War of the Animum

a/n: Special thanks to anyone who has read, reviewed, rated, and offered me feedback. I wouldn't be able to do this without you.  

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Wolf in the Fold

Chapter: Nine

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Sleet woke to the sensation of someone's boot in his ribs, prodding incessantly. He swatted at his assailant, peeling open tired eyes to find Raven looming over him.



“Get your lazy ass up,” the mercenary demanded before stalking away, the effect ruined by the obvious limp on his left leg.



Sleet groaned and rolled to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested the sudden movement. He was cold, too. His breath came out in short bursts of gray in the damp morning air.



Everyone else was already awake, packing away what they had scraped together for supplies.



Like Sleet, they all moved slowly. Ashur had dark circles under his eyes, and Iblion was muttering something about aching bones. No one looked happy to be awake.



Sleet glanced at the sky. Dawn, just barely after. Ugh.



“Come on, everyone,” Alaris said with a drawn-out sigh. “There is no use in lingering.”



Heimdal had returned at some point in the night. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet at the edge of the forest, gesturing to an old, worn game trail. Despite that, his expression did not reflect optimism or eagerness. A nervous energy perhaps.



“How long will it take us to get through Shadowglade?” Tungsten asked, the first to approach the anxious deity.



“A few hours at the most,” Heimdal replied. “I'm going to take you the direct route.”



Sleet rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the light conversation building between everyone else. His ears felt stuffed with cotton and he hadn't gotten near enough sleep. He couldn't relax cuddled next to Beryl. He kept expecting to wake up with a knife in his back, even if Beryl had been warm.



He followed at the back of the crowd, but paused at the edge of the forest, looking back at Reiran. In the morning light, the consequences of the earthquake were more obvious. Half of the eastern face had collapsed. Large boulders had fallen down, pockmarking the ground.



He wondered what the Kurai were going to do next. Living in Reiran was no longer a safe option. The mountain was unstable.



Then again, it wasn't his problem.



Sleet turned back to the forest, slipping onto the path just behind Iblion, whose broad shoulders blocked Sleet's view of everyone else. The deity didn't spare Sleet a glance, leaving him to his thoughts. Perfect.



Above them, the sky rumbled. Sleet glanced up through the canopy of dark-green leaves. It was a dark, roiling grey above him. A storm was rolling in. Great.



Iblion says it'll be on us by noon. It's a large storm. It'll follow us to Toran.



Sleet sighed aloud. At least he'd managed to acquire a pair of boots. He wouldn't have to slog through the inevitable mud.

o0o0o

True to Heimdal's word, it took them only a few hours to travel through Shadowglade, which wasn't nearly as ominous as the rumors had made it out to be.



Sleet suspected that the Kurai had purposefully perpetrated those rumors in order to keep random visitors away from Reiran. The scariest thing to be found in Shadowglade was the argyle spider, about the size of a man's fist and the same color as the leaves on the surrounding trees. They weren't even venomous to humans, but they were terrifying to look at.



Sleet didn't have a problem with spiders. One got used to them and their webs when you spent a lot of time skulking about in the dark and shadows.



Raven, however, seemed to take great joy in slashing every argyle they found to bits. The sort of savage attacks that implied an element of fear behind the rationale.



This amused Sleet greatly, though he refrained from teasing Raven. There was a wild look in the mercenary's eyes that didn't speak of sanity.



The weather continued to hold by the time they emerged, in the same exact location as where they had been camping less than a week prior. As a matter of fact, evidence of their occupation was still here. A few of their packs were still tucked against the logs and two of their horses were grazing nearby.



“Flurin!” Raven broke into a smile, his voice the happiest Sleet had ever heard it.



True enough, one of the horses was Raven's mare. She nickered as Raven approached, running a hand through her mane. Despite being separated, Flurin didn't look the worse for wear. It helped that Raven had the habit of removing her saddle at night.



“They didn't take much of anything,” Alaris said with audible surprise.



She sat on one of the logs, pulling a bag into her lap and rifling through it. “Nothing's missing, aside from what few things I managed to take with me.” Said belongings which were now buried in Reiran.



“No weapons,” Iblion said, kicking at the remains of their campfire, a piece of sooty wood catapulting into the woods. “They took every last one of those.”



“What about the other horses?” Tungsten asked.



“They probably took off,” Raven said, still patting his fingers over Flurin. “We might find them on the plains. Or they went back to Gwartney.”



Something black careened out of the woods, cawing noisily into the air. It aimed straight for Raven, who turned and held out an arm, the smile on his face very disconcerting.



Karasu. Sleet was amazed the crow had struck around to wait for its master.



Tungsten had also discovered that some of his belongings were left behind. Namely a change of clothes, a few packets of herbs, and his books.



Ashur's pack had survived, though there was little in it to begin with. Nothing of use to any of them, truth be told.



Beryl hadn't anything on him when he joined.



A stop in Toran would still be needed, Sleet realized. He wasn't getting out of going home just yet. Damn it.



“What about coin?” Raven asked.



Alaris' eyebrows rose. “All here,” she said, surprise evident in her tone.



“What use would the Kurai have of coin in their isolated village?” Ashur said, sitting on the log with his own pack in his hand. “I suspect their economics is based on a barter system. Or common ownership.”



Sleet stared. Not only was that some of the most he'd heard Ashur say, it also reeked of education. Something higher than the basic reading, writing, and arithmetic Sleet's mother had forced into her sons' heads.



“Right.” Raven was also staring at Ashur. “Good for them. Now we'll at least have coin to buy more supplies in Toran.”



Toran, Toran, Toran. Did they have to keep reminding Sleet where they were going?



To add insult to injury, the first drop of rain landed on Sleet's neck, slithering down into his tunic. He shivered and glared up at the sky, the thick grey clouds heavy with impending rain.



“This is where we part,” Heimdal said, still standing in the shadow of the forest, his grey clothing helping him blend. “I must return to Malach.”



“We could really use your help,” Alaris said with a familiar wheedle to her tone.



Heimdal' lips pinched together. “Do not discount our aid yet,” he said. “It remains to be seen what the Kurai will decide.”



Hephaestion shimmered into view. “We will give you one week once we arrive in Toran,” he said, exchanging a glance with Alaris, who nodded her agreement.



“A week!” Sleet exclaimed.



All heads swiveled his direction.



“Do you have a problem with that, Sleet?” Alaris demanded.



Yes.



“No,” Sleet said, his skin crawling as they stared at him. “It just seems a waste of time is all.”



“Since when have you cared about the urgency of this quest?” Raven said, but it seemed rhetorical as he didn't wait for Sleet to reply. “A week should be enough time for us to resupply, rest, and recover.”



Since when have you cared about whether or not we were in any shape to continue this stupid quest? Sleet thought snidely.



“Good luck,” Heimdal said, cutting through the tension. He tipped his head in a shallow bow. “If there is justice, then Malach and I will join you soon.”



He melted into the dim of the forest without another word.



A fatter, heavier drop of rain splattered on Sleet's forehead. The sky rumbled noisily, strong enough that Sleet could feel it through the soles of his boots.



“And that's our cue to leave,” Iblion said, his eyes flashing as he glanced up at the sky. “We're heading into the heart of the storm. It'll slow us down.”



Alaris nodded. “All right. Raven, Ashur, up on the horses with the supplies. The rest of us will walk.”



Sleet's day kept getting better and better.

o0o0o

The storm didn't have the decency to be tolerable. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts of gold. Rain fell down in sheets, obscuring their vision and turning the dirt road into a muddy sludge. Thunder rumbled so loudly that they couldn't hear each other speak, not that there was much conversation to be had.



Sleet was so miserable he would have gladly skipped into Toran if only it would appear over the next rise in the land. He huddled in his thin cloak, glaring at the mud that splashed over the rim of his boots and soaked his feet.



The horses were struggling, their pace had slowed to a crawl, and fatigue was the only thing that kept Sleet from whining about it.



He sneezed.



Damn it.



Sleet wiped at his nose as it started to drip, and not as a consequence of the rain. There was also a tickle in the back of his throat. And his temperature kept wavering between too hot and freezing.



Beside him, equally miserable, Tungsten sniffled. “What I wouldn't g-give for a warm c-cup of c-chamomile right n-now.” His teeth were chattering.



Sleet half-expected the rain to turn to ice at any moment, much like his namesake. It was certainly cold enough, though the air didn't smell of snow. “Too weak,” Sleet argued, his stomach grumbling unappreciatively. He was hungry. “Give me a couple shots of whiskey. That'll warm us all right up.”



“I don't drink.”



Seriously? Maybe that was part of Tungsten's problem.



Sleet peered at the mage. “You ought to start. You're going to be a hero, aren't you? There's some things you have to do before you start risking your life, you know.”



By Aesir! Sleet would bet thirty coin down that Tungsten's never seen a woman naked. Or man, for that matter, though Sleet wouldn't bet on Tungsten being inclined toward the same sex.



“I don't see a purpose in alcohol,” Tungsten said with a shrug and another sniffle. “Though I may reconsider. I fear I may never unfreeze my toes.”



“You think this is bad?” Sleet snorted. “It's only mid-fall. Come back in a couple of months and this whole area will be buried under four feet of snow, and counting. It won't melt until late spring either.”



Tungsten shook his head and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping his nose. “I don't understand. Geographically, we are as far north as Nipon but the weather is not nearly as bad at this time of year.”



“That's because Nipon is a giant rain shadow whereas Toran and the land surrounding it are on the opposite side of it,” Ashur said hoarsely.



Both Sleet and Tungsten looked up at the twin, who was huddled on the horse, his face pale and his nose a bright, cherry red.



“I swear ta Aesir you're nothing more than a walking, talking book,” Sleet said.



“That's not a bad thing,” Tungsten added with an earnest look at the pale kid.



Sleet ignored Tungsten. “Books aren't going to help us get rid of Balaam.”



“They might,” Tungsten retorted. “You can learn a lot from reading, Sleet-san. Maybe there's a book somewhere that tells us all about these bonds, or what Balaam is after, or something.”



Sleet snorted and burrowed himself back in his cloak. He had no interest in hearing Tungsten's earnest speech. He was cold, miserable, and starving.



He should have run away when he had the chance.



He wandered away from Ashur and Tungsten, both of whom were starting to chat quietly now that Sleet was ignoring them. All the better.



Sleet eyed their surroundings, already familiar but now even more so. The large boulder no one could move, the creek cutting across the land, the field of stumps which was a sea of yellow dandelions in late spring.



They were close.



He craned his neck, peering around their procession. The massive archway crafted of wood notched together, weathered by decades of storms but still standing, was in sight. Someone had carved the name of the town into a thick plank of wood recently, and they'd hung it from the arch of the entryway. It swayed in the wind, the chains creaking.



Home.



Dread poured over Sleet in a chilling wave.



“We're almost there!” Alaris shouted, loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain, whistling wind, and endless thunder.



Eagerness made them all hurry. Sleet thought longingly of warm beds, warm dinner, and hiding until they left Toran. With any luck, no one would remember him and he wouldn't have to acknowledge his familiarity with Toran.



They passed under the archway and into the town proper, the main road wide and churned with wheel and horse tracks. There was plenty of room to move. The road was deserted, too. Unsurprising in this weather. The people of Toran were used to it, but no one went out in the torrential rain unless they had to. Why get wet if you didn't have to?



“Where's the inn?” Tungsten asked.



It was hard to see anything in the rain. Building signs were obscured and Toran had yet to invest in helpful sign posts to guide visitors.



Sleet, of course, knew where it was. If nothing had changed in the past two years, it was three buildings up, down an alley, and on a corner. It was called Pa's Place, nice and cozy, with a fireplace large enough to warm all two floors and ten rooms. He supposed the massive kitchen oven helped with the warming, too. Madden ran a bakery out the back half of the inn and not an hour went by where she wasn't whipping up something tasty.



They pressed on. Sleet didn't feel like playing the helpful guide.



Raven spotted a sign, pointing the way. Well, that certainly was new. At least it wasn't a post, more like a hanging plank on the face of the butcher's shop.



The alley provided a brief respite from the rain as the awnings overlapped, acting as an umbrella, but soon enough, they were out in the open again. The inn was a few tempting steps away and Tungsten wasn't the only one who let loose a ragged cheer.



The sky rumbled.



No, not the sky. The ground was shuddering beneath him.



Sleet's face drained of color, remembering the earthquake in Reiran all too well. This felt different than that, shallower.



“What is that?” he asked and found Tungsten sliding closer to him.



Magic crawled through the air like static electricity, lashing out at Sleet and he leapt backward, dragging Tungsten with him.



The air to Tungsten's right shimmered, Asclepius bouncing into view. “It's Heimdal,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip.



Heimdal? Hadn't they left him a few day's journey to the south, and in Reiran at that?



“But he's--”



“He's the lord of the earth,” Asclepius replied with a bright grin. “That comes with a few useful perks.”



The ground rumbled again before mud suddenly spewed into the air like a chunky geyser, spraying wet sod in all directions. Sleet threw up an arm, covering his eyes, and felt mud splatter over his clothes. Not that he wasn't already soaked and dirty. Insult on top of insult.



He dropped his arm, peering through the sheets of rain, staring at a pair of men, kneeling where the ground had erupted mere moments before. One he recognized as Heimdal, the other... might have been Malach. It was difficult to tell because the man's head was bowed, and his hair was so short that Sleet's own crop was longer.



Still, there weren't many men with hair that shade, unless Heimdal had picked up an old man from somewhere and decided to drag him along for the ride.



Asclepius gasped, her humor dissolving. “What happened?” she demanded, the first of them to react as she rushed forward, hurrying to catch Heimdal before he planted face-first in the mud.



“Long story,” the deity gasped out, leaning against Asclepius heavily, struggling to keep Malach propped up. “Long, long story.”



Iblion appeared on Heimdal's other side, taking Malach's arm and prompting the man to lean against him. Malach was dead weight, unconscious and lolling bonelessly in Iblion's arms.



Sleet edged closer, getting a better look. Malach's hair was gone, and there was a bright, raised mark on his forehead. Like it had been burned, branded. Sleet didn't recognize the symbol, suspecting it was in the language of the Kurai. He was dressed different now, in rags and tatters, lacking any kind of footwear and with no weapons.



“Get them inside,” Alaris shouted over the pounding rain. Her hands waved in the air, gesturing to the inn that was a few doors down. “Malach's bleeding!”



She was right. Sleet peered into the gloom and saw spatters of blood swirling in the muddy puddles on the ground. It wasn't coming from Malach alone though. Heimdal's arm looked like someone had hacked at it with a blunt weapon and one eye was clenched shut.



The two of them looked to have been through the pits and back.



Iblion hefted Malach over a shoulder, rescuer's carry, and between Alaris and Tungsten, they managed to get Heimdal on his feet.



Asclepius led the way, lacking her usual exuberant bounce, though she did hurry. She pulled open the door to the inn, holding it for everyone to enter ahead of them.



Walking into Pa's Place, Sleet was immediately blasted by a wave of welcome heat. His shoulders sagged with relief, his stomach grumbling at the scent of thick stew and fresh-baked biscuits.



Nothing had changed in the past two years. Half of the main room was a large dining room, packed to the brim with chairs and people, hungry and eager to escape the cold. The other half was an inviting entryway, with a main desk, several decorative plaques on the wall, and a thick, hand-woven rug lining the wood floor. It was an old rug, passed down in the generations same as the inn itself.



Pappi was standing behind the desk, but when the rowdy group came in, he'd moved around it, face pinched with concern. He didn't look any different either. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, his hair a bit grayer, but still the grouchy old man that Sleet remembered.



“What's going on? Are you okay?” Pappi asked.



Okay, so grouchy to a young Sleet and his group of miscreant friends. But overall, Pappi could be friendly when he wanted to be.



“Should I get a healer?” Pappi also asked.



They were starting to gather attention. All conversation in the dining area had stopped, a dozen pairs of eyes swiveling to the dripping, muddy grip with the interest of small-town folk who don't get much excitement.



“No, thank you,” Alaris said and tried to dig into her pouch with one hand. “But if we could get a few rooms...?”



“And dinner,” Raven prompted, leaning heavily against the wall, one hand gripping his left knee with a grimace.



“Stewart?”



He froze, recognizing that voice, and pulled the hood tighter around his face. He pretended he hadn't heard anyone say his name. His real name.



“Stewart Upton!”



Beryl nudged him with an elbow, his lips curved in a sly grin. “I think someone's talking to you, Stewart.”



Damn them all to the Pits and back! Why did his mother have to choose today to eat dinner at Pa's Place? She used to harp on them about home-cooked meals and how she slaved over a hot stove all the time!



A hand landed on his shoulder and Sleet surrendered to the inevitable. He turned around.



There she was, half a head taller than him with a head full of brown curls, now liberally streaked with grey. She had a big smile on her face, though, and she did not hesitate to pull him into a hug, smooshing his face against her clavicle.



“You're home!” his mother said, wrapping him into the embrace, pinning his arms at his sides. “By Sybaris, it's been years! Where have you been, Stewart!”



“Mom,” he protested, squeaking out the word. By Aesir, she was squeezing the life out of him. “Now is not a good time.”



“Poppycock!”



Sleet grimaced. Yes, his mother was a wife of the old country and she spoke as such. Poppycock was her idea of a swear word. Woe be unto him if he'd uttered anything worse as a child.



“Two years, son! Two years!” she protested and gave him another squeeze for good measure before finally releasing him from the embrace, holding him out an arm's length. “And yet, you haven't grown an inch!”



The muffled noise from behind Sleet finally broke into all-out laughter as Beryl stopped bothering to contain himself.



Sleet felt his face heat, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the fireplace. “Mom, I'm really busy right now. Can we talk about this later?” Like, in another decade or so if he could help it.



She shook her head, hooking her arm around his. “No. You're coming home with me right now. You're soaked and freezing and you're getting sick. I can already tell it.”



“I can't.” He tried to pull away but as always, it was pointless.



His mother was as strong as an ox. Of course, she'd spent her whole life on a farm, hauling and hoeing and plowing and wrestling cattle.



“I'm in the middle of something important,” Sleet added.



Because Malach was still unconscious, Heimdal looked halfway there, and Raven was limping. Not that Sleet really cared but anything to convince his mother to let him go.



His mother turned her head, finally noticing the group of similarly muddy, soaked, and pathetic people that had accompanied her son inside. They were staring at Sleet and his mother in return.



“Sleet, you...?” Tungsten looked confused, his gaze darting back and forth between Sleet and the woman clutching him.



Sleet knew how much he resembled his mother. It was embarrassingly uncanny. If not for the difference in eye color, they'd be almost a match. Oh, Sleet was a touch shorter, and he cut his hair short enough that the curl didn't matter, but he had the same angled chin and face shape.



“Sleet?” His mother repeated with an amused tone. “Is that what you're calling yourself these days?”



Sleet's shoulders sagged. “Can we not get into this right now?”



“Well, as wonderful as this family reunion is, we have injured to take care of,” Alaris said loudly, tossing a brief glare in Sleet's direction. “Sir, could we get those rooms?”



“Rooms? Nonsense!” Sleet's mother released him, but he entertained no notions of fleeing. There was nowhere to go. “We have plenty of room at the farm. And you are Stewart's friends.”



Alaris looked ready to protest.



Sleet knew her attempts would be fruitless. His mother was a force of nature, one Sleet barely escaped two years ago.



She would not take no for an answer.



He watched as his mother bustled everyone into a group, convinced Pappi to pot up some stew to go, summoned a wagon to transport the injured, and wouldn't let Alaris argue otherwise.



“Your mother,” Beryl said, from the corner of his mouth as he sat next to Sleet, squished into the confines of the wagon. “She's... interesting.”



Sleet snorted. “She's insane. Just wait. You'll see.”



He knew that coming to Toran would be a bad idea.



He should have run away when he had the chance.

****

(To be continued in "Interlude")

a/n: Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Review responses and chapter commentary can be found here: http://n-wilkinson.livejournal.com/84487.html.

Just a quick answer here: "Interlude" is the next story in the War of the Animum series so it'll still be posted under this header. You won't have to keep on the look out for a newly posted story, just watch this one. You can follow my tumblr or livejournal if you want notifications of when I update. Thank you for reading!