The Art Of Falling

Alric Varn

The wagon rattled along the dirt path, its wheels grinding over loose stones and shallow ruts. Dust clung to every surface: iron bars, slumped shoulders, and the dull grey cloaks draped over the prisoners.

Alric sat with his head bowed, the iron manacles biting at his wrists. Across from him, Taldris sat with her chin tilted slightly upward, a shallow cut dried beneath her eye. Kael sat beside her, muttering curses under his breath while flexing his fingers as if already preparing for a fight.

The wagon stank of rust and fatigue. Caelen stared blankly at the floorboards, unmoving. Brina had her eyes closed, lips parted in silent prayer.

Kael broke the silence. "So this is how your friend repays his debt, Caelen? That bastard sold us out."

"He was from the Vanguard; he's a mercenary at heart. He saw five men from Lucia entering enemy land; he saw payday." Taldris replied.

Alric could hear the hooves against the ground as they pulled the wagon. Each clop felt like a ticking clock. He could feel the wagon shake as Terin tugged on the reins, changing directions. "What did he owe you to put so much faith in him?"

Caelen raised his head towards Alric before answering. "He stole something valuable from the Vanguards. An old artifact. Probably sold it, considering how well he's been living. I found out but kept quiet. Thought a favour might come in handy one day."

"Yeah, well, wasn't your best decision yet, was it?" Kael replied.

The wagon shuddered to a stop, and a tense hush settled over its occupants. Outside, voices rang out. They had reached the first checkpoint of Zadale’s outer patrol.

“Halt!” barked a voice, rough and authoritative.

Boots shuffled in the dirt as guards began to circle the wagon, their silhouettes flitting past the slatted wooden walls like wolves circling cornered prey. Alric peered through a hole in the boards, catching glimpses of armor and drawn blades.

“I’ve got prisoners,” came Terin’s voice from the driver’s perch, steady and deferential. “Caught these bandits trying to steal from our farmland.”

Another voice answered, this one closer, perhaps standing beside the wagon now. “We’ll take them from here. They’ll be brought in for questioning.”

Alric turned his head slightly toward the sound. He shifted slightly to get a view through the open slot between the driver’s bench and the cart’s body. Through the slot, he could make out Terin’s upper body, silhouetted against the fading light. A nearby guard stepped forward, his hand reaching for the reins.

“Not so fast,” Terin said sharply, pulling the leads back just out of reach. “I need my payment. I brought them this far, and I expect to be paid before I hand them over.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a dry chuckle. “Of course,” the guard said. “You’ll get what you’re owed. My men will escort the prisoners to the holding cells near the western village.”

The guard gestured offhandedly. “You can ride there yourself and collect your payment from the outpost commander after the prisoners have arrived. Take one of the spare horses. We’ll bring the wagon.”

He caught sight of Terin dismounting with practiced ease, followed by a thump of weight as someone in Zadalyn armour sat in Terin's place.

Another set of footsteps approached from the rear. The wooden door groaned open, and a guard stepped inside, the light from outside casting long shadows over the prisoners. Alric didn’t raise his head, but he felt the presence behind him. The guard moved down the line, checking shackles one by one. Cold fingers tugged briefly at Alric’s restraints, testing their strength, then moved on. The man smelled of stale leather and river mud.

Outside, hooves shifted. A soft snort, the clink of reins. Then the distinct sound of a horse setting off, slow and steady. Alric’s jaw tightened. That had to be Terin riding away.

The guard gave a final tug at Brina’s shackles before stepping back. Alric kept his head lowered, listening intently. A beat of silence followed, then the rear door swung shut, and the dull clank of the bolt being secured echoed inside the cramped space.

From the back came a loud shout. "All clear."

A moment later, the wagon shifted again as another weight dropped onto the driver’s bench beside the first guard. The creak of worn leather and the soft click of armor plates signaled the settling of a second guard. With a low grunt and a snap of the reins, the wagon lurched forward.

Alric swayed slightly with the motion, steadying himself with his bound hands. He leaned back just enough to peer through the slim gap in the wooden frame. The road ahead was little more than a trampled path through the scrubland, bordered by dry grass and weathered trees.

After a while, he noticed dark silhouettes joining them on both sides of the cart. The silhouette of men on horseback riding on both sides of the wagon. Zadale guards. One on each side. Their presence was quiet but unmistakable, riding like silent wardens escorting a prize. Right now, Alric had counted four guards escorting them, two on the driver's bench and one riding on each side of the wagon.

The wagon continued to roll forward, the tension inside thickening with every clatter of the wheels. They were reaching the edge of the patrol route, where the road narrowed and tall trees swallowed the landscape on both sides. No settlements, no watchtowers.

The wagon jolted as it came to a sudden halt, the wheels grinding to a stop with a dry crunch of gravel. Inside, everyone instinctively stiffened. Alric tensed, shifting subtly to look through the narrow gap once more.

One of the guards on the driver’s bench muttered a curse and jumped down. Alric could hear the heavy thud of boots hitting the dirt, followed by the sharp clink of steel armor as the man landed. The second guard remained seated, reins in hand, glancing warily down the road.

Outside, the guard’s voice rang out. “What's going on?”

Then came a woman’s voice, shaky and distressed, from just up the road. “Please! Someone, help. My horse! It—it just collapsed!” It was faint but clear, carried on the wind. Alric couldn’t see her from the narrow opening, but he could hear the rising panic in her voice.

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The first guard’s footsteps crunched as he moved away from the wagon, heading toward the source of the sound. “Please, my horse won't get up. Someone—gods, you're a soldier. Help me!”

It was in that moment that chaos erupted.

Alric watched as Caelen shifted, his movements smooth and practiced. He brought his hands to his mouth and drew out a steel pin, hidden beneath his tongue since before their "capture." It was a lockpick, passed to him by Taldris during the final night of planning.

The click of freed manacles was quiet but urgent. Caelen moved quickly, unlocking Brina’s cuffs, then Alric’s. As the iron slipped away, Alric flexed his wrists, red marks etched into his skin. Kael and Taldris were next, each freeing themselves with practiced ease. Then, with barely a thought, Alric’s curved blade shimmered into his hand, summoned with a word only he heard.

The wagon rocked as he kicked open the rear trapdoor and lunged outward. In a single motion, he grabbed a mounted guard by the collar and yanked him down, steel meeting gravel with a thud. The soldier struggled, but Alric was faster. He flipped the blade and struck with the hilt, knocking the man unconscious.

Alric had barely stepped aside when the second mounted guard swung around the rear of the wagon, alarm flashing across his face.

But Caelen was already in motion.

He surged forward and slammed into the rider’s chest. The guard lost his balance, and both tumbled to the ground. Dust exploded around them as they wrestled, Caelen landing a solid punch to the man’s jaw, then another. The soldier went limp beneath him.

Across the road, the woman’s voice cried out again and then cut off mid-sentence.

The illusion shimmered, like heat off stone, and collapsed into nothing. The guard who had rushed toward the illusion faltered, blinking in confusion as the woman vanished into thin air. He turned sharply, hand reaching for the sword at his belt. Caelen didn’t wait.

He unsheathed the short sword from the belt of the unconscious guard beneath him and charged forward. His boots scraped gravel as he closed the gap, bringing the blade up in a tight arc. The confused guard barely had time to parry. Steel clashed and sparks flew as the two blades met. Yet Caelen was faster. He twisted low, moving away from the guard's sword before driving his shoulder into his chest, and sent him stumbling backward.

From the front of the wagon, the guard seated on the driver’s bench already had his weapon drawn, eyes locked on Alric. Alric shifted his stance, catching the incoming strike on the flat of his conjured blade. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm. With a twist of his wrist, he locked the blades together before launching a kick to the stomach. The guard stumbled back, but Kael was faster. He drove the hilt of a sword, taken from the cavalry rider Alric had downed, into the man’s ribs, dropping him with a grunt.

Alric turned, catching Caelen’s eye just as he stepped away from another limp figure at his feet, the guard unconscious and sprawled in the dirt.

Alric watched as Brina moved swiftly to the front of the wagon, her small frame slipping past the still forms on the ground. She reached for the reins and unbuckled the leather straps, murmuring soft words as she calmed the horses, now restless from the sudden burst of noise and movement. With a sharp tug, she guided them away from the cart and toward the edge of the road. Then, with a firm slap to their flanks, she sent them trotting into the woods, free of their burden.

Meanwhile, the others moved with practiced coordination. Alric and Kael hoisted one of the unconscious guards by the shoulders and legs, grunting under the weight, while Caelen and Taldris dragged the others. They carried them into the undergrowth, far enough from the road to avoid immediate detection.

Brina returned to help, handing Alric a coil of rope from the wagon’s supplies. One by one, the guards were bound securely to thick tree trunks, wrists and ankles fastened tightly. Alric double-checked each knot before stepping back, brushing dirt from his hands.

“They’ll wake up sore, but alive,” he muttered.

Taldris glanced back at the tied-up soldiers. “Let’s just hope they don’t come looking for us too soon.”

The forest thinned as they moved northward. The air was cooler here, touched by the river winds drifting inland. Each step away from the ambush site brought them closer to the main city and deeper into Zadalyn territory.

Alric led the group with steady steps, his eyes constantly scanning the treeline, wary for signs of scouts or patrols. The others followed in tight formation, their breaths quiet, boots soft against the dirt path.

Eventually, the trees gave way to a grassy ridge that overlooked the valley below. And there, sprawled at the heart of it, was Zadale.

From a distance, the city shimmered like a fortress of stone and steel. Tall grey walls encircled it, broken only by the occasional watchtower. Smoke curled upward from chimneys, and the glint of movement on the battlements revealed the presence of sentries. The city’s red falcon banner waved high above the eastern gate: a stark reminder of whose ground they walked on.

They descended quietly, following an old trade path flanked by dry hedges and scattered stones. After some time, they approached a fork in the road where a single rusted signpost stood leaning. Just beyond it, the narrow trail widened into a clearing.

Terin was already there.

He leaned against a moss-covered stone, dressed in simpler clothes now. He was no longer a captor, but a guide once again. A short, older man stood beside him: grey-haired, with a merchant’s long coat. His eyes looked much sharper now that he wasn't drunk. His arms were folded, but his expression was calm. Terin gave the cart behind them a light pat. Burlap sacks filled with grain were stacked high, but the cart had a false bottom, under which other cargo lay hidden. “Your weapons and clothes are all in there,” he said.

Kael raised an eyebrow. “If it was that easy for your father to smuggle gear in, why not just have him take us through the gates too? Faking a capture seems like a risk we didn’t need.”

Terin shook his head. “Like I said, even the most forgotten roads are crawling with patrols. Smuggling five soldiers is a lot harder than hiding a few crates of gear. Besides, after the ambush, they’ll be searching the outskirts, thinking that’s where you slipped away. The heart of the city? That’s the last place they’ll expect to find you.”

"Too proud to believe five Lucians could walk right into Zadale?” Caelen asked quietly. “That arrogance is our best cover.”

Alric gave a short nod. “Then let’s not waste it.”

The road narrowed as they approached the outer boundary of Zadale. Dense woods gave way to a rough path that skirted the city’s high outer wall. The southern gate was one of the smaller entries into the capital. It was visible in the distance, manned by armored guards whose black and crimson armour marked them as part of Zadale’s watch. There was no walking through unnoticed.

Terin led them down a slope off the road and into a dried streambed, shielded from view by a canopy of old brush and twisted branches. “We won’t be using the gate,” he muttered, pushing aside a fallen log. “Come on.”

They followed the streambed until it ran parallel to a narrow aqueduct channel, half-hidden beneath broken slabs of stone. At its far end sat a rusted grate, barely wide enough for a man to crawl through.

“I hope none of you are claustrophobic,” Terin muttered as he crouched down and pried the rusted grate open. A foul, musty stench wafted up of stale water and rotting earth.

“This tunnel runs beneath the grain stores on the eastern end of the city,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ve done my part. I’m not going any farther than this. Just keep moving forward. You’ll come across a grate or some other kind of exit.” His voice was quiet, but firm. This was the edge of his risk. The rest was theirs.

Alric nodded before squeezing through the opening, knees brushing stone, boots wet with shallow runoff. Brina held a cloth to her face. None of them lit a torch in case it might alert someone. They stood close enough that they could see each other's silhouette. Taldris led the group. She was a drow from the Deep Dark; her senses were sharper down here.

After nearly fifteen minutes of crawling through narrow tunnels and crossing a dry junction, Alric felt Taldris stop. Above them was a heavy grate with rusted bolts. He watched as a female silhouette pushed it up with both hands until it gave with a groan.

Only a faint trickle of light filtered through, enough for Alric to be able to see everyone around him.

One by one, they climbed out into the backend of a warehouse, concealed behind a cluster of empty crates and towering storage racks. Distant shouts echoed through the air: porters barking orders, the rumble of carts on stone roads.

They had made it into Zadale, and its underbelly had been their door.