Hope Sundered

For days Varzeth walked the streets of Wyndham, absorbing the details of his surroundings. To a casual observer he was one of a hundred refugees, wandering around his new home to gain a sense of familiarity. The ruse held enough truth to hide the deeper motives no one would suspect, leaving him free to roam unhindered.

As he walked, he committed every street, every building, and every guard patrol to memory. He learned which back alleys connected to which avenues, which intersections were less observed, and which paths were the most efficient means of reaching the eastern gate.

He found each of the public stables and identified which horses were still healthy and strong. He discovered each staircase leading up to the wall from ground level. To his delight, one of them was close to M’klarin Keep.

One particular morning, curiosity compelled him to climb the stairs to the parapets. He made his way to the top and looked out over the eastern field. Zordecai was impossible to miss. The general couldn’t identify him from this distance, which Varzeth found comforting, but that same span placed him just beyond an arrow’s reach and eclipsed Varzeth’s relief with a profound disappointment.

“Greetings, friend. What brings you up here?”

He turned to see Losigalender and immediately recognized him. “Well met, sir. I’m Varzeth. My apologies if I’ve trespassed. I simply wanted to witness the Azrahteran army from up here. It’s quite a perspective.”

“That it is. I’m Losigalender and no, you’re not trespassing—not in any legal sense, that is—though it’s preferred to have only those on patrol up here. Safety reasons, I’m sure you understand.” He studied Varzeth’s face for a moment. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

“You probably have. I’m staying at the Wall’s Shadow as well. I spend most days in the common room like everyone else, but lately I’ve had the urge to venture outdoors again.”

Losigalender nodded. “I understand. Wyndham’s a beautiful city, but I miss the Deep Wood and Lake Chastin. Where are you from?”

“Here,” Varzeth lied without hesitation. “The flaming arrows from the other night destroyed my home in the refugee district.”

“Refugee?” Losigalender asked with furrowed brow.

“Ah, my apologies. I originally hail from Rendoya, a small kingdom west of the Dragonspine. I fled when Azrahtera invaded nine years ago.”

Losigalender’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. It seems Chastin isn’t alone in our suffering.”

Varzeth’s eyes narrowed. “Believe me, Zordecai committed countless atrocities before crossing the mountains. He earned his title as the Butcher of Azrahtera a thousand-fold. There’s no one in this city who desires his death more than I.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Varzeth smirked. “Fair point. I can only imagine what you’ve endured, but I must confess something: your name is not unknown to me. I heard you were the one to cross blades with Zordecai in Chastin. If the rumors are true, you’re the only man who’s ever landed a blow.”

Losigalender scoffed. “Hardly an accomplishment. It didn’t seem to hurt him at all.”

“I suspect you wounded him more than you realize. He strikes me as the type of man who’d never admit to weakness or injury, but I’ve no doubt he’s as mortal as the rest of us. If your blade bit his flesh, then I assure you he bled from it. And who knows? Perhaps the cut will become infected.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Losigalender chuckled as he shook his head. “The man destroys my home and nearly kills me but drops dead at Wyndham’s doorstep from a glancing blow. Sounds like a bad comedy.”

“Or a tale of hope. It’s said the best minstrels manage to weave a thread of truth throughout their tapestry of entertainment.”

“I take it you were one such minstrel in your old life?”

Varzeth shook his head. “No, just a simple miner.” He placed a reassuring hand on Losigalender’s shoulder. “Of all people, I want you to remember this: if you’re patient, another opportunity will present itself, so please remain vigilant. Even the sharpest axe requires more than one swing to fell a mighty tree.”