“Wyand!” a man shouted as he neared the water team from the east. Ryna glanced over her shoulder as she returned to the lake to see that it was the Axebrother named Holt. The man ran beside Wyand, said something hurriedly, then raced back in the direction of the Order of Hands. Wyand passed off his last load of water to the waiting Axesister, offered a brief apology to the Bloodbrother with empty buckets, then caught up to Ryna at the shoreline.
“Holt needs help in the forest,” Wyand explained as he tried to catch his breath. “They’re creating some sort of barrier so the fire can’t spread any farther east. I have to go.” Fear and determination fought behind his eyes, and Ryna knew her own reflected the same emotions.
“Stay safe,” was all that Ryna could think to say, but her tone conveyed it as more than just simple words of concern and encouragement—this was a command.
Wyand seemed to understand her sentiment. “You too,” he replied with an equal level of sternness, then he spun away and dashed after Holt. Ryna watched him leave as she, too, continued to run, but the sound of a nearby tree toppling to the ground in flames quickly forced her to refocus solely on her current task. There was much work to be done.
---
“This is the work of those Smokedwellers we rescued, I know it,” Holt panted angrily as he ran beside Wyand. “I was on the way to check on our latest group of uncleansed and unproven just as the fires started. The cages were empty when I reached them, Wyand. Empty.” Beyond the disbelief, there was a note of guilt in the Axebrother’s voice, as though he could have possibly prevented the destructive blaze if he had only performed his duties earlier in the night.
An unspoken curiosity crept into Wyand’s thoughts as he followed Holt into a cleared section of forest just west of the Order of Hands. Someone had to let the captives out, Wyand realized. He knew Holt had to be considering similar things, but it was a dangerous topic to bring up during a situation that was already confusing enough. Beyond that, Wyand didn’t want to further upset or offend the Axebrother since it was clear that Holt had accepted some level of responsibility for everything that was happening.
“Start cutting,” Holt said when he and Wyand at last reached the northern edge of the clearing. Makeshift torch holders dotted the ground and yielded just enough light to see the next section of forest that needed to be cleared. Wyand quickly found a pile of axes, selected one, and joined other workers as they furiously cut down one tree after another. He felt the last fibers of wood give way as an old spineleaf groaned and then crashed to the ground. Before the branches had even finished shaking from the sudden stop, a team of workers—most from the Order of the Axe—leapt onto the trunk and began hewing off limbs and hauling them away into the darkness towards the Order of Hands. Another team swept in behind them and took up positions on either side of the now-cleared log before hoisting it up onto their shoulders. They, too, then disappeared onto the path leading east.
“Keep at it!” Holt shouted between swings of his own axe. “We need this entire area clear of all foliage before the flames get here. Fifty strides across!” Holt had explained as he ran with Wyand that this area was called a ‘firebreak,’ and that its purpose was to serve as a point past which it would be difficult for the fire to spread. Wyand understood the logic: the more trees and brush removed now, the less fuel that remained for the flames later. Clearing a line fifty strides wide all the way from the lake to the northern mountains seemed impossible, though, especially considering the rate at which the fire was advancing. Even as more teams arrived with axes in hand, Wyand wondered if their combined efforts would be enough to stop the destruction.
“Come on, Wyand! I’ve seen you swing faster than that just to earn a meal!” Holt urged him with a smile. There was a jovial note to the Axebrother’s voice, but Wyand knew the order was sincere all the same. It was a distinct comfort to see Holt’s keen focus and clear direction blend seamlessly with his dry humor during a time when many would succumb to panic. Wyand wiped the sweat and soot from his brow and then sunk his axe into another tree. He fell into a rhythm, moving without thought from one spineleaf to the next as the dark outline of the northern peaks crept slowly closer.
The sound of the fire thundered in the west, and an eerie orange glow illuminated the underside of the low clouds and smoke overhead. Through the trees to his left, Wyand saw brief glances of the flames any time he moved to the next tree within the firebreak. There’s not enough time, he worried more than once, but the realization only served to hasten his pace that much more. As he felled another tree, Wyand watched a group of workers carry several torch holders into an unexpected clearing up ahead. He was surprised to find that it contained three family dwellings that belonged to the Order of Hands, then he suddenly understood what would have to happen next.
“Save what you can, clear out the rest!” Holt commanded and teams of workers immediately began stripping the structures clean. They carefully removed the outer bark walls of the first building in long sections, and Wyand realized it was because they were trying to save the swarming wax ant colonies within. Even in this time of peril, the Cynmeren proved that they valued living things above all else. In only a few minutes, the first structure was reduced to nothing more than a bare foundation of stacked stones.
Suddenly, a loud crash in the forest drew everyone’s attention away from the fire and towards the Order of Hands—it was the sound of trees falling far outside the eastern limits of the firebreak. “Who’s cutting over there?” Holt demanded, clearly irritated by the wasted effort. “Threigar, get over there and tell them to shift back this way.” A young Axebrother nodded and darted off into the woods without delay. Work resumed in the firebreak until another crash, this one louder than the last, was immediately followed by a series of shouts and screams.
Wyand paused before his next swing and peered uncertainly into the dark forest with the rest of the workers in the firebreak. The screams ended abruptly, and a tense stillness followed that seemed louder to Wyand than the constant roar of the fire behind him. A flicker of pale yellow light appeared between the trees, but vanished before a source could be determined. “Did anyone else see that?” an Axesister to Wyand’s right asked, and many of the workers nearby nodded in agreement, their anxiety clear even in the dim light of the torches.
“It was just one of the Bloodbrothers wearing his Watch helmet so he can see better in this darkness,” Holt replied with a dismissive wave as he turned away from the eastern woods. “Get back to work!” As he spoke, the pale yellow glow returned, this time from high in the treetops directly above him. Before there was time to speak, before there was time to think, the light shifted silently towards the ground with incredible speed, then ended its descent with a sharp thud. Wyand watched in horror as a dark spike suddenly appeared on either side of Holt’s rib cage. The dazed Axebrother was suspended above the ground for an instant, then flung into the darkness of the forest with a breathless scream.
“Holt!” Wyand shouted as the outline of a scrid materialized behind the two dark tusks, now made even darker by Holt’s blood. As the creature advanced farther into the clearing, its belly pulsed with the sickly yellow glow that Wyand—and all other Cynmeren—knew could only mean one thing. Shouts and panic immediately filled the clearing.
“Kill it! Kill it!”
“It’s infested!”
“Haugaeldr!”
The last cry solidified Wyand’s fears; somehow, the haugaeldr had found their way into Cynmere. Still stunned, Wyand realized that dozens of workers around him had hefted their axes once more and were sprinting towards the glowing scrid. He lifted his axe as well, but his muscles felt sluggish, his feet heavy. Holt’s dead, Wyand thought over and over, and for a few seconds he was frozen by feelings of loss, fear, and disbelief. Then his shock suddenly gave way to anger. “Holt’s dead!” Wyand screamed, and he raced to join the others as they fought the terrifying beast.
Wyand’s sudden burst of fury was quickly stifled when he
saw how effortlessly the scrid ripped through the mass of charging Cynmeren. In one continuous motion, the creature flowed across the ground, piercing flesh with each sweeping pass of its tusks, knocking axes aside without concern, then it leapt over Wyand’s head and vanished into the trees on the western side of the firebreak. Before there was time to react, the scrid appeared again in the clearing at a spot more than twenty strides away, its eager jaws finding easy prey in the unprepared workers who stood in its path.
The scrid emitted a horrific shriek from somewhere within the treetops to the east as Wyand sprinted to one of the two remaining Hand dwellings. Just as he arrived at the door of the structure, he felt the bark walls shudder from a sudden impact. Amid sounds of splintering wood and crumbling clay, hopeless shouts from within the dwelling were silenced as the scrid burst through the walls and into the clearing once more.
As shards of bark whizzed past him, Wyand crouched against the fractured remains of the Hand dwelling, paralyzed with fear and clinging tightly to his axe. Small groups of Cynmeren stood against each other’s backs, their own weapons attempting to point in all directions at once. Wyand blinked, and they were gone. Wherever he looked, he watched more workers die. Their cries and each screech from the enraged scrid blended into a single unending hymn of destruction that echoed within Wyand’s mind as he felt himself sinking further into despair. His head throbbed with a sudden and searing pain that forced him to shut his eyes, then Wyand heard the scrid shriek again.
Certain that death was imminent, Wyand mustered what little remained of his earlier anger and blindly swung the axe in a final gesture of defiance. To his shock, he felt the blade connect with something solid as it passed in front of him. Wyand’s eyes snapped open just in time to see a deep gash form in the scrid’s abdomen where his axe had pierced it. The creature howled with pain as it continued its climb over the ruined Hand dwelling and back into the trees, leaving a trail of glowing liquid behind it.
Why not, Wyand thought with a bitter laugh, and he scrambled onto his feet. For whatever reason, the creature had either not seen him or had chosen to ignore him for now. Still with his back against the structure, Wyand waited for the scrid to reveal itself again. Seconds later, it lumbered out of the forest to his left, then flared its tusks wide as it turned to face the man who had wounded it. Wyand’s grip tightened and he planted his feet as the animal charged, then with a shout of fury he drew back the axe one last time.
What happened next was too quick for Wyand to see, especially in the dim light from the few torches that remained standing. From the right edge of his vision, he saw a figure wearing a glowing Watch helmet suddenly appear in the air beside the injured scrid as the beast hurtled towards him. With impossible precision and speed, the figure landed on the scrid’s back and thrust a spiked oar directly through its head. In an instant, the creature’s undulating limbs stopped moving and it crumpled into a heap less than five strides from where Wyand stood.
“Move, Wyand!” a distorted voice commanded from within the glowing helmet, and Wyand stumbled away from the dead scrid until his back struck the Hand dwelling again. As he stared numbly at the fallen creature, he saw the yellow glow beginning to pool around its carcass, and it was then that Wyand realized the horrifying truth. The fluid that poured from the scrid’s abdomen was filled with hundreds—possibly thousands—of tiny haugaeldr, all writhing with an insatiable hunger and each able to kill with a single touch.
Arcs of flame streaked across the clearing and collided with dozens of the tiny creatures, sending their charred remains hurtling back into the expanding mass of haugaeldr. Wyand spotted other Watch helmets in the clearing now, each belonging to a Bloodbrother or Bloodsister who had a bow at the ready. They positioned themselves near torches so they could rapidly light each arrow before sending it at the next haugaeldr. After several quick volleys, small fires began to form in a ring around the scrid.
The figure atop the scrid bounded over the haugaeldr and the fire before landing gracefully by Wyand’s side with the spiked oar still in hand. “We are needed elsewhere. Come with me,” the voice commanded, and Wyand suddenly identified its owner.
“Eyrie?” he exclaimed in disbelief.
“Does anyone else ever rescue you?” she demanded with a tilt of her head, leaving Wyand at a complete loss for words. Even with her expression concealed by the helmet, Wyand knew there was a look of sarcasm on Eyrie’s face. He followed her past the burning carcasses as more and more torch arrows found their glowing targets. Wyand quickly discovered that the scene beyond the fallen scrid was even more nauseating, however, because now the carnage he viewed belonged to people instead of animals.
With every step, Wyand’s eyes found images of the dead and the dying. The few who moved were missing arms, missing legs, screaming for help that couldn’t possibly reach them in time to do any good. One scrid had brought down scores of Cynmeren; now with so many people immobilized, a new threat was quickly taking the scrid’s place. The haugaeldr’s glow drifted through many other parts of the forest, steadily creeping towards Cynmere’s central lake. Shouts of agony from within the darkness made it clear that more than one of the writhing beasts had found a victim to inject with the next set of monstrosities. As the haugaeldr advanced, any bodies they found were reduced to piles of bone in seconds, adding further energy and speed to the creatures’ march south.
Grigg’s memories of the fall of Aldhagen stirred within Wyand’s mind. “They’re going to infest the lake,” Wyand gasped as he ran with Eyrie towards Cynmere’s main path.
“Only if we can’t stop them first,” Eyrie replied.
“How did this happen? Why did the scrid turn on us like that?” Wyand asked.
“I’ve never seen it myself—few Cynmeren are old enough to remember the last time it happened—but when a scrid falls prey to the haugaeldr’s sting, it enters a state of rage where it will attack and kill any living thing it finds. That’s what you just witnessed, and that’s why we keep the scrid so far from any tainted water sources in the Deadlands,” Eyrie explained.
“It killed Holt,” Wyand added, his voice hollow from sadness and shock.
Eyrie’s pace faltered for an instant, then she continued running even faster than before. “Now is not the time to mourn the dead—remember their names for the Reclaiming Ceremony. Tonight, we fight to defend the living.” When she and Wyand reached the lakeshore, the shriek of another enraged scrid echoed through the trees to their left. Eyrie slowed. “Go retrieve your Sreathan plate; it will offer some protection against the haugaeldr’s sting. I will tend to the scrid. Meet me on the main path by the Blood dwellings when you’re ready.”
Wyand stared at her incredulously, eyes wide with apprehension. “I can’t go back in there alone!” he exclaimed, pointing to the dark forest.
Eyrie removed her Watch helmet. “Yes, you can, Wyand,” she reassured him. “Just remember your training and all will be well. If you encounter any of the haugaeldr or the infested, you must be swift and thorough until the threat is removed. Understand one thing, though: all that has happened tonight was not an accident. We are under attack, so be prepared to face the enemy at any time. Now go!” With that, Eyrie slipped the glowing helmet back over her head and sprinted towards the sound of distant crashes and screams. Wyand exhaled a long breath, then raced to the Blood dwellings alone.
---
Trees crackled nearby, their sap sizzling and bubbling as the fire moved closer to Ryna’s position on the shore. Heat from the blaze brought forth stinging sweat that added further pain to her raw hands and feet, but Ryna paid little attention to her discomfort. She continued running water buckets back and forth from the lake without thought; she hadn’t bothered to keep count, but Ryna knew she’d filled several hundred buckets since arriving on the mainland to help. In the midst of the repetitive process, a familiar face suddenly appeared on the path by the lake.
“Halwen!” Ryna shouted, but her friend looked around in panicked
confusion before finally realizing who had spoken. Halwen quickly caught up to Ryna and ran with her to deliver the latest pair of water buckets.
“Ryna, why is this happening? I thought we were safe here,” Halwen said in quiet disbelief as bitter tears rolled down her face.
“We’ll put out the fire soon. I can already see improvement,” Ryna lied.
“I wasn’t talking about the fire,” Halwen replied. “I meant the attack.”
Ryna stared at her friend intently. “What attack?” she demanded, passing off the two full buckets to receive another empty pair.
“People are hurt, Ryna, and it’s not just from the fire,” Halwen explained. “After I came back from the Council House, I saw Leighelle. She said she had heard screaming in the forest near the Order of Blood, then she told me to follow her there. When we went to go help with the injured, a group of people ran past shouting that we needed to run too. I didn’t understand until I saw what they were running from. It was the haugaeldr.”
Hearing the name of the glowing creatures conjured painful memories in Ryna’s mind; knowing that the beasts were close by sparked a fire of vengeance in her core that rivaled the burning fury of the blaze in front of her. “Are you certain?” Ryna asked with forced calm as she filled the buckets.
Halwen nodded sadly. “They were right behind me when I turned to run. It was the haugaeldr, I’m sure. I can’t understand how they got here, though. It doesn’t make sense.”
Kingdomturn Page 67
