“How many are with you?” Gasric asked suddenly.
“More than fifteen hundred,” Tilia replied. “Why?”
Gasric shook his head. “It won’t be enough. You must gain the support of the entire Distant Watch, or your group will be crushed by the Smokedwellers in a matter of days.”
“I share that fear, so I ask that you spread word to every camp of the miracle that you experienced here today,” Tilia said. “Tell them to seek us out so they may see the truth for themselves.”
“My people are prepared to follow you, but the same will not be true of the camps you do not visit. They will need proof before agreeing to join this fight,” Gasric advised.
The Voice of War frowned. “It’s a risk we must take. They will join this fight eventually, whether they seek us out or wait blindly for the violence to seek them instead. We cannot wait.”
An idea suddenly leapt into Wyand’s thoughts. “What if we could do both?” he asked quietly. Tilia and Gasric regarded him with equal parts intrigue and skepticism, but Wyand continued undeterred. “Press into the desert with the main force, but also send a small group with me to bring the Thoughtcaster to the Distant Watch camps. I’ll direct any who are willing to fight to join you.”
“That was not the plan,” Tilia hissed. “What about converting any Smokedwellers that we capture? If the Thoughtcaster is elsewhere, how will we bring them to our side of this conflict?”
“They would have to remain caged until I returned,” Wyand admitted with a reluctant shrug. Tilia’s mouth narrowed dangerously into a thin, frustrated line as he spoke. “One week. I’ll only go for a week,” Wyand added hurriedly.
“It’s the only way, Tilia,” Watch Leader Gasric whispered.
The Voice of War fumed in silence as she thought through the situation. She at last turned to Wyand with a look of both concern and furious defeat. “One week,” she conceded. “But you will abandon this idea if there is even a hint that the Penitent Faithful are nearby. Do you understand, boy?” Wyand nodded, but Tilia lifted a hand to silence him before he could speak. “The next time you’re eager to risk your life, remember that you now represent far more than just yourself. We will travel together for the remainder of the day and select your team in the morning. Your week away begins tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Bloodsister,” Wyand said with a respectful bow of his head. A displeased growl formed in the back of Tilia’s throat, but she said nothing more.
“I will prepare my people immediately,” Gasric said with a determined grin. “Before we leave, though, I have a gift for you as well. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve given us, but I believe it will prove useful in the coming days.” He issued a series of clicks and hoots to a man from the Distant Watch, who then hurried back to the far wood line. A few seconds later, he returned with a large bag slung over his shoulder which he set down gently despite its apparent weight. Watch Leader Gasric reached into the bag and lifted out two smaller pouches; with a smile, he opened the first for Tilia and Wyand to see. Inside, a dark, granular substance reflected the sparse rays of the shrouded afternoon sun.
“Firesand!” Tilia exclaimed. “Where did you get that?” For someone normally so calm and focused, it was strange to see Tilia surprised; whatever this “firesand” was, though, it was clearly unexpected.
“One of the Guided visited my Watch over a week ago while we were still traversing the Plateau Desert,” Gasric replied. “He claimed the Visions had called him far south, deep into the Burning Lands. There, with the help of another Watch, he collected hundreds of bags of firesand so he could distribute it to all the Distant Watch camps. We thought he was mad at first, but then he showed us this.” Gasric opened the second pouch and removed a shimmering black orb that was roughly twice the size of a fist. “He called them ‘thunder stones’ and then demonstrated how easy it is to make them. He took a few handfuls of firesand, wet it down, and packed it into a ball. Then, after coating it with a thin layer of scarwood sap, he told us to leave it to dry in the sun for a day. This is the result.”
Tilia eyed the thunder stone warily. “What is its purpose?”
“If the Smokedwellers weren’t skulking throughout the Eastern Hills right now, I would show you what the Guided showed us,” Gasric said with a frustrated sigh, then he shuddered. “Their eyes are everywhere now,” he whispered, lost in some horrific memory from recent days. Gasric shook his head a moment later and continued. “These stones possess incredible power, yet they are frighteningly simple to use. You throw them, preferably as far from you as possible, and with sufficient force they shatter. That’s it. What happens next, though, is difficult to describe—there is a flash of light, a surge of thunder and fire, then whatever was near the stone is reduced to ash.”
The Voice of War backed away and pulled Wyand with her. “What is its purpose, Gasric?” she demanded again quietly.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Gasric asked with a laugh. “Nysk carts stopped instantly, waves of Smokedwellers eliminated before they even have a chance to attack. The thunder stones will allow us to defeat our enemies with ease.”
“That goes against everything we believe! Everything Cynmere stands for!” Tilia hissed.
“You’re right, Sister. You’re absolutely right,” Gasric nodded sadly. “But you’ve seen now the kind of fight we can expect from the Smokedwellers; they’ve grown ruthless, inhuman, blind. The Guided warned us that this day was coming. Whether you will admit it aloud or not, you know there will be moments in this conflict where what we stand to lose will far outweigh what we could gain by trying to save a few Smokedwellers. In those moments, the thunder stones are what will keep our people alive.”
Wyand peered into the murky darkness of the orb in Gasric’s hand, stunned that something so small could cause such destruction. Then he remembered the stone he carried, and he realized its ability to destroy the Cultivators was probably viewed by Tilia in much the same way. Still, based on the cunning tactics and the severity of the attacks Wyand had witnessed from the Penitent Faithful thus far, he understood Gasric’s point. Having a weapon as powerful as the thunder stones could make the difference in winning this war or losing it.
Tilia’s thoughts must have mirrored Wyand’s own, because she eventually shook her head. “Keep those stones concealed unless I explicitly call for them,” she said quietly. “No one needs to know we possess such things.”
“It will be as you say, Bloodsister,” Gasric replied with a slight nod. He returned the thunder stone to its pouch, then placed it and the firesand back in the main bag that the other man had carried over.
The Voice of War’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “What was the name of the Guided who visited you?” she asked.
Gasric shrugged. “He never told us. I learned long ago not to ask too many questions when the Guided begin to act strangely.” Tilia nodded tiredly, clearly frustrated by Gasric’s lack of information. “If there is nothing else, I will go prepare my Watch for the journey,” Gasric said with a small bow. He lingered for an instant, then without another word, he and the nearby members of the Distant Watch retreated into the forest.
As soon as the Distant Watch had cleared the field, Tilia’s weathered face turned to the clouds overhead and she sighed. “What were you thinking, Wyand?”
“What?” Wyand asked in surprise.
“Offering to take the Thoughtcaster away from the main group? Risking what is likely our most valuable tool in the fight against the Cultivators?” she said incredulously.
“I…you said you’re afraid we need more fighters, so trying to recruit the entire Distant Watch seemed like a reasonable option,” Wyand stammered.
Tilia’s gaze felt like it would stab through Wyand at any instant as he waited for her to respond. She at last looked away with an irritated scowl. “Back to the scrid,” she commanded, leaving in such haste that Wyand was forced to run to catch up with her. When they reached the group from Cynmere, the Voice of War broke away from him
to speak with her most trusted leaders.
As Wyand neared his scrid, he realized with embarrassment that he had left Halwen in the transport cage the entire time he’d been gone. She was coughing quietly into her sleeve when he stooped down beside her. “Forgive me, Halwen. I didn’t expect to be gone that long. Do you need anything before we move on?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Halwen rasped. Wyand peered into the shadowy confines of the cage and realized she looked disturbingly pale. He pulled free one of his water containers and extended it through the slats to her. Halwen’s eyes grew large when she saw the water, but she quickly shook her head and pushed his hand away. “Thank you, but not now,” she said. Wyand frowned—she was clearly sick, but like every other woman he knew, she was too stubborn to seek help when she needed it. Then she coughed again, and Wyand suddenly noticed the red-stained bandage that had been hastily wrapped around Halwen’s right arm.
“I didn’t know you were injured in the attack!” Wyand exclaimed.
Halwen hurriedly concealed her arm. “It’s just a scratch,” she said dismissively. “Come on, Wyand. Everyone else is leaving; we need to get moving, too.” Wyand glanced around the forest and realized she was right. Still, he hesitated out of concern before finally climbing atop the scrid. With the creature under his control, Wyand moved quickly to his new position by Tilia’s side.
Climbing back to the top of the cliff was far less exhilarating than the rapid descent, but then again, Wyand was thankful for the moment of relative calm that the slow climb offered. After reuniting with the main force of Cynmeren, they moved together along the jagged ridge line until it sloped down into the far western end of the valley where Wyand had just been. Gasric and a group of close to fifty members of the Distant Watch were waiting at the base of the ridge, all of their faces once again concealed within Watch helmets. Wyand spotted large bags beneath several of the scrid from the Distant Watch; he wondered silently which of them contained the amazing yet terrifying thunder stones.
As dusk set in, Tilia issued the command to bring the scrid to a halt when they reached a patch of forest that was filled with massive scarwood roots. Wyand copied her example, then made certain to release Halwen from the transport cage as quickly as possible. She smiled in thanks before disappearing into the darkness, leaving Wyand confused and forced to search for Eyrie and Ryna by himself.
35
Ryna’s eyes strained in the fading daylight as she crept out of the transport cage and scanned the forest for Halwen. The cool wind swirled through Ryna’s hair and carried with it the scent of the spineleaf trees that stood overhead, but the breeze was not why she shuddered. As night set in, the glow of Watch helmets drifted from the base of one tree to the next, their eerie light conjuring memories in Ryna’s mind of the night of the attack in Cynmere. Putting on one of the horrid carcasses supposedly would have made seeing in the darkness much easier, but letting one of those things touch her was something Ryna couldn’t bring herself to do.
Eyrie stood beside her scrid as she secured it for the night; Ryna was relieved to find that she hadn’t put on her Watch helmet yet. “You should get some rest. We’ll be moving on again in a few hours,” Eyrie advised her.
“We just got here!” Ryna exclaimed.
“We did,” Eyrie agreed, “but we’re also within a day’s journey of the edge of the Plateau Desert. To avoid the searing heat, we’ll travel at night from here on.”
Ryna frowned. Sleep would be wise, then, she realized. “I need to find Halwen first, just to check on her. Then I can rest.” Eyrie nodded in understanding and went back to her work while Ryna resumed her search.
As Ryna moved through the clusters of scrid, she was increasingly amazed by the enormous creatures’ ability to disappear into their surrounding environment. At one point she reached in the darkness for what she thought was a branch, only to be startled an instant later as a scrid’s tusk swung free of her grasp and clacked in irritation. All around her, the animals were either resting or had latched onto the scarwood roots for a well-earned meal of sap, but there was no sign of Halwen among the scrid.
“Ryna!” a distorted voice said softly, and she turned as one of the men wearing a Watch helmet emerged from the shadows. Wyand’s face appeared as he lifted the haugaeldr off of his head. “Is Halwen with you?”
“I’m surprised she’s not with you,” Ryna said slowly, her concern growing by the minute.
“I assumed she ran off to find you,” Wyand continued with a frown. “As soon as the cage hit the ground, she left without a word. I think she’s ill.”
The knot of worry in Ryna’s stomach tightened. “What makes you think that?”
“She’s been coughing throughout the day, and when I checked on her earlier, she looked as grey as ash,” Wyand explained. “She has a cut on her right arm, too—it might be infected, from the looks of her bandage.”
“If she’s sick, she would have gone to the Handsisters,” Ryna suggested. Wyand nodded and they hurried off together to find the group from the Order of Hands. As they ran, they darted between scores of small tents of woven fabric that dotted the ground between the massive scarwood roots. Most of the other Cynmeren had been quick to set up their shelters and rest while they could—they knew the journey west would resume soon. One large tent had been suspended between the trunks of four ancient spineleaf; the subtle smells of cook fires and boiling herbs drifting from its interior marked it as the sick tent.
Ryna held her breath as she pulled aside the entry flap and stepped into the sick tent, but she exhaled quickly in disappointment. Only four people were in the tent, and Halwen was not among them. Two Handsisters glanced up briefly, but when they saw that Ryna and Wyand were uninjured, they resumed their tasks. One administered a bowl of steaming liquid to a sickly Axesister, while the other finished wrapping the blistered foot of a Stonebrother. When the Handsister was satisfied with her bandage work, she crept quietly to the entrance. “Sister, Brother, how may I assist you?” she smiled.
“Did a woman named Halwen come here recently?” Ryna asked hopefully.
The Handsister frowned for a moment and shook her head. “I’ve worked with Halwen before, but no, she hasn’t been here. We just finished setting up the tent a few minutes ago, actually. These two were already waiting for us, but there was no one else with them. What’s wrong with Halwen?”
“That’s just it—we don’t know. Hopefully nothing,” Wyand replied.
“I see. I’ll watch for her and let you know if she comes to us for healing. That’s the best I can offer,” the Handsister said with an apologetic shrug. Ryna and Wyand offered their thanks and then stepped back out into the night.
“What now?” Wyand asked.
“We go back to the scrid,” Ryna decided. “If Halwen’s looking for us, that’s where she’ll go next.”
As they ran, Eyrie suddenly appeared beside them. “Come with me,” she said quietly. “I found her.” Ryna was glad to hear those words, but seeing sadness in Eyrie’s eyes as she spoke made Ryna’s mind race with worry. After passing between the small tents, Eyrie continued past the scrid as well. Finally, they arrived at a scarwood root that lay several hundred strides beyond the farthest reaches of the Cynmeren camp. The glow of Watch helmets shone brightly on the branches above, yet, curiously, Ryna didn’t see anyone standing within the pale yellow light. As Ryna started to move closer to the mysterious glow, Eyrie took hold of her shoulder to stop her. “I will give you as much time as I can, but there isn’t much left,” Eyrie whispered gently, then she squeezed Ryna’s shoulder compassionately and stepped aside.
Confused, Ryna walked to the far side of the scarwood root and suddenly froze in place. In front of her was a person laying amid the spineleaf needles whose face burned with the inner glow of an infestation of haugaeldr. Beneath the glow, the dirt, and the streaks of tears, Ryna knew it was Halwen. She stared down and trembled with shock and disbelief until Halwen at last looked up at her. When Ryna saw th
e pain in her friend’s eyes, she crumpled to the ground beside her, sobbing quietly into Halwen’s robes.
“I couldn’t wait…anymore,” Halwen wheezed. “I was so thirsty.” She frowned apologetically as more glowing yellow tears flowed down her cheeks and she pointed to a spot on the scarwood root. A knife was lodged deep into the bark, and its sweet, cool sap oozed out onto the ground.
“I know,” Ryna said comfortingly as she struggled to speak through her weeping. “You have nothing to be ashamed of; you did well. It took a lot of strength to come this far. I didn’t even know this had happened to you.”
Halwen’s head nodded tiredly. “During the attack. I was…helping move the injured. One of the haugaeldr…got too close.” She coughed, the sound a wretched tumbling of liquid inside her lungs.
Ryna lifted a hand to keep her from saying more. “That’s why you wanted to come with us so badly—you knew you couldn’t stay in Cynmere.”
Halwen nodded. “And I wanted…to be with you for as long as I could.” Her body spasmed as another fit of coughing overtook her.
Ryna steadied her friend, then embraced her tightly. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m always here.”
They cried together in silence, then Halwen cleared her throat to speak again. “When I saw the others…the infested…clearing haugaeldr from water sources, I thought…I thought I could still be of some use.” Halwen’s voice got louder and steadier as anger swept across her face. “But I was too scared, too weak, to serve anyone but myself. So instead I stayed quiet, out of the way, and refused water for as long as I could. Forgive me for being a burden, Ryna.”
Ryna took Halwen’s face in her hands. “You were never a burden, Halwen,” she said sincerely. “When I was Unwoven and then cast out, you were the only reason I kept living. My task was to keep you safe, so I should apologize to you for not being there when you needed me the most.” Halwen brushed Ryna’s hands aside gently and shook her head, but she couldn’t speak through the rasping sound of fluid.
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