also a bad sign. The enemy was very mobile.

Just beyond the cloisters, archers, crossbowmen, and harriers crouched in hiding. I crouched down too. You can never be too careful.

"Where's your weapon?" one of the crossbowmen asked me in a gruff voice.

"I'm a rider," I replied, tearing my gaze away from the enemy army.

"So what are you doing here?" he said, indignant.

"I'm assessing the situation," I said. "And looking for my own," I added after a moment.

The crossbowman didn't respond. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. Just like all the other defenders.

"Who are we fighting?" I was ashamed of the question.

"Are you kidding?" he looked at me searchingly. "Throw a bucket in your face and slam a few sheep into the wall, and maybe you'll come to your senses." He looked at me again. "You must be a lousy warrior if you don't know who we're fighting, huh?"

"Try..."

He interrupted me.

"Yes. Lousy. I wasn't wrong. Better go ask your horse to save your ass on the battlefield with a swift escape.

" "Damn you!

" "Save that verve for the enemies," he said, his voice exceptionally calm. "It'll be useful, because they're devilishly clever beasts, which makes up for their weakness in combat," he stated grimly.

"Who are they?" I asked, trying to sound friendly.

"Where are you from? Because you're probably not from anywhere near here, that you don't know the Graelite army.

" "From Tyrrhenian.

" "Truly far away." Something suddenly struck him, and he twitched nervously. "Wait! Perhaps you're not Valkamir of Tyrrhenian?

" "Maybe it's me too," I was pleased by the spark in his eye.

"Oh, damn! And you really don't look like you could slay a dozen Sentryps. You're not as thin as I thought, are you?" He took a handful of tobacco from his leather pouch.

He asked a stupid question. I didn't answer.

"Maybe you know where the cavalry is?" I finally said, my voice dubious.

He slowly turned his head and looked at me. After a moment of chewing, he spat and replied.

"Moldy!" "He let out a string of curses at the filthy tobacco. "Go left and take the third exit you see. They should be at the Grokwi gate.

" "Thanks. "

I jumped to my feet and, crouching, moved slowly.

"Wait! Come closer for a moment," he shouted after me. "Just in case, let me remember your face so they don't bury your body in the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior.

Fool. Everyone in this city, maybe even too well, knows my face," I thought, and slowly moved forward.