Chapter 42
Fire
Sylas wanted to cry—though even if he did, it was unlikely for any tears to trickle out due to the fact that his eyes were frozen. Staring up, he saw yet another steep incline, some forty-fifty degrees, that he had to climb. Even if he did considerable work to improve his body, he was yet to reach a point at which he could do very much superhuman things.
Luckily, he wasn't the worst one-off—it was Valen, the young Prince, who suffered. There was a distinct difference, however—Tenner and Cyrs had dedicated six guards to literally carry Valen in shifts so that the Prince never had to walk up the hill. Nobody showed him any such considerations, though. As such, his shifty eyes would occasionally look at the Prince and spit invisible acid.
What surprised Sylas the most, however, was that Ryne seemed completely fine—even chirpy. Her conditioning was inhuman, matching the veteran guards. They have departed three days ago and have been walking for most of the day. They had to, after all—there was a lot of ground to cover and the more they delayed the colder the temperatures got. If they got caught up in a blizzard midway up the mountains, they'd all die without a chance of surviving.
Swallowing a mouthful of vomit back, Sylas gritted his teeth and followed some eighty guards that have joined them. Besides the guards, there were also two cooks, quite a few porterboys, and even a few butlers. They all walked at the far rear, with the Prince and the Baron, while Sylas elected to walk at the rear of the soldiers as to hide the fact he could barely hike. As his face was completely disguised, he hoped nobody would realize it was him. His hopes, though, were in vain.
"Are you alright?" Ryne asked with a genuinely concerned expression. She had been noticing a strange pattern the last couple of days—Sylas would occasionally break off from the convoy and when she followed him, she saw him bent over, vomiting. Then, each time they'd come up to even the slightest of slopes, he'd break out into the onslaught of curses that made her blush. More and more, he reminded her of a man losing a grip on his reality.
"No," Sylas replied honestly. "The question is, why are so many people alright? This is insane! Humans weren't built for treks such as these! We're built of the safety of the walls, comfort of a bed, and the warmth of a hearth!"
"This was your idea…"
"…" Sylas glared at her, his eyes screaming 'do you think I've forgotten that?!!'.
"Khm, inclines… they should be growing weaker. We've already climbed a hefty amount."
"I was there when they said we'd have two mountains to climb."
"…"
"Just leave me to my suffering," Sylas said, settling his heart. He'd take it as training. There was some dread at the back of his mind, however—what if their raid was unsuccessful? He'd have to restart the loop. But that meant that his body would go back to the way it was. Unconditioned. And he'd have to make this journey again. "Just make sure we win this thing," he added like a maddened lad, scaring Ryne off.
Though the incline was incredibly steep, and though every inch of his body hurt by the end, it was relatively short—only half a mile or so. As soon as he finished the climb, he saw that the vanguard soldiers have already begun setting up camp. The reason Sylas couldn't ask for more frequent breaks was that the entire journey had been dotted off completely—including when and for how long would they rest. It usually came after one of the climbs like the one they just finished—steep and unforgiving—or just before nightfall.
As he'd experienced twice already, the nights in the mountains got dark. Even darker than in the castle. It was beyond haunting how depressingly bleak the world became as soon as the faint vestige of the sun set beyond the horizon. It was impossible to make any progress and they were forced to camp until the first trace of light when they moved out.
He immediately flattened onto the solid ground; the mountain was largely grassless and treeless past the first few hundred feet of the climb, dyed in a desolate combination of ashen grey and dirt-brown. Jagged rocks protruded along the inclines and sharp, cliff-like edges loomed across the mountain's surface. All in all, however, it wasn't the most difficult mountain to actually climb—at least so far.
Catching his breath, he sat up just in time for the last of the convoy to arrive—Valen and his escorts. The Prince's cheeks were rosy and there was a smile on his face as he descended a makeshift palanquin, stretching out lazily. Sylas' eyes burned in envy. He wanted to leap over and take a bite of the man. Valen felt a dangerous gaze on him, his instincts telling him that he was facing a wounded, hungry beast. As his eyes followed those instincts and landed on the sorry-looking figure sprawled on the floor, he wanted to laugh a bit, but held back.
Merely waving, he joined Cyrs and headed toward the war tent immediately where they'd further polish their plans for the upcoming days.
Sylas ignored the wave and, like a bitter child, flipped the Prince off before forcing himself on the feet and over to the cook's station where he grabbed some dry salad leaves and began chewing on them. He was hungry, but it would still be at least an hour or two before the meals were ready. Until then, he could only chew on something to cheat his stomach into believing it wasn't starving.
Luckily, he actually managed to doze off for a while due to tiredness, woken up by the sounds of the clanking plates and shouts of men asking for more. The night was close to falling, and this would be the last meal for at least twelve hours, if not more. As such, he hurried and scrambled forward toward the tables, grabbing two plates and bringing them to the cook. The latter was a middle-aged man with a bellied front and a kind-looking face. Glancing between the two plates and Sylas, he had an awkward expression.
"Only one portion, I'm afraid," the cook said.
"It's for my kid," Sylas fired back immediately.
"Y-your kid?" the cook looked at him as though asking 'who brought their kid to this?!'.
"Yes, I may look young, but I'm sixty years old. I've a kid. It's, uh, it's that guy," Sylas pointed at some random man who looked like he could be Sylas' father.
"I—"
"It's fine, Glenn," Tenner appeared from seemingly nowhere and told the cook. "Why are you out here, Mr. Sylas?" there really was a good reason for that—though, really, more than 'good', it was a stupid one.
Just before the expedition, one of Sylas' standard lines actually came to bite him in his behind. His 'I concern myself not with mortal matters' ended up forcing him into declining special treatment and joining the ordinary soldiers in their march. 'I am just a man, like them,', he proclaimed boldly while weeping inside. 'I must stand by my lot'.
"… bad choices," Sylas replied, gleeful that he'd be getting two portions. "What about you? Has the meeting finished?"
"Yes, some time ago," Tenner nodded as the two made their way toward Sylas' temporary tent, one he was sharing with three other people.
"Any changes?"
"No major ones," the Captain said. "All is still in place."
"Hm, good. Won't you grab a bite?" Sylas finally realized that Tenner hadn't taken a plate.
"…"
"What was it?" Sylas asked through gritted teeth.
"S-some mashed potatoes with chicken," Tenner replied as Sylas glanced at the hotpot in his hands—a porridge of some grass and leaves and something that could be rice, but it could also be virtually anything else. "I… I think there's some leftover. I could bring it—"
"It's fine," Sylas knew he was being a moron, proving nothing to nobody, just making a fool of himself. However… it was a personal battle of his, a battle with himself. "You should go get some rest. A long journey tomorrow."
"You too," Tenner smiled awkwardly as he walked off.
Sylas entered the tent only to find it empty—it was a fairly simple, beyond simple, form of accommodation. 'Beds' were just stacks of straw tossed together, and they lay flat on the open ground, offering barely any isolation. He walked up to the rightmost corner, sat down, and dove into the food. It wasn't as bad as it looked, at least. Though he missed Earth's food, he'd gotten somewhat used to this one's as well. Delicacies were few and far in-between, but it wasn't to the point that he'd rather starve himself.
Finishing off both plates, tiredness overtook him and he lay down, closing his eyes. It was cold, but the tent provided some insulation, at least against the wind. Dozing off, he drifted into a dreamless sleep, one that seemed to last forever, yet but briefly when his bladder woke him up.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew that it was late at night—after all, he couldn't see anything. And, most importantly, couldn't hear anything but the breathing of the people in the same tent as him. Standing up and cursing the very bladder that woke him up.
Somehow finding his way out of the tent, he stuck his arm out and held it at its edges while walking to its back end, struggling for a good minute to undo his pants in the dark.
"Haaaah," he sighed in pleasure, the sounds of the water hitting the solid ground quickly dominating the world around. "Fuck, it's cold…" just a few seconds and he was already shivering. He hurried as much as he could, pulling his pants up as soon as he was done and readying to spin around and walk back—it was then that he heard a sound that didn't belong. It was a low whizz of sorts, like the wind… but different.
It was only a second later, however, that he realized what it was—as soon as he saw one of the tents light up like an infernal lantern. By then, however, dozens more 'whizzs' came out, and the night's sky was alighted with the kindling fires of the falling arrows. Aghast, he pushed back the terror in his heart and loaded his lungs with all the air he could muster before yelling at the top of his voice.
"FIRE!!!!!"