Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 4

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Cyril, as the trade guard called himself, did not waste time. As soon as one of the servants brought two more shirts for Niro, a warm felt cloak and a travel bag to fit everything in, they were out of the cells and on their way through the castle. There had been no further talk, no explanations, no reasoning as to why Niro should stick with him or who had sent him, but Niro didn’t press his luck by asking childish questions. Somehow, Cyril’s presence opened all the doors between him and freedom, and he didn’t plan to miss this opportunity. The loss of his mimikry talisman still irked him, but trade guards didn’t stick to the cities and they knew the roads better than most bandits. There would be enough chances to run without the aid of magic, once they left the gates of Tetharion behind them.
Passers-by shot them a few curious glances, as if both a human boy and a trade guard were an exotic enough sight to stop and watch for a moment, but nobody bothered them. Not even the guards at the gate, which opened groaning and creaking as they approached. They walked through unmolested. The chatter of city voices, the steady groan of carriages, the clattering of armor, all those sounds faded as they made their way into the sunshine and the wilderness of Tetharion. A sparrow chirped its incessant territorial song, fluttering away as they approached its nesting site. Cyril kept quiet.
Niro held out for another half hour before his patience finally crumbled. One moment he was walking a bit to the side behind Cyril, the next he was sprinting through the hedges on the side of the road, jumping over toppled logs, dodging brambles, and snaking his way through young trees already conquering the acres of land left barren by the war. His breath and his heartbeat both roared so loudly, he was unable to listen for sounds of pursuit, but he didn’t fall for the urge to turn around. It would only slow him down or let him run head first into a tree, and then he’d be either dead or in chains again.
The trees grew taller and taller, the longer he ran. The ground sloped up and down, although what he could see of the horizon told him he was heading more down than up, and a few times he almost tumbled over a root or a branch and had to slow down just enough to see where he was going. When the hill finally became so steep that he had to catch himself on trees to slow down, he finally stopped his flight, scrambled behind a group of rocks littering the hillside and tried to calm his breath and heart. Niro had to fight against the urge to rub the bloody scratches on his face and arms, where branches or tree bark had casually slapped him in his headless flight. But delving into that pain would take his mind off his pursuer, something he couldn’t risk. Not if he wanted to get away and stay free.
Gusts of wind whispered through the sun kissed foliage, complimented by lovesick forest birds. Niro could hear his heavy breath, his galloping heartbeat, the incessant crunching of old leaves beneath his naked feet, the rustle of mice and other small creatures scurrying about, but nothing else. Instinctively, he pressed closer to the big granite blocks, putting his cheek against the soft, dark moss growing in every crevice. It can’t be that easy, he thought.
Only the way his muscles cramped and hardened told of the passing of time, begging him to sit down or stand up straight, anything but staying as he was. Niro held out as long as he possibly could, motionless, reining in his breathing, calming his heartbeat, straining to listen for sounds of pursuit. He held for all but two hours.
The sun shone almost horizontal through the trees when he finally sagged to the ground, just as breathless as when he had run. This time around, it was the urge to cry with pain that had him sweating, trying his hardest not to let those sounds escape his mouth as his muscles gave, one after another, each one sending a dagger-like thread of hurt through his bones.
Cyril obviously hadn’t followed him, probably thinking he wasn’t worth the trouble. There were so many dangers lurking about in this wilderness, the trade guard most likely assumed he wouldn’t survive the night, and who would cry over another dead human? The landscape was littered with their carcasses, left where they had been felled, gnawed on by scavengers and slowly, ever so slowly, sinking into the unforgiving earth.
Nobody would be looking for him. The thought made Niro sniff and rub his eyes furiously as the tears threatened to fall again. This wasn’t any different from his life in the city. He was just as alone as he had been then and he wouldn’t give in, become weak like his family, because weakness meant death. These woods were known to swallow people whole, without a trace or a body to cry over. Niro didn’t plan to be one of the stories Tetharians told their children to frighten them.
Still sniffing, he started to clear away the leaves, branches and insects from the small depression at the foot of the rocks, then collected moss to pad it and settle down for the night. Tomorrow, he would try to get his bearings and start his travel further south, where humans still reigned and the war was still brewing.

They came at night, ripping Niro out of his exhausted dozing with the dry, muffled sound of leathery wings. The ghostly sound made Niro sit up with a jerk. The darkness had settled thick and oily beneath the old trees, sheltered against the moon by their foliage and impenetrable by human eyes. There was only one creature with wings that big. Niro shuddered and crawled closer to the rocks behind him, pressing his back against their bumpy surfaces as he nervously scanned the pitch black before him.
Nightgigers.
Niro’s wet nurse had told him stories about those creatures and their taste for children’s flesh, but he had always dismissed them as the rantings of an old hag. Now he wasn’t as sure anymore. He strained his ears, trying to penetrate the soft rustling of the night wind by sheer will and failing. He couldn’t even remember what else his wet nurse had told him about those creatures, except that they only came out at night and that no human had ever laid eyes on them, except in death.
They usually acted more like Panders, picking out weak and frail victims who weren’t able to put up much resistance, but contrary to Panders, the Nightgigers didn’t eat dead flesh. No, their prey had to be able to struggle and scream as they ate.
Niro shuddered, biting his fist to keep from making small fear sounds. He huddled closer to the rocks, jerking and twitching each time he heard those wings flapping, praying to all gods to protect him as fear settled deep in his bones and the cold night air started to seep into his shivering body. If he survived this night, he would listen to his elders. If he survived, he would light a candle for his wet nurse and he would pray at the graves of his family. If the gods let him see dawn, he’d stop his selfish ways and try to be a better person.
That night, Niro didn’t sleep and he didn’t move. He prayed until his mind was exhausted and his body stiff, and then prayed some more.
When the sun finally rose and those first rays of sunshine tinted the sky pink, the flapping of wings stopped, making way for birdsong and deer calls… And a voice, coming from the rocks right above Niro.
“So, are you done demonstrating your displeasure?” Cyril asked, calmly sitting on top of the biggest boulder, his right arm propped up by a battered war axe. “I already knew that you don’t want to be here. Neither do I. What am I supposed to do with a young buck like you? You won’t survive a week without help.”
Niro’s cheeks turned pink with anger. Had he been there the whole night, watching over him? Letting him stew in his own fear? “I can take care of myself,” he snarled with a shaky voice and stood up.
“I can see that,” Cyril said. “Now, how about I teach you how to do more than that?”
He waited for a reply for a few moments, then hopped off the rock and sheathed his weapon. “Come on. We’ve got a long road ahead of us and you have much to learn.”
Niro stared after Cyril’s retreating back, trying to decide if he should follow or not. Cyril wanted to teach him not only to survive, but to fight. It was a skill he sorely needed. It was a way to fight the Ailill.
“Wait for me,” he cried and ran after the trade guard, falling into step next to him.