TALLOS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little was said after discovering the identity of the bodies fallen from the mountainside, but it was obvious their mission for rescue and vengeance had ended. All that was left was to bundle the twisted remains of the boys and make their way back.

Heads hung low, Tallos’s party retraced their steps with humble footfalls. Even the birds that would ordinarily trill at the presence of anything larger than an acorn seemed somber and silent as the procession of men made their way through the forest.

Tallos’s stomach was laden with stones of sickening regret, yet he did not feel half as bad as his friend looked. After his violent heaving and sobbing, Erik had become unthinking, his movements lifeless and mechanical. He stared ahead, not speaking to anyone—not that any tried—looking a man with no reason left to exist.

How many hours had they sat and watched the boys as they clung desperately for life, and all of it under Tallos’s command? The despair Tallos felt for the loss of the boys was eclipsed only by the guilt of being responsible for the decision that had caused it. Had they circled around to drop rocks on them as Jegson had suggested, they would have recognized and been able to rescue the youngsters before their fall. What kind of man are you? Tallos asked himself, further sickened by the self-serving wish that they had never gone searching in the first place.

With Lia picking her steps carefully and looking at her master with worry, Tallos crunched heedlessly through the deadfall. The noise they now made while walking was inconsequential. Tallos almost wished for a Northman attack on his party, an outlet through which he could vent his frustration, but he knew he would not be so lucky.

He was left instead with distasteful visions of what his life would be upon their return. All would know what happened, and everyone would whisper that it could have been avoided had Tallos not have been so cowardly. Greyson’s sneers would be insufferable, and Jegson would tell tales to those who would listen of how he fought Tallos’s order, how he begged and pleaded that they “charge ’round the bluff” and kill or rescue whoever clung to the rock. Yet all of that would pale in comparison to having to face Erik day in and day out. Erik, the one Tallos had known from childhood and would back him no matter the encounter, Erik who had been hurt already by his boys’ admiration of Tallos, Erik who sat patiently, obeying his command to wait for a full day while his boys clung to a mountainside, only to watch them fall to a gruesome death.

Tallos resigned himself to the notion that he, Leona, and Lia would simply have to leave. They would pack their belongings and find a new village somewhere farther south—maybe travel all the way to Rivervale. But even his thoughts of Leona were tainted with regret and self-reproach. The way in which he’d left her was unacceptable. He could not recall another time when he’d departed without saying his farewells and with a promise of his safe return. It was a mistake I shall not repeat. This I promise you, Leona. He estimated it would be another night before they reached the village, one more agonizing night in the hell of the Northluns, a place he vowed he’d never return.

His thoughts of Leona were interrupted as several of his party stopped walking, the rest soon following suit. When they were all motionless, he could hear what had caused their alarm. Encroaching sounds: the plodding stride of someone’s careless approach.

Tallos’s chest felt as though it were collapsing, overwhelmed by the mistake of having wished to be attacked. He bent at the knees and tried to will himself to invisibility. Lia was by his side, as always, poised to protect him against whatever threat may appear.

The noises grew louder. How something could make so much racket walking through dried leaves and not yet be visible, Tallos could not understand. Bears were not like to be out this season, and he could think of nothing else that would advance with so little worry of attracting attention. And then he saw it.

The solitary figure that approached them was a sickly old man. His white hair bounced with his ungainly steps as he trudged through terrain unkind to his spindly legs. It seemed a wonder his frail frame could endure the punishment of those steps without breaking as the man continued forth with no regard for his own wellbeing.

The figure neared, and familiarity gave way to recognition. It was Greyson. He looked as though he was wont to commit murder, but in fairness that was his usual expression. He must have formed a party of reinforcements to save face with the villagers, becoming separated at some point during the trek. It was all too easy to lose sight of others among the trees and elevation changes, and without a strong sense of hearing, one could find himself lost even after stepping away to piss.

Greyson continued onward, moving toward them without words but with purpose—purpose and pure hatred burning in his eyes.