CHAPTER 1059: A LONG CARRIAGE RIDE (PART ONE)

The carriage ride from Hanrahan Town to the Vale of Mists was both the longest and the strangest that Loman had ever experienced. Despite traveling at speeds that should have been impossible through the darkness of night, with only brief stops to rest the horses, the journey felt like it would never end, as though once he’d entered the carriage, the days before he started the journey were long ago, and the end of the journey was in a distant, unimaginable future.

Behind them, a second carriage carried Hauke, Liam Dunn, and Hugo Hanrahan, along with several Eldritch soldiers who served as guards for their small convoy. The presence of that second carriage, filled with other human noblemen, should have been a comfort. A reminder that he wasn’t alone in this strange venture into the most dangerous of demon infested lands, but instead it only emphasized how far they’d fallen, and how completely their world had been turned upside down after a single, catastrophic battle.

He’d made the incredible journey all the way from Lothian March to the Holy City, once in each direction, on a trip that took several weeks, but that trip was nothing compared to the one he was taking now.

As a child leaving the march, he’d felt like every day was a new wonder. There were new villages and towns to see, new dishes to eat, and most important to the child he’d been, there were new temples to visit. At every stop along the way, his excitement only grew as he saw first hand what the rich interior of the Kingdom of Gaal was truly like. A journey that took more than a month felt like it was over before it had begun.

As a young man returning home, the journey had lost its sense of wonder, but it gained something else in its place. He saw the world with wiser eyes that sought out the flaws and the cracks in the world. He saw people in need of guidance and salvation, and the further they moved from the heart of the kingdom, the greater the need appeared.

By the time he returned home to Lothian City, he was ready to dedicate himself to caring for the wounded and broken survivors of the last war, and to ensuring that the next one would be the last. The young man who returned from the Holy City wanted nothing more than to drive the demons from their lands forever, so that Lothian March, whether it became a Lothian Duchy or not, could enjoy the peace and prosperity he’d seen first hand in the towns around the Holy City and the Royal Capital.

The comforts he enjoyed on both of those journeys, however, had mostly been limited to the times when the carriage stopped in towns or villages, or even the mid-day camps that sprung up when the caravan that accompanied the man who was both a young lord and the disciple of an Exemplar stopped to rest.

The carriages themself, even if they were well made and luxuriously appointed, still bounced uncomfortably along the rough roads that connected much of the Kingdom of Gaal, and no amount of cushioning could ever make up for long hours spent sitting on what amounted to a wooden box with a pillow on top of it.

By comparison, the carriage he rode in now was far more comfortable than anything he’d traveled in before. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, with soft padded seats that cradled his weary body, polished wood paneling that gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps mounted on the walls, and silk curtains covering the windows that blocked out the darkness of the winter night.

The oil lamps provided not just illumination but a gentle warmth that pushed back against the winter cold outside, creating a bubble of comfort that felt almost surreal given their circumstances.

At times, he could almost forget that he was in a carriage at all, especially when the diminutive witch unfolded a panel of the wall into a small table so they could share a simple meal of cured meats, dried fruits, hard cheeses and soft bread. In those moments, he felt more like he was taking a meal in the private booth of a small cafe than hurtling along one of the ancient roads that predated his family’s arrival in these lands.

Yet, even though the carriage ride from Hanrahan to the Vale of Mists was also filled with new experiences, none of them brought him comfort or joy, and instead of the bright anticipation of a child or the growing determination of a young man, Loman’s heart was gripped by the icy hand of looming dread as each turn of the carriage’s wheels brought them closer to the mysterious Mother of Trees, and her master, the Demon Lady of the Vale.

It would have been easier if he could pretend that he was a man like Sir Tommin, who had fought with all his strength against the demons, only to be laid low by dark magic and taken prisoner.

The knight sitting next to him in the carriage had sunk into his own world of darkness, sleeping when exhaustion claimed him and waking with frightened cries or heart-rending sobs as he struggled against whatever nightmares haunted him.

Diarmuid had tried coaxing the wounded Templar to eat, fashioning small finger sandwiches out of the bread, cured meat and cheese, or guiding Tommin’s calloused hand to a small wooden cup of dried fruits, but at most, the man had taken a few sips of water before slumping back into his seat and leaning against the side of the carriage to sleep.

But at least Sir Tommin could say that he had come by his wounds and his suffering as a devoted servant of the Holy Lord of Light. In a way, Loman envied the man. Tommin’s faith had remained pure, untainted by violence against his own fellows right up until the moment that his faith crumbled in a duel against the Crimson Knight. Though, from the look of him, perhaps Sir Tommin would have preferred to die in that duel... and Loman could understand at least a portion of why the man would feel that way.

Raising his only remaining hand to the point of his left shoulder where his left arm had once been, Loman’s fingers probed gently at the freshly healed wound while his heart was torn between wonder and horror at how much he’d recovered since Dame Sybyll tore his arm from its socket as punishment for the crime of sacrificing temple acolytes for the power to fight back against the demons.

"Does it still hurt?" a soft, feminine voice asked from the seat opposite him in the small interior of the carriage. "If there’s pain at the shoulder, I have a salve that you can apply," the diminutive witch offered.

"But, if you feel like there’s pain in the arm that you’ve lost then there’s nothing I can do to ease it. Your body needs to learn that the arm is gone, and that may take months or even years," she said, looking as though the statement pained her greatly, even as her grass green eyes met his with the pure clarity of a healer who would not lie to her patient.

It was a look that Loman had worn on his own face often enough, but he’d never expected to see it directed at him, much less from a demon witch.