The Chosen by Kris Kramer (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📕

stop in mid-stride. To the east, across the water, stood a man that hadn't been there a moment ago. He was short, bald, with pale skin and dark eyes, and his mouth moved, but Riordan couldn't hear his words, nor did he need to. Riordan blinked, and the man disappeared, but his hand started shaking, and he quickly shut his eyes, trying to fight off the urge to run as fast as he could to the spot where the heretic had been standing. The urge was powerful, so much so that he feared what it might be doing to him. He felt his eyelids flicking open and closed, shuttering like hummingbird wings, and his legs lost their strength. He reached out to the ladder, to steady himself, but it wasn't there.

He stood in a vast wheat field. It was his field. His farm. He saw the brown timbered house where he lived off in the distance, and three children, his children, playing in front. He smiled, and walked back to them, so he could scoop them up in his arms, and kiss each one on the cheek. He hoped his wife was inside, preparing dinner, and then they'd all eat and–and... He slowed his pace, confused. He couldn't remember his wife's name. He struggled, thinking it was just on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came to him. Maybe his oldest son would remember. But now the boy’s name was gone from his memory. As were the other two. He couldn't remember anything about them now.

A blast of magic hitting the battlements shook him from his dream, and he nearly stumbled forward reaching for the ladder. After steadying himself, he looked around, and noticed that everyone was still exactly where they'd been. Everything had happened in an instant, just like it always did. He quickly hurried down the ladder and once he reached the landing below he took a deep breath. His waking dreams were far less frequent now than when he'd been a captive, but it was still jarring when he came back to reality. He heard a noise above and saw Alder following him down. He waited until Alder reached the landing and then they walked down the stairs to the second floor.

"Why did your centnar go to the keep?" Riordan asked, feeling the need to say something. "Why didn't he send someone instead?"

"We've had problems getting men and supplies from other outposts. He wanted to go himself so he could yell at someone about it."

"Terrible timing, I'd say."

"Of course, sir."

"The wizard is here?" Riordan said, pointing to the door at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, inside. That's the centnar’s quarters."

"I'll check on him. Go back down and tell everyone what we saw."

"Right away," Alder said, and he bounded around the corner and down the next stairwell. Riordan heard an explosion outside the walls as he reached for the door handle – dominators and wraiths trying to attack the doors, he presumed – and he cursed his luck for running into a marauding army of Anduains just as he’d almost made it back to Teekwood. His agitation turned to anger, and his mind raced back to those three months he'd spent in a dungeon, alone in the dark, and how he'd bided his time until he could make it back. All of that was about to be wasted, thanks to some terrible, terrible timing.

Inside was a meager office, with a simple wooden desk sitting in front of a small window slit, some maps arrayed on the walls, an empty armor stand in the corner to his left, and a wooden cot to his right. A disheveled man with long, stringy white hair lay asleep in the cot, facing the wall, wearing purple robes covered in mud and dirt. Riordan stepped close and leaned over to examine the man's wounds, but he found no obvious ones. In fact, this wizard seemed to be more malnourished and exhausted than injured.

"Wake up." He patted the wizard’s arm, trying to wake him gently, although the fact that he'd slept through the commotion up to this point meant he might need to resort to rougher tactics. Surprisingly, the wizard's eyes flittered open, and he turned to face the priest, who was now kneeling on the ground next to him. Riordan had initially thought this man was a bit older than him, due to his white hair and haggard appearance, but now he thought him younger, probably around his own age. In fact, as he stared at the gaunt face before him, he started to realize that he recognized the man under the dirt and mud.

And Riordan smiled, for he knew that fate had struck again, just as it had when he witnessed Aiden on the streets of Corendar. This was no ordinary wizard. The man he saw lying before him was his friend and fellow Warhound, lost to him in the caverns on that fateful day three months ago.

"Landon?" he asked, hoping he wasn't imagining this, too.

The wizard slowly looked up at him, his eyes squinting, then opening in surprise. "Riordan?" he whispered, staring back as if wondering himself whether this was a dream. "Is that you?"

Riordan gave his old friend a hug. "It is. I'm here."

"I can't believe I found you," Landon said. His voice was hoarse and raw, like he hadn't spoken in some time.

"Found me?" Riordan was surprised. "How are you even here? I thought you were still down in those caves."

"I was. I..." his voice trailed off and he seemed lost in thought. Then, "I escaped. I'm not sure how."

Riordan heard a loud thump from below, and he grimaced. The Anduains had a ram up on the door, and they would break through in moments.

"I'm going to heal you, Landon. Are you hurt anywhere?"

Landon thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm tired," he said.

"I can fix that." He began casting a spell, one that would return some life to his weary friend. He’d barely started, though, before guilt tugged horribly at his soul. He wanted to go back to where his friends were. That's what he told Aiden and Finias. But he wasn't going there to save them, no matter how much he pretended that to be the case. He couldn't tell them the real reason, not until they saw it for themselves, and they would, soon. But he'd been able to accept his lies up to this point because he thought the Warhounds were already beyond saving. He thought they were either dead, or in a place they didn't need rescue from.

But now, seeing Landon here, he knew there really was a chance to save everyone. And that went against everything he'd hoped for the last three months. If he'd made it out, the others could, too. And the idea of that tore him apart inside.

"Landon, we're going back to the caves," Riordan said, the lie coming naturally to him by now, "to save the others."

"I know," Landon said quietly. "That's why I'm here."

"What?"

"I don't know how I escaped, but I know who helped me. He saved me, Riordan. He sent me to find help." Landon smiled.

"Who did?" Riordan asked.

"King Damhran," Landon said reverently. "He's returned to save us all."

Chapter 33

 

Malcolm waited anxiously at the foot of the stairs as the tower door – and the tower itself, he thought – shook violently from the ram’s impact. The Anduains pounded the door from the outside, sieging the tower as the first step in an apparent full-scale invasion. Malcolm tried to settle his nerves at the thought of being thrown so abruptly into war. He knew what would happen. He remembered the stories his uncle told him about keep and tower sieges and the bloody room-to-room combat that entailed once the door came down, and he wanted to be ready. He counted the seconds between each strike of the ram, using the monotony of it to keep his mind occupied and calm against the threat of death looming over everyone in the room. Counting was a trick his uncle had taught him as a child, and Malcolm stuck to it as a way to honor him. It helped him focus, whether during sword-training drills, working on his footwork, or any of the other mundane chores his uncle had insisted he perform as part of his training. He'd tried to get his sister, a far more excitable person, to try it herself, but she thought the notion silly. He wondered if she still thought so now.

“Hold!” Aiden shouted, as he, decnar Alder, four armsmen and two spearmen pushed up against the interior of the door. They’d barricaded it with a thick wooden beam that sat on metal brackets, as well as a shelf full of chain and leather armor pieces, two wooden chairs, and a bench. Malcolm would have helped, but there was no more room at the door, and Aiden had told him to wait here, so he would wait here. He was scared. He could admit that to himself. Who wouldn't be in a situation like this, with an army waiting outside those doors, ready to slaughter everyone inside? But he also felt proud, because he'd discovered in these last few moments that he was more worried about living up to his uncle's expectations than whatever might be on the other side of that door. Despite his inexperience, he would rather fight than run away. And if he was to die today, then at least it would be as a warrior, and not a scared little child playing pretend, which he knew was how everyone thought of him.

The door shook again, and Malcolm heard a loud crack in the wooden beam. "They're almost in!" Aiden shouted. He backed away from the door and picked up his shield, which had been lying on the ground nearby. "Form a shield wall high up on those stairs! You," Aiden slapped a nearby armsman on the shoulder. "Go up top and tell them to get down here. We need everyone in the stairwell!" The armsman jogged past Malcolm and up the stairs. The rest of the soldiers followed, but they all stopped about halfway up, where the stairs disappeared behind the walls of the second floor above them as they wrapped around the inner wall. They hefted their shields and formed two lines, three men wide, with shields overlapping. This was where they would make their stand.

Aiden sent Bastion, who’d been sitting at the base of the stairs, up to the second floor with a quick shout and a nudge in the dog’s backside. Then he picked up his spear, also lying on the ground, and handed it to Malcolm. "Here," he said. Malcolm took the wooden shaft, a little underwhelmed by its meager quality. "It's a goblin spear. It's not much to look at, but it's brought me luck so far."

"What do I do with it?" Malcolm asked, not understanding why he couldn't just use his sword.

"You stand behind me in the shield wall, and you use that spear to gut anyone who gets close. Keep your shield on your back for now, and hold that thing with two hands. Then just jab it over my shoulder as hard as you can." Aiden held his fists together and made an overhand stabbing motion. "If they get past me, you drop the spear and use your sword instead, because that thing's useless in the front line.”

Malcolm nodded and followed Aiden up the stairs, then took his place in the line just behind him. Malcolm's uncle had told him about fighting in the shield wall, how the enemies were close enough that you could feel the heat of their breath and smell the sweat on their face. It was the place where warriors were truly born, he'd always said, and Malcolm felt his stomach turn at the thought. The two men on either side of him were close in, shoulder to shoulder, and he felt cramped in the narrow space, but he wouldn't let them down. He held the spear up high and waited for the inevitable battle to come.

"If you're a palatine, then you've learned your battle chants, right?" Aiden asked, barely glancing back.

"Yes."

"Good." Aiden took his place between the two other armsmen in the front line. "Now would be a great time to use them."

Malcolm nodded. Aiden reminded him of his uncle. They carried themselves with the same authority and they both had a boldness about them that made Malcolm think they were always in control and never afraid. Malcolm had adored his uncle, as had his