Penitent-Chapter 237 Book 4 Ch 18: Last Leg

Michael was tired. His muscles were roaring at him, his magicka channels were frozen, and even his bones felt as if they were creaking with exhaustion. He felt about as tired as he had at the end of the battle of Lataxia. He straightened himself up in his saddle. It was the first time he'd been off his feet in what felt like an eternity, but must've been two weeks? Maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to tell without sleep to break up the day.

He was riding at the head of a column that included a handful of Stent knights, two full squads of soldiers, fully grown Penitents, and a wagon-full of Penitents that had only just begun their training at the Academy. Michael had healed their brands, struck down a number of Stent soldiers and knights who tried to stop him, and coordinated with Bayle all the while using a paired journal. It had been difficult to write while running at full speed at first, but once he'd gotten the hang of it it wasn't too bad. He had found himself envious of Ollie's ability to fly after the four hundredth mile or so. At this point though he was too tired for envy, and was just focused on watching the road and keeping himself from falling out of the saddle.

So far, he'd managed to keep from faltering long enough that the knights and soldiers travelling with them had not asked him if he needed to rest or suggested that he ride in the wagon. The only one that seemed to notice how tired he was was Dugan, the dwarven quartermaster, who'd decided to join them on their trip to Old Hume.

He pulled his pony up next to Michael.

"How're you holding up?" he asked.

"In a saddle."

Dugan shook his head. "Bad joke. Pretty damn tired then."

Michael nodded his head, feeling acutely aware of the weight of the helmet, which was unusual for him at this point.

"Well. We're only a few hours from the capital. If what you told me about the rest of the people being gathered is accurate, you should have… one full day of rest before you can leave."

A full day of rest… Michael could recover a lot off of that.

"Thanks Dugan."

He shook his head. "Just basic calculation of travel times based on what we're carrying. Or did you already forget all of that since you became some kind of god hero?"

"I actually did. The second the gods began talking to me I forgot how to calculate the amount of food a man needs per day of travelling, building in time for stops caused by weather or damage to horses and wagons, and the average footspeed of a man wearing chainmail. The second I heard Seras's voice, it was all scooped out like soup from a bowl."

Dugan shook his head.

"I was mostly thanking you for coming at all. A man with your skills… we have thousands of soldiers, but few people who know how to move them and what it takes."

"We're a rare breed." He scratched his beard. "But then, so are men that can run across a country and force a lot of very angry men and women to do what he wants."

Michael shrugged. "I had to make sure Stent honored their part of our bargain, and I needed to do it as quickly as possible." His mind flashed to Gabriel, a bit of energy returning to him. He felt impatience break through his exhaustion and considered getting off the horse to force himself to run more, but held off. There were men loyal to the gods or to Bayle that were assisting him, but the truth was that the biggest deterrent to anyone getting in their way was him. Even with the subtlety with which Bayle controlled the narrative, stories that the king had been killed by men from Old Hume had somehow spread, at least around the capital and those cities and towns near it.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Michael took a deep breath, filling his lungs and attempting to clear some of the fog from his mind. Along with the running he'd done he'd also been healing brands whenever he could. They were complex pieces of work, blending elements of magicka and divine energy in their creation and because of that healing them was as tiring as restoring an entire infirmary tent during wartime. He needed to take his mind off of his exhaustion.

"Dugan, how would other dwarves feel about the impending end of the world?" he asked.

"Can't speak for other dwarves."

"I'm probably going to be passing through Swandia soon, and I know there's a large number of dwarves living in their Eastern mountains. You don't think they'd want a warning at least?"

Dugan frowned. "They'd know. Our gods will tell them."

"And do you think they'd be interested in… stopping it?"

Dugan nearly laughed. "I don't think they'd care. If it's not happening on their mountain it's not their problem… Although," he reached up a hand to scratch at his beard in thought. "I've been away from the mountains for eighty or so years now. It's possible things have changed. There were starting to be more dwarves on the surface even before I left, and trade with humans had been getting busier. I suppose it would depend on the mountain chiefs and the gods."

"So there's a chance they'd lend their support."

"A slim one," replied Dugan.

Michael frowned. His time was already limited, but it was something to consider. He didn't know much about dwarven culture aside from what he'd gleaned from those few surface dwarves he'd encountered and those he had met had all been craftsmen. He assumed based on their powerful frames that they had formidable warriors as well, but he didn't know.

"Are dwarven warriors fearsome?" he asked.

"Tremendously. No invasion into dwarven territory has ever broken through, and they cut their teeth fighting monstrosities in the deep dark that you could not begin to imagine." Dugan's jaw clenched tightly enough that the motion was visible through his thick beard.

Dugan had once told him that one of the reasons he'd moved to Stent was for the peace they maintained in their forests. All dangerous and even many harmless mythical creatures were culled from within its borders. Michael was curious, but didn't want to upset the man and so returned to fighting off his desire to doze in his saddle.

…

Pyotr looked up at the nearby tree where he saw Marcus balanced carefully on a treelimb, aiming down his sights at the oncoming caravan. He gave a short whistle that mimicked a local bird and there was a return signal from a short distance behind them, hidden in some thick foliage.

Pyotr was wearing a suit of Stent armor, his longsword grasped in his hand as he observed the curious collection around him. There were other men in armor, of course, but many of them seemed about as natural in it as a bird flying a plane. It made sense, a large number of them were young nobles that had been swept into doing something incredibly stupid.

Along with them were a number of men and women in basic soldier and militia garb as well as a motley collection of average citizens wearing whatever armor they could gather and wielding slings, pitchforks, and any other makeshift weapons they could. It was, essentially, a mob. One that had been formed to kill the evil kingslayer and stop the vile takers from achieving freedom. Pyotr couldn't muster up much sympathy for them, but he said a quick prayer for them in Michael's honor. The poor fools wouldn't have had a chance even if Marcus and him hadn't infiltrated their ranks several days prior.

Bayle had given them the tip, and while they'd been wary of it, it wouldn't have made sense for him to work against Michael after spending so many sleepless nights trying to help with moving all of the takers out of Stent. Marcus thought maybe the idea was to wear Michael out enough that he could be killed, but Pyotr had pointed out that by then Michael wouldn't be alone, and if he was killed he, Marcus, and Ollie would tear Bayle limb from limb. It had been a well made point if Pyotr did say so himself.

He watched Marcus line up Michael in his sights, give one more whistle, then turn around casually and fire on a man in armor less than a yard from Pyotr. As that man's body jerked backward and fell the group devolved into chaos. Several of the nobles playing knight, and regular Stent citizens broke and ran. The knights attempted to get into formation with the soldiers, but they tripped over the people between them. Only a few others started to make their way toward Marcus.

Once they were all thoroughly distracted, Pyotr raised up his longsword, and started dancing.