Chapter 3
Gerold opened his eyes, seeing the smoky golden glow of morning. His eyes burned, his throat and tongue were dry. Rising, he saw his friends were already preparing for the day; Stephen wiping his weapon, Marcus testing his staff.
“So, you decided to return to the living,” Stephen chided, as he handed Gerold a drink.
Gerold frowned. He knew he’d not consumed that much drink last night. Why was he feeling so groggy? Things were hazy, his mind unable to focus on one thought for a short period of time. He shook his head, trying to clear it, angry at himself for sleeping so late while on the field of battle. Such actions could and would get him killed.
Taking the offered drink, Gerold focused on Stephen. Even that simple act was an effort. Gerold saw a green-eyed face, framed with red-blonde hair, overlapping Stephen’s stern features. Gerold shook his head, his hand going back to rub the tight neck muscles that throbbed as he moved. It was the face of his dream.
Closing his eyes against the pain, the green eyes again appeared, only this time, they were surrounded by a table full of wine, cheese, and candles. What it all meant, Gerold had no clue. He believed it was just the wine. But where had he seen those eyes before, Gerold wondered, for they were hauntingly familiar. The words of the Spectre roared through his thoughts again.
Gerold opened his eyes, his voice a strangled croak, for they made even less sense than the others he’d heard.
The home you seek, was yours by birth
Watch those near you, their secrets dark
• ♥ •
“Gerold, has the devil taken you over?” Stephen asked as he stared at the pale face before him, the look in his eyes unreadable. “Need we get you to a priest?”
Clamping down the anger he felt at Stephen’s question, Gerold forced a smile as he answered, “Only the headache of demon drink.”
Gerold dared not give voice to his visions, for visions he now believed they were. What they meant, he didn’t know—but he couldn’t trust his friends with this knowledge. Especially Stephen. Although they had been together a long time, Stephen always seemed to take the negative side when it came to Gerold. Perhaps it was due to his past, Gerold reasoned. He rose as the call to march reached his ears, tossing back the remains of the drink Stephen had handed him.
“So much for their crawling into a hole,” Marcus growled, taking up his staff and shield, but his movements and smile made his words a lie.
“We routed them once,” Stephen began as Gerold moved forward with his friends. As much as he loved the life he had attained after such a perilous start, sometimes he wondered whether he would live to see peace, ever live a life such as the one his parents—
Gerold shut the thought down before it could take hold, for Niketas and Frastrada were Stephen’s, not his parents. He had no memory of his real parents.
Soon, the battle sounds rang across the area: the clash of weapons, cries of pain, and shouts of triumph. But the day’s weather conspired against the adversaries. They were slogging through mud, rain pouring down on friend and foe alike, and moments of sun were blotted out as the clouds of winter dug in for the season.
Gerold wondered how his comrades were faring. He was aware of the murmur from those around him, words of a bright and shining blade that no force could stop. Gerold shook the story off, telling those around him, “Take heart, the day is not yet over.”
So fierce was the battle, so engulfed in his own efforts, that as Gerold blocked a blow, the sun broke. It shone on a bright, unstained blade, that was locked with Gerold’s. Behind that blade, the green eyes of his vision. He barely had time to block yet another blow, so startled was Gerold by what he saw.
All other sound faded away as Gerold stared, then realizing where he was, he raised his shield, expecting a blow that did not come. He saw the blade come toward him, but it stopped just short of striking his shield. When he thrust with his own sword, the blade stopped the thrust, yet with no force behind it, except to turn his own blade away.
So enthralled in the battle of blade against blade, the two combatants fought as the darkness fell. At the last moment, the wielder of the shining blade pushed away, and turning, walked from the field, as the final rays of sunlight left. Gerold could only do the same, his sense of honor not allowing him to strike the unprotected back of the lithe, but strong opponent as he left the field.
Despite the vision, that of the green eyes surrounded by red-gold hair—his vision was a woman. His opponent could not be that vision, his mind insisted.