Tower Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

Frentis

He woke to find Illian and Arendil sharing breakfast, a watery porridge of oats from their diminishing supplies. Repeated movement left no time for hunting and hunger was becoming a constant companion. However, neither of them had voiced a single complaint and even their tireless bickering seemed to have abated following the battle with the Kuritai.

They had moved twice in the space of a week. Fief Lord Darnel proved tenacious in his pursuit, sending more hunters with slave-hounds and Varitai in escort, seemingly having exhausted his supply of slave elite. Frentis ordered false trails laid and traps set. At night he led small bands of the more stealthy fighters forth to cut throats and sow confusion in the ranks of their pursuers. Varitai were easier to kill than Kuritai, but they could still be formidable, especially if allowed to form ranks. He would strike in the small hours of the morning, seeking to kill as many dogs and hunters as possible, then withdrawing at speed to a pre-prepared ambush. It worked the first few times, the Varitai marching blindly into arrow storms and spiked pits. But whoever had command of the hunt soon became wise to the tactic, keeping his men together in four solid groups each numbering more than three hundred, whilst Frentis lost people every time they launched another attack and there were no more caravans to raid for recruits.

Their pursuers had evolved an unpleasant tactic of their own, loosing packs of slave-hounds at the slightest hint of a scent, thirty or more of the beasts running unfettered through the forest killing anything they could catch. Yesterday had brought them close enough to the camp to force a battle, the faith-hounds meeting their relatives headlong in a morass of tearing claws and flashing teeth. Frentis led half the fighters against their rear whilst Davoka took the others into their flank. She seemed to have a particular hatred of the slave-hounds, killing without restraint or fatigue as she cut a bloody trail through their swirling ranks. Frentis found her finishing the pack leader with a thrust through the rib cage, an ugly grimace of distaste on her face as she turned the spear to find the heart.

“Twisted,” she said in answer to his frown. “Made wrong and smell wrong.”

“We saved some for you, brother,” Illian said, offering him a bowl of the porridge.

He resisted the urge to ask if she had made it and accepted the bowl. “Thank you, my lady.” He ate the gruel and surveyed the camp. Aspect Grealin sat alone, as he usually did these days, seemingly lost in thought. Davoka and Ermund were practising again, hand-to-hand combat this time. He noticed her occasional grin as they tumbled together and wondered if he should offer some warning to Ermund, then noticed the knight’s own grin and decided it was probably redundant. Where did they find the time?

Thirty-Four, still undecided on a name, sat practising his Realm Tongue with Draker, although much of the lesson seemed to consist of the correct use of profanity. “No,” the big man shook his shaggy head. “Pig-fucker not fuck-pigger.”

Janril Norin was sharpening his sword, face impassive and eyes empty as he worked the stone along the edge. Beyond him Master Rensial tended their two remaining horses, the veteran stallion and the mare. Recently he had expressed his desire to breed them, providing a new blood-line for the Order’s stables, the state of which drew his constant criticism. “Too much straw on the floor,” he tutted. “Walls haven’t been whitewashed in months.”

“We were wondering, brother,” Arendil said, breaking into his reverie. “About the Volarians.”

“What about them?”

“Where they come from. Davoka says you’ve been there. Her ladyship thinks they all come from the same huge city, whilst my grandfather said their empire covered half the world.”

“It’s a big place,” Frentis said. “And Volar is said to be the greatest city in the world, though I’ve never seen it.”

“But you saw their empire?” Illian asked. “You saw what makes them into these beasts.”

“I saw cities, and roads of marvellous construction. I saw cruelty and greed, but I’ve seen them here too. I saw a people live a life that was strange in many ways, but also much the same as anywhere else.”

“Then why are they so cruel?” There was an earnestness to the girl’s face, an honest desire to know.

“Cruelty is in all of us,” he said. “But they made it a virtue.”

He returned his gaze to the camp, forcing himself to count every soul in sight. Forty-three, and eight hounds. This is not an army, and I am not a Battle Lord.

He stood up, hefting his sword and bow. “We’re leaving,” he said, loud enough to draw Davoka’s attention.

“Moving camp again, brother?” Arendil asked with a note of weary reluctance.

“No. We’re leaving the forest. There is no victory to be won here. It’s time to flee.”

Janril stood with the old Renfaelin sword resting on his shoulder. He carried no pack or canteen, nothing that would sustain him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Frentis told him. “I would hear you sing again, my friend. This land was always richer for it.”

The onetime minstrel just cast an impassive glance over his face then turned to walk away. He went a few yards before pausing to turn back. “Her name was Ellora,” he said. “She died with my child inside her.”

He resumed walking, soon lost from sight in the trees.

It wasn’t easy, the master’s eyes seemed about to birth tears as Frentis explained, but eventually he managed to persuade him to loose the horses, sending them north in the hope the hunters would follow the trail. “Too easily tracked, Master,” he said. “They have horses at the Pass, and I’m sure Master Sollis will have need of the finest stable master in the Realm.”

He ordered a westward course, intending to hook north having left more false trails for their pursuers. Frentis and Davoka brought up the rear whilst Ermund scouted ahead with Arendil and Illian, the girl’s ear now as well tuned to the song of the forest as any brother or huntsman. They covered at least twenty miles by nightfall, a good day’s march in the Urlish.

They made a silent and fireless camp, huddling together for warmth. “Stop fidgeting!” Illian hissed at Arendil as they lay side by side next to a fallen birch trunk.

“Your bloody dog keeps licking my face,” the boy returned in a sullen whisper.

Frentis sat watch beside Grealin, eyes and ears alive to the forest’s song. The forest appears black at night, Master Hutril had said years ago. An endless void. But it’s more alive in the dark than the daylight. Still your fears and know it as a friend, for it’s the best watchman you ever met.

In the tree tops an owl hooted at its neighbour with trustworthy regularity. The wind brought only the scents of the forest, free of man’s sweat or the sweeter tang of dog. The void was empty of any telltale gleam of metal in moonlight.

“Open country to the north, brother,” Grealin said in the softest whisper. “And near a hundred and fifty miles of Renfael to traverse before we reach the pass. The risk is great.”

“I know, Aspect. But it’s greater here.”

They kept a westward course for the next day, Frentis ordering a turn north come evening. He spent an hour continuing west alone but for Slasher and Ermund, laying a trail of broken branches and conspicuous boot and paw prints. They kept at it until nightfall then moved north to find the river, following the bank to a shallow ford. The others were waiting on the other side, Davoka stepping from the shadows with spear ready and Illian rising from a bush, crossbow in hand.

“We move on at dawn,” Frentis said, slumping at the foot of a pine trunk and letting sleep claim him for the few hours left until daylight.

Morning brought a new scent on the wind, musty and acrid. Frentis called to Illian and nodded at the pine trunk. The girl handed Arendil her crossbow and began to climb, scampering from branch to branch until she had reached the highest point.

“Fire,” she reported on returning to earth. “Lots of fire.”

“Where?” Davoka asked.

“Everywhere. All around. The largest one is burning to the south of us though, just a little ways from the city.”

Frentis exchanged a glance with Grealin. Darnel burns the Urlish just for us?

“What do we do?” Draker asked, unable to keep the old whine from his voice.

“What every other living thing is this forest is doing.” Frentis slung his bow across his back and began to throw away anything that might slow him down. “We run.”

He ran them for an hour at a time, taking the lead and setting a punishing pace. Some of the fighters flagged, collapsing from the strain, but he allowed no lingering, setting Davoka to haul them along, promising direst punishment if they fell out again. All the time the smell of smoke grew thicker, the first columns rising to stain the sky through breaks in tree cover. Predictably, Grealin found the pace the hardest to bear, huffing along behind with sweat streaming over his fleshy face. But he voiced no complaint and kept on his feet until nightfall.

Illian climbed another tree as the sun waned, her slight form black against an orange sky as she surveyed the forest. “It’s just one big fire to the south now,” she said. “You can’t see the city for it, the flames are so high. There’s another one almost as big to the west.”

“Ahead of us?” Frentis asked.

She gave a grim nod. “Still patchy. But it’s growing.”

“Then we can’t linger. Move in a line and stay together. When the smoke gets thick join hands.”

They felt the heat build after the first mile, a pall of cinder-rich smoke descending soon after, bringing coughs and retching as they stumbled forward hand in hand. Frentis had hold of Illian whilst she held to Arendil. He was forced to stop frequently to peer ahead, looking for a path free from the orange glow of flame. Occasionally a deer or wild boar would come racing through the haze, lost to view before he could discern any escape route their senses may have revealed.

They were following a narrow trail when a great crack told of a falling tree, a tall pine descending to block their path, wreathed in flame from end to end. Frentis looked about for another path, seeing only the orange glow on all sides. He pulled Illian closer, obliged to shout into her ear against the fire’s roar. “Tell the Aspect to come to the head of the line!”

Grealin appeared shortly after, the sweat now a constant slick over his face. Frentis pointed at the blazing pine trunk with a questioning glance. The Aspect stared at it for a moment then stepped forward with a resigned grimace. He raised both hands, fingers spread wide, his shoulders hunched as if straining against an invisible wall.

For a second nothing happened, then the pine trunk trembled, shuddered and burst apart, scattering burning splinters in all directions. Grealin fell to his knees, gasping and retching in the smoke, blood pouring from his nose. He waved away Frentis’s helping hand and gestured impatiently for him to move on.

“I will not leave you, you fat old fool!” Frentis yelled, hooking his free arm under the Aspect’s meaty limb and pulling him upright. “Now walk! Walk!”

The smoke soon became so thick all vision was lost and they were forced to crawl, seeking cleaner air closer to the ground. All around trees snapped and tumbled in the flames, the oak and yew falling with mighty groans. It’s dying, Frentis thought. Between us, we killed the Urlish.

A sudden breeze dispelled the smoke enough for him to gauge their surroundings, finding a broad clearing with widely spaced trees ahead as yet untouched by flame.

“Up!” he shouted, dragging Grealin to his feet. “We’re nearly out. Run!”

The line fragmented as they ran, stumbling and coughing, feeling the ever-rising heat on their backs. Frentis collapsed to a halt when he realised he was running through long grass with a clear sky above. He lay on his back, gulping air and wondering if he had ever tasted anything so sweet.

“Never seen,” he heard Grealin muttering, sitting up to find the Aspect staring at the burning forest. It seemed to be on fire from end to end now, the sky above the trees filled with roiling black smoke, banishing the sun and leaving them in a cold shadow.

“Aspect?” Frentis asked.

“This was never seen.” Grealin shook his head, deep confusion on his face as he continued to stare at the dying forest. “Not by any scrying. We are beyond prophecy now.”

They had lost five people to the fire, vanished somewhere in the smoke. Frentis had thought the faith-hounds lost too but Slasher appeared as they marched north, bounding out of the long grass with Blacktooth and six of his pack loping behind. He knocked Frentis onto his back and covered his face with licks, voicing one of his rasping whuffs. “You’re a good old pup,” Frentis told him, running a weary hand through his fur.

They kept a wary eye out for Volarian cavalry but the wind proved a friend, calling the smoke from the Urlish down around them in a concealing fog. Frentis heard distant bugle calls and drumming hooves but none came close enough to pose a threat. The land north of the Urlish turned from rolling hills to gullies and crags after twenty miles or so, well remembered from his Test of the Wild and providing welcome cover. He sought out an overhanging cliff he recalled from the three days before One Eye’s men had come for him, a tall sandstone edifice with an eroded notch in its base large enough to accommodate the whole group. The rushing stream outside also masked any sound they made though they dared not risk a fire.

“I’ve seen enough fire for one day,” Illian said, forcing a laugh, but Frentis saw how she shivered and the gauntness of her cheeks. They had no food and only the clothes they stood in to guard against the night’s chill. I should have spared them this, he knew. Too many weeks spent drunk on blood.

Her voice sounded in his mind again, as he found it often did in moments of doubt. But didn’t it taste so good, beloved?

She was there again in his dreams that night, on the beach once more, the surf crashing under a red sky. But this time there was no child. She stood as she had before, not turning as he approached, regarding the spectacle before her with statuelike stillness and wind-tangled hair. He moved to her side, taking in her sombre profile. “So many,” she said, without turning. “More than we ever managed, beloved.”

He looked at the shoreline, seeing the corpses tossed by the waves. The beach stretched away on either side as far as he could see, thick with dead at every step.

“Did we do this?” he asked.

“We?” A small grin came to her lips, a glimmer of the old cruelty in her eyes as she angled her head to regard him, her hand reaching for his. “No. You did this, when you killed me.”

It wasn’t just the shoreline, he could see that now. The sea was crowded with corpses from beach to horizon. All the world’s dead within his gaze. “How?”

“I would have been terrible,” she replied. “My reign one of boundless greed and lust, a bitter queen visiting her lonely spite on the whole world. For you would have left me by then, fallen in the last hopeless battle against my Horde. But terrible as fate would make me, I am not him. This would not have been my doing. I was the one chance this world had for salvation.”

He let her take his hand, feeling the warmth of her flesh, not cold like before. He knew then in a chilled rush of certainty that if she had agreed to his bargain, they would have been together for the rest of their days. All hatreds and crimes forgotten in this distant place where they would have raised their child as the world fell to ruin beyond their sight. The guilt of it choked him, made him want to enfold her in his arms once more, snap her bones and feel her shudder as death took her.

She smiled, the cruelty gone as she clasped his hand tighter, her voice catching as she said the final words. “I’m sorry, my love. But we both need to wake up now.”

“Brother!” Arendil’s voice was low but urgent as he shook him from sleep with a hard tug on his arm. “Riders coming.”

He led them up a narrow track in the cliff’s side, lying down atop it and peering over the edge as the riders came into view. A battalion of Free Cavalry headed by a troop of Renfaelin knights, a tall figure in blue-enamelled armour riding in front. Frentis felt Arendil stiffen at his side as the figure came closer.

“Your father?”

The boy’s face was grim with hate, knuckles white on the handle of his long sword. “He always wears blue armour. Spends half the fief’s treasury on it, so they say.”

The riders halted about three hundred paces off, hunters and dogs coming to the head of the column. It wasn’t long before one pointed directly at the gully.

“We run while they look for us here,” Davoka said. “Be miles gone before they find our trail.”

Grealin spoke the words already forming in Frentis’s mind. “And when they do they’ll be on us before nightfall.” He met Frentis’s gaze. “I’m very tired of running, brother.”

The fat man stood outside the overhang, hands clasped over his extensive belly as the riders galloped into the gully. The tall knight in the blue armour raised a hand, halting the battalion and trotting forward with a bow to greet the fat man, although he felt no impulse to dismount. Their conversation could be only half heard from Frentis’s hiding place at the head of the gully, crouching behind a rock with Arendil at his side, but he discerned the words “Red Brother” and “son.” Grealin spoke his replies with an easy smile and an affable nod, neither of which seemed to hold much sway with the knight who soon drew his sword, nudging his mount forward until the tip was a few inches from the Aspect’s chest. “Enough, brother,” Frentis heard him say. “Where are they? No more games.”

Frentis raised his eyebrows at Arendil. The boy’s face was bleached white but still determined as he replied with a nod.

“Darnel!” Frentis called, stepping free of cover, bow in hand with arrow notched, Arendil at his side, long sword drawn.

The knight wheeled his horse towards them, eyes unseen behind his visor but the triumph of the moment clear in the shouted orders he cast at his retainers. They spurred forward in an instant gallop, forgetting Grealin in what proved a singular misjudgement.

The Aspect allowed the knights and a dozen Free Swords to gallop past before stepping away from the cliff face, turning and raising his arms as he backed away, splayed fingers pointing at the worn notch of the overhang. A sound like a thunderclap echoed through the gully, red dust exploding to envelop the Volarian cavalry, horses rearing in the billowing cloud.

Grealin continued to back away as another thunderclap sounded, the knights’ charge faltering at the force of the concussion shaking the earth, making their mounts draw up in alarm. The man in the blue armour whipped his reins against his horse’s flank to stop it rearing, turning in time to see a spiderweb of cracks spread through the sandstone cliff in the space of a heartbeat. Frentis put an arrow in his leg as he sat staring, the steel-headed barb finding the thinly shielded knee joint. The knight twisted in the saddle, clutching at the shaft then tumbling to the ground as another shaft took him in the gap between breastplate and shoulder.

He lay on the ground, his shouts lost as the cliff continued to fragment behind him, breaking apart in a blast of sound that sent Frentis and Arendil reeling. The sandstone slabs tumbled into the gully below, shrieks of men and horses drowned by the crescendo of falling stone.

More dust rose in a tall plume, swallowing Grealin’s slumped form as the surviving cavalrymen and knights wheeled in confusion. Frentis got to his feet and felled a cavalryman with an arrow to the back as the fighters appeared on both sides of the gully’s edge, loosing arrows and crossbow bolts in a volley that did credit to their weeks of hard-won experience. Frentis saw about half the horsemen fall as he cast his bow aside and charged forward with sword drawn, the fighters running in from both sides.

It was done quickly, the knights and cavalrymen speared or hacked down in short order. He saw Arendil leap and bring his long sword down to cleave through a cavalryman’s arm as he tried to slash at Davoka. Ermund stood in front of a charging knight, sword held level with his head, stepping aside at the last instant to deliver an expert upward slash, finding the knight’s unarmoured throat and sending him from the saddle in a spiral of blood.

Frentis found Grealin lying on his side, eyes half-closed and a thick stream of blood seeping from every opening. He crouched next to him, laying a hand on his broad arm. The Aspect’s eyes fluttered open, still weeping red tears. They regarded Frentis for a silent moment, bright and clear, the flesh around them creasing as Grealin smiled. He sputtered, blood spurting from his mouth as he tried to speak. Frentis leaned close to hear him rasp, “I think . . . I prefer life . . . without prophecy.”

“Aspect?”

But there were no more words from the Aspect of the Seventh Order. Nor would there ever be.

Frentis walked towards the prostate form of the man in the blue armour. He was struggling to rise, a torrent of pained profanity issuing from his masked lips. Frentis put his sword point under the visor, the knight becoming instantly still as the other fighters crowded round.

“Don’t we have to try him first?” Draker asked. “Since he’s a Fief Lord and all.”

“Just kill the bastard, brother,” Ermund said. “Or let me have the honour.”

Frentis flipped the visor up, revealing a thin face with bloodied lips and terror-filled eyes.

“Wenders!” Ermund said in disdain, stepping forward to deliver a kick to the man’s skewered knee, drawing an agonised howl. “We want the master, not the dog. Let you out to play in his armour did he? Where is he?” He kicked again. “Where?”

“Enough,” Frentis said. “You know this man?”

“Rekus Wenders, Darnel’s chief retainer and lick-spittle. Led the knights who came for the baron, handed me and my men to the Volarians. Those he hadn’t slaughtered.”

“I-I follow my Fief Lord,” Wenders stammered. “I am bound to him by oath . . .”

“Fuck your oath.” Ermund stamped his boot onto Wenders’s neck and began to push down hard. “My cousins died that day, you filth!”

Davoka stepped forward, laying her hand on Ermund’s chest, her face fierce with disapproval. The knight stared at her in fury then turned away with a shout of frustration, leaving Wenders gasping on the ground.

Frentis beckoned to Thirty-Four. The former slave left off from cleaning his short sword and came to stand at his side, regarding Wenders with his customary incurious stare.

“This man was a numbered slave with a particular skill set,” Frentis told Wenders. “I assume you’ve seen enough of the Volarians to know what that means.”

The knight’s face became rigid with fear and a sharp smell arose from his armour.

“Faith!” Draker said, turning away in disgust. “Watching the knight kill him would’ve been easier to bear.” He walked off to rifle the corpses for valuables; an outlaw’s habits were hard to break.

“Good,” Frentis said to Wenders, sinking to his haunches. “We have little time for my friend’s usual subtlety, so you’ll understand the importance of brief but honest answers.”

The knight’s head began a vigorous nodding in the confines of his helmet.

“You will tell me all you know of Lord Darnel’s dispositions in Varinshold,” Frentis informed him. “How many men he has, where he sleeps, what he eats. And you will also tell me where he keeps the Aspect of my order.”

They built a fire for Grealin, having no time for more than the briefest of words, Frentis stumbling through them as best he could. How do you do justice to a man like this in a few phrases? he thought. He faltered to a halt in trying to recite the Catechism of Faith and Davoka stepped forward as the others exchanged uncertain glances.

“My people fear those like him,” she said, voice ringing in the confines of the gully. “We think they steal what belongs to the Mahlessa and the gods, becoming twisted with the theft, unworthy of trust or clan. This man taught me that we are wrong.”

Arendil came forward, smiling sadly at Grealin’s shrouded bulk. “He used to tell me stories about the Order sometimes, at night when the others were asleep. Every one was different, carrying a new lesson. I hope I listened as well as I should.”

Illian went to his side as her face bunched in anticipation of tears, grasping his hand before raising her own voice. “He said blood made me a lady, but life had made me a huntress. He thought it suited me better.”

Frentis moved forward with the torch, touching it to the kindling and stepping back. “Good-bye Master,” he whispered as the flames rose.

Davoka stripped Wenders of his armour and removed the arrows before binding his wounds. She wasn’t gentle and the knight’s yelps were enough to make Ermund clamp a hand over his mouth and hold a dagger to his throat as she completed her work. They propped him against a fallen section of cliff with a canteen within easy reach.

“When your lord asks,” Frentis said, “tell him the Red Brother offers his compliments and will return shortly to settle our business. If you’re smart, you’ll forget to tell him how helpful you’ve been.”

“You’re all fools,” the knight replied, finding some vestige of courage now it was clear they didn’t intend to kill him. “This land belongs to the Volarians now. If you want to live, you have to join with them. Think me a coward if you want, but I’ll still be breathing twenty years from now whilst you’ll all be long de-”

Illian’s crossbow bolt made a loud metallic ping as it punched through Wender’s eye to connect with the rock behind his head. Incredibly he managed to gasp out a few final words, whatever wisdom they held lost in a babble of spittle before he slumped forward, lifeless and silent.

“Sorry, brother,” Illian told Frentis with an expression of sincere contrition. “My finger slipped.”

They trekked north for three days. There had been only two surviving horses from the carnage in the gully, tall Renfaelin steeds now pressed into service as pack animals under Master Rensial’s care. The Volarian dead had yielded a decent supply of food, strips of dried beef and a hard biscuit of wheat and barley that turned into a surprisingly appetising porridge when placed in boiling water.

On the third day the crags and vales of northern Asrael gave way to the tall downs of the Renfaelin border, the grassy mounds rising from pasture largely devoid of forest or sheltering rocks.

“We could turn east,” Draker suggested. “Make for the coast. Country’s more broken up there. Remember it well from my smuggling days.”

“We can’t afford the time,” Frentis replied, though he shared the big man’s reluctance. Perfect place for cavalry, but there’s nothing else for it.

They kept to the low country as much as possible, steering clear of roads or villages, climbing the downs only to make camp come evening. Two more days’ march brought them within sight of the River Andur, beyond which Arendil assured them lay forest aplenty.

“Thanks to the Departed,” Illian said. “I feel naked out here.”

They covered five miles the following morning before they heard it, a distant thunder accompanied by a faint tremble in the earth. By now there was none amongst them so naïve as to mistake it for an approaching storm.

“Moving south,” Davoka reported, lying down with her ear to the ground. “Ahead of us.” She got to her feet with a grave expression. “Be here very soon.”

“Illian! Arendil!” Frentis beckoned them over to the two horses, Master Rensial swiftly removing the packs and handing them the reins. “Ride west,” Frentis told them. “Push hard. A week’s journey will take you to Nilsael . . .” He trailed off at the sight of Illian releasing the reins and stepping back, arms crossed. Arendil stood at her side, also empty-handed.

“This is not a game . . .” he began.

“I know it’s not a game, brother,” Illian broke in. “And I am not a child, neither is Arendil. You can’t do what we have done and remain children. We’re staying.”

Frentis stared at them helplessly, guilt threatening to force a scream from his breast. If you die here, it’s my fault!

“Always was a long bet, brother,” Arendil said with a grim smile.

Frentis breathed out slowly, letting the scream die, casting his gaze about their bedraggled company and finding no fear on any face. They all looked at him in silent respect, waiting for orders. I was made monstrous, they made me better. They brought me back. I came home.

He could feel the rumble in the ground beneath his feet now, building steadily. Must be a thousand or more. “Form a circle,” he said, pointing to a slight rise in the ground twenty paces off. “Master Rensial, please mount up and stand with me in the centre.”

He hauled himself onto one of the warhorses, trotting over to the rise and standing with Rensial alongside as the others closed in around them, forming a spiked hedge of drawn swords and raised bows.

The first riders came into view only minutes later, dim figures in the lingering morning mist, twenty men riding hard. No armour, Frentis saw. Volarian scouts . . . All thought fled as he caught sight of the face of the lead rider. A lean man of middling years with close-cropped hair and pale eyes, his dark blue cloak billowing behind.

“Lower weapons,” Frentis said, dismounting and walking forward on unsteady legs as the blue-cloaked man reined in a short distance away.

“Brother,” Master Sollis greeted him, his voice even more hoarse than Frentis remembered. “You seem to be marching in the wrong direction.”