Having no answers, Ryna knew she still needed to do something; ultimately, the opportunity to crush haugaeldr was too tempting for her to resist. She passed off the full buckets to the water team, then handed the empty pair to Halwen. “What are you doing?” Halwen asked with a worried frown as her eyes darted incredulously between the buckets and Ryna.
“I know how to fight those things,” Ryna said gently. “I can help with that task more than I can with this one. Will you take my place in the water team until I come back?”
“No!” Halwen shouted, dropping the buckets, then she softened her tone. “I can’t…I shouldn’t. Please, Ryna, don’t go. I need you here.”
“You haven’t ‘needed me’ since Locboran,” Ryna smiled, placing the empty buckets back into Halwen’s hands. “Don’t forget: you’re the one who found help and rescued me from the bannuc forge. Let me rescue you now.”
Halwen stared at her for an instant, then laughed as frustrated tears formed once again. “Always the stubborn one,” she sighed as they began jogging back to the lake. “I know I can’t change your mind. Just don’t do anything foolish, all right?”
“Of course,” Ryna replied, then Halwen stopped abruptly and pulled her into a tight embrace. Ryna savored the gesture for an instant before gently pushing Halwen away so they could both get back to work. Halwen hesitated, her lip quivering, then she finally nodded and rushed off to the lake. Ryna exhaled slowly, then began her trek to the Order of Blood. She removed the bone weapon from her sash; feeling its weight in her hand for the first time since the Deadlands was a powerful reminder of all that had been lost the last time she faced the haugaeldr. She prayed it would help her save even more lives than it had at the Lake of Skulls, but Ryna was surprised to find that somewhere in the depths of her mind she also prayed it would help to keep her alive, too.
For the first few hundred strides, the path was crowded with droves of people returning from the Council House or arriving from other parts of Cynmere to assist with the blaze. Many regarded Ryna and her weapon with confused stares as she ran past, while others seemed irritated that she wasn’t helping to control the fire. Some ignored her entirely, their attention wholly captivated by the destruction before them. Their numbers were staggering—it felt like the entire population of Cynmere would soon be packed tightly around the Order of Stone.
As Ryna moved farther away from the roar of the fire, the number of people thankfully dwindled and she began to hear the distant sounds of the chaos Halwen had described. People shouted, things crashed and thudded, but at first all she could see through the trees was darkness. When she was nearly past the Hand dwellings, though, the eerie yellow light of the haugaeldr suddenly shone brightly on the underside of the branches ahead. Ryna prepared herself and sprinted forward, fixated on the sickening glow, until she found its source wasn’t the haugaeldr at all. Scores of Bloodbrothers and Bloodsisters wearing their Watch helmets charged north through the forest towards the threat that Ryna still couldn’t see. She attempted to follow them for a few strides, but without a Watch helmet of her own or at least a torch, all she could do was stumble over roots and become entangled in the underbrush.
Frustrated, Ryna made her way back to the main path so she could retrieve a torch and then try again to find a route north through the dense foliage. There was no one in sight, so she felt slightly less guilty about stealing one of the only light sources available for many strides. She paused at the base of the nearest torch post when she heard someone slogging through the shallows farther up the path. Ryna searched the darkness, then spotted a man preparing to launch one of the small boats from a nearby section of the shore. It was difficult to be certain from almost fifty strides away, but it looked like Fadian from what Ryna could see; at a minimum, she knew it was one of the Guided from his tan hood and a glimpse of his glowing eyes. That’s strange. Why would anyone be going back to the Council House now? Ryna wondered.
Before she had time to think any further, another robed figure appeared, this one emerging from the northern woods in a blur of movement that sped towards the small boat. The Guided had turned to face the Council House as he climbed carefully into the tiny vessel, so he had no view of the figure as it darted closer. Ryna thought to call out, but uncertainty made her hesitate for an instant too long. With a glint of polished metal, the hooded figure wrapped an arm around the Guided and pressed firmly against his chest. A moment later, the man fell onto his side and lay still.
“No!” Ryna shouted, abandoning the torch so she could tend to the fallen Guided. At the sound of her voice, the hooded figure looked up. Ryna’s pace slowed until she stopped a few strides away; she expected to see what the people of Cynmere referred to as a Smokedweller, but what stared at her from within that hood was infinitely worse. Ryna recognized that face, contorted as it was with anger and glowing with the haugaeldr’s poison that pulsed just beneath the surface. “Stora?” she said in quiet disbelief.
The Mainwright smiled condescendingly. “Of all the heathens in this forsaken place, it’s fitting that you’re the only one to notice me,” she rasped. Her voice was distorted by what sounded like lungs that were nearly filled with fluid. She used the Guided’s robe to wipe blood off of a small knife she had stolen from the Order of Hands, then she turned away from Ryna and took hold of the boat.
“How…how could you do this?” Ryna asked, dumbfounded with shock. She knelt beside the Guided and rolled him gently onto his back. Fadian’s lifeless eyes stared at her, their glow never to be seen again. Ryna looked away in horror as she felt the burden of guilt suddenly weigh down upon her. I could have warned him….
Stora spun to face her again. “How could I do this?” she demanded. “You did this, you insolent little wretch. If you had obeyed my commands, we would be well on our way to Locboran by now. But instead….” Stora paused as she regarded her glowing hand. “Instead, I was forced to make myself an instrument of the Fyrnraed, so that their wrath could be brought down upon the faithless. There’s nothing you can do now—the destruction of Cynmere is their will.”
With her entire body trembling, the Mainwright bent her legs in a series of awkward, jerky movements and stepped into the boat.
Ryna stared at Fadian through her tears. Stora’s right. This is the will of the Cultivators—deception, hatred, and death are embedded in everything they do. The more Ryna thought through all the lives that had been destroyed by the Cultivators and those who blindly followed them, the more she was overwhelmed with anger. Her feelings of guilt for Fadian’s death suddenly shifted into furious accusation, and she sprinted to the small boat before Stora could leave.
With an enraged yell, Ryna yanked the infested woman off of the curled strip of bark and dragged her back onto the muddy shore. A sudden sensation of warmth in Ryna’s left arm followed by searing pain forced her to release her grip on Stora a moment later. Ryna collapsed to the ground in agony; when she looked down at her arm, she saw a long tear in her white robe quickly being surrounded by a widening patch of dark red. The cut was deep, the pain unbearable.
Stora lowered the knife and responded to Ryna’s suffering with quiet, mocking laughter. “Pathetic,” she sneered, brushing her shoulders to wipe away the filth of Ryna’s touch. “You failed as a Wright, now you’ve failed as an Unwoven, too. Penance serves no purpose for you—you have no future.” Stora hobbled slowly towards Ryna until she loomed over her. “As a final gesture of kindness, I will bring an early end to your life of punishment, Unwoven.”
Something permanently changed in Ryna’s mind as she heard Stora’s last word. A surge of energy coursed through her body, washing away all traces of pain. “My name is RYNA!” she cried, and the bone weapon hurtled up from the sand. It struck the left side of Stora’s head with a powerful crack that knocked the surprised Mainwright several strides away from the lake. She landed facedown, shuddered once, and was still.
Ryna leapt to her feet prepared to continue fighting, but when she flipped Stora on
to her back, it was clear the struggle was over. A pool of red gushed outward from the left side of Stora’s chest—she had fallen directly on top of her stolen blade. Ryna backed away, horrified by what she had done. She noticed Stora’s blood shimmering on the end of the bone weapon too, and she dropped the grim tool as though it was ablaze. “I-I just wanted her to stop…” Ryna stammered, shaking from the sudden chill of physical and emotional shock. She fell to her knees, unable to speak, unable to move, as loose strands of her hair drifted in front of her vision. Ryna closed her eyes. I did this.
“Is she dead?” a distorted voice asked. Ryna’s eyelids opened to find the glowing Watch helmet of one of the Bloodsisters speeding towards her from the northern side of the path. The woman let out a short, exasperated sigh when Ryna didn’t respond and quickly removed her Watch helmet. Ryna stared into Eyrie’s worried eyes. “Is she dead?” Eyrie repeated, glancing at Ryna’s injury with concern as she made her way to Stora’s body. Ryna nodded faintly, then Eyrie took hold of the Mainwright and began dragging her back from the water. She knelt down, and in seconds a small fire began to spread across the dead woman’s robe.
“Get ready!” Eyrie shouted to someone as she stepped back and lowered her oar. Ryna watched numbly as Stora’s body began to burn away; the tip of each flame was tinged with the horrific yellow glow that marked the presence of the haugaeldr’s poison. With a sickening pop, dozens of flaming haugaeldr suddenly burst through the remnants of Stora’s robe and raced towards the lake. A man wearing a Watch helmet leapt into their path and sent a handful of the creatures flying away from the water with a sweep of his oar. More followed, and he quickly knocked them back as well. Eyrie jabbed the sharp tip of her oar into the haugaeldr as they landed in front of her until at last no more of the glowing beasts emerged from Stora’s remains.
As Eyrie surveyed the fire cautiously, the Bloodbrother removed his Watch helmet and hurried to Ryna’s side. She stared into the flames, unable to look away and unwilling to meet the man’s gaze. After quickly examining her, the Bloodbrother lifted her left arm tenderly and winced from what he saw. “You’re hurt, Ryna!” he exclaimed, and her eyes snapped away from the fire to find Wyand holding her arm. His presence—the sound of concern in his voice as he spoke her true name, the look of worry on his face—was too much for Ryna to bear. She felt another agonizing spike of guilt pierce her core, and tears began to flow down her face.
“It’s all my fault, Wyand,” she sobbed. “I caused all of this. I killed her. I let Fadian die.”
“What are you—wait, that’s Fadian?” Wyand’s eyes grew large when he suddenly took note of the other body lying in the darkness near the water’s edge. He released Ryna’s arm and ran over to Fadian, then he stood motionless, staring at the fallen Stormbrother in disbelief. Eyrie joined him a moment later, and she, too, stared down at Fadian. Ryna closed her eyes again tightly and wept into her hands as a cold wind flowed into Cynmere from the east.
“He knew this spot was special, but he never knew why,” Wyand said hollowly. “Now we know. But why would Stora kill him? What had he done wrong?”
“We will seek answers later,” Eyrie replied, and Ryna heard her walking swiftly back from the water’s edge. Her footsteps stopped and Ryna flinched suddenly when she felt a bandage being wrapped around her massive cut. She glanced at the Bloodsister, who never looked away from the injury she was tending,
“I have many questions for you, but they will have to wait,” Eyrie said quietly. “Right now, I need every fighter I can get, and it’s clear that you know how to defend yourself when needed.” She finished wrapping Ryna’s arm and offered her the bone weapon, still wet with Stora’s blood.
Ryna shook her head fervently. “I can’t. Not with that.” Eyrie frowned, then with an indifferent shrug she cast the bone over Ryna’s shoulder and into the lake with a splash. Ryna turned in time to see a series of ripples radiating from the spot where the weapon had fallen, but otherwise there was no sign that it had ever been there. She felt a strange mixture of loss and relief—though it was a painful reminder of the deaths of both Kiorla and Celina, the horrid object had provided a sense of security throughout Ryna’s journey to Cynmere.
“Take this, then,” Eyrie said, and she passed Ryna one of the spike-tipped oars that the boatmen used. It wasn’t as heavy as Ryna expected it would be, but trying to keep it steady without aggravating her wounded arm proved difficult. Eyrie eyed her skeptically. “Broad sweeping motions will be easier for you. Keep your arms straight, rotate at your waist, and knock the haugaeldr back as they approach. Now, on your feet; we need to get moving. Wyand! To the fight!”
As Ryna ran to the main path, her eyes drifted to the fire that marked where Stora had fallen. Matching Eyrie’s pace quickly made the image of Stora nothing more than a memory, though, as a line of Cynmeren came into view on the path ahead. Every few strides, another worker stood with some form of weapon at the ready, all pointing north, all bracing for the inevitable appearance of the haugaeldr. Many held simple farming implements, while others were armed with either spiked oars or bows with arrows already blazing. When Eyrie at last found a gap wide enough for Wyand, Ryna, and herself, shouts of preparation echoed from one part of the line to the next. Through the trees, the sickening yellow glow shone everywhere, casting nightmarish shadows as the haugaeldr swarmed closer to the lake.
Eyrie secured a new oar from one of the neighboring Bloodbrothers, then she leaned in close to Ryna’s ear. “I heard what you said about this being your fault, and I have not forgotten that Stora convinced you to observe the people of Cynmere in secret for many days. When this is finished, we will seek out the Council; they will determine if your feelings of guilt are warranted or not. Though it is difficult for me to do, I still believe I can trust you for now. Do not fail me, Ryna.” Eyrie cast a wary expression Ryna’s way, then she nodded to herself before putting on her Watch helmet once again. “Old Ones protect us. For Cynmere!” her distorted voice shouted, and the cry traveled the length of the Cynmeren line. Then the haugaeldr appeared, a boiling mass of glowing death, and sounds of battle filled the air.
“Push them back, Ryna!” Eyrie shouted, and Ryna responded by painfully swinging the oar in a broad arc in front of her. Dozens of arrows engulfed the creatures as they were knocked away from the path, and any haugaeldr that survived were instantly cleaved by the waiting oars and axes. “Again!” Eyrie shouted, just as another surge of haugaeldr emerged from the darkness. Ryna swung, and once more the creatures were subdued.
During the period of relative calm that followed, Ryna looked left and was horrified to see other areas of the Cynmeren line were not faring as well as hers. She watched a Songbrother nearby as he was knocked to the ground and struck by the haugaeldr. A moment later, he appeared well north of the main path, hacking wildly with his axe at anything that glowed. Since he had already suffered the haugaeldr’s sting, the hordes of creatures ignored the Songbrother entirely, making themselves easy targets for his rage.
Ryna heard a strange noise over the sounds of the fight, then she suddenly realized the doomed man was singing as he slaughtered the haugaeldr. It was confusing at first, but Ryna began to understand its purpose as more and more Cynmeren joined in his last song. The low, droning hum stood out among the other sounds in the forest, and it inspired a feeling of unimaginable pride and courage inside her. The Songbrother knew he was going to die, yet he still fought while there was strength left in his body; he knew silence was imminent, yet he still sang while there was breath left in his lungs.
Together with the Cynmeren, Ryna fought harder than she ever thought possible until the last traces of the sickening yellow glow vanished from the northern woods. After a tense moment watching for more of the creatures, victorious shouts thundered along the path, even from the workers who had fallen victim to the haugaeldr’s sting. Panting, Ryna stumbled back from the edge of the path and steadied herself using the blunt end of the oar. “We did it,” she laughe
d between breaths. “We did it.”
“We did,” Eyrie agreed with a solemn nod, “but it came at a great cost.” Ryna’s smile faded as she surveyed other sections of the path; tears shone in many eyes as wounds that seemed trivial were covered hastily by workers trying to ignore the truth. Though the main fight had ended, the Cynmeren casualties were just beginning. Ryna’s earlier feelings of guilt returned with staggering force and she fell silent. Eyrie turned west and walked the path slowly, while Ryna and Wyand hurried to catch up to her.
“How did so many of those things get here?” Wyand asked as they walked together, shaking his head at the piles of yellow carnage that coated the edge of the tree line.
“The scrid,” Eyrie replied. “From the sting of one haugaeldr, several hundred can form in minutes within each infested scrid. The process works differently for them—no water source is needed, and the hatching takes hours instead of days.”
“That, and the infested scrid kill everything in sight,” Wyand added grimly.
“True,” Eyrie agreed. “Using them was a very effective addition to a well-planned attack: first, to somehow creep into Cynmere with a handful of haugaeldr and infest the scrid. Then, to light a massive fire that blocks the only means of escape and draws all of the workers to a single spot. The execution was flawless—it’s like she was in two places at once.”
“She?” Wyand asked.
“Stora,” Eyrie clarified. Ryna winced at the sound of that name.
Wyand frowned. “Holt said the attack was the work of two of the captive Smokedwellers. He went to check on them and found their cages empty just before the fire started.”
Eyrie stopped abruptly and spun to face Wyand. “You’re certain that’s what he said?” she asked.
“Absolutely. If anything is certain about this attack, it’s that Stora was the one who freed them from their cages. Who else would have done it?” Wyand demanded. Ryna questioned his logic at first—why would Stora care about letting two Smokedwellers escape? But then the whispers of an answer began forming in her mind. Stora hated the Cynmeren as much if not more than the Smokedwellers did. She had maintained her faith in the Cultivators until she died, and since the so-called “Penitent Faithful” were caged, that meant they still clung to their beliefs as well. Somehow, Stora had made contact with them in secret, and together they had devised a means of tearing Cynmere apart.
Kingdomturn Page 68
