The Unfortunate, стр. 64

PART III

AUTUMN – WINTER

CHAPTER TWENTY

GILDAS

It had required nearly ten weeks to cover the six hundred leagues to the far outskirts of Carlingford, the last major city through which they would pass before reaching Dorstor. Had it been a routine progress, there would have been no hurry. The mysterious letters and the possible threat to King Wyman and Winnix, however, served as a reminder—more so, a need—to make use of every moment of daylight. Since departing Armania’s capital, Gildas and Molan had awakened early each day and had traveled until the sun’s final light had disappeared below the horizon. Even when the sky had become overcast and periods of rain had lingered, the pair had not become deterred. For Gildas at least, the weather had not affected him. The owner of the academy had already told himself that, if necessary, he would have braved the worst tempest to reach the capital. He had to. His fear that something would occur had been overwhelmed only by the extent of his loyalty and honor.

Gildas concluded his thoughts and looked to the west. The sun was hovering low in the sky, and he judged it would be another hour at least before it disappeared below the horizon. It would be enough time for them to reach the city, and if they were lucky, they would find an inn and be settled before the descent of night. With this in mind, he advised, “We have enough time to reach Carlingford if we hurry.”

“I think it better if we rest for the night,” Molan countered. “I know we should not waste the day left, but our pace has been tough. We must rest. Horses need rest, too.”

Yes, their pace had been demanding, and it would likely be another day before they would reach capital. Gildas did not want to stop, though. What if—? No. Not What if? The owner of the academy did not want to contemplate the possibility. In his mind there could not be a what if? He would do everything in his power to make certain nothing happened to King Wyman. But he could not be of assistance if he were weak, so with a slight hesitation and a hint of disappointment, Gildas eventually nodded and ordered, “Make camp, and then rest. I shall gather wood.”

✽ ✽ ✽

Having volunteered to assume first watch, Gildas relocated to the far side of the camp so he could see the entire area that the fire illuminated. Initially his restless mind had been enough to ward off drowsiness, but the dancing glow of the fire eventually became hypnotic. On numerous occasions he stood, paced around the camp, and rubbed his eyes. He did everything he could remember having done when he had been in Winnix’s army and had needed to stay awake for sentry duties. But that had been when he was younger, over a score prior, and despite efforts to remain alert, Gildas still struggled to resist sleep’s embrace, and he eventually surrendered.

It was difficult to judge how much time had elapsed, but to Gildas it seemed that sleep had only just claimed him before he jerked, and his eyes opened wide. There had been a sound, and he sensed something moving. He reached for his dagger as he continued to watch the distant trees, but the brush was too dense for him to tell who or what it was.

“Who is there?” Gildas quickly glanced to the camp area and discovered that the undersized man was gone. Where is he? What is occurring? “Molan?” Despite his usual composure, Gildas’ voice was shaky, and he was again prepared to inquire when he finally heard the Drunishman’s voice but not as an answer and not in response to him.

“Here! I am here!”

The owner of the academy turned to where he believed the call had originated, and moments after he had, Gildas was forcefully knocked to the ground. Something was pulled over his head, and his attacker kicked and punched his torso. Before he could do anything to counter the attacks, Gildas felt the throbbing of his head subside as he slowly and unwillingly drifted into oblivion.

And that was the last he remembered.

✽ ✽ ✽

He awoke to darkness, and when he attempted to move, he discovered his limbs were useless. Gildas’ arms were twisted behind his back, and his feet slid against one another as he jerked. He had been bound.

“Help me!” he called. The cry had been more instinctive than anything. The owner of the academy had not expected a response, but the silence was suddenly interrupted by slow, heavy footsteps.

Thrump … thrump … thrump … thrump … thrump.

But eventually they stopped right beside him, and a few more seconds passed before a menacing, taunt-like, yet familiar voice offered, “The darkness, it is an embrace to counter the horrors of life. It will always be a comfort from the harshness of the light.”

Gildas recognized the words immediately. It was the mysterious poem he had received prior to leaving Armania’s capital.

“The silence, it