“I did,” Keltin said excitedly. “As soon as the embers had been thrown down into the trench, I jumped in and found one of the glowing Cynmeren beasts less than a stride from me. While it was distracted by the ember and the sudden layer of smoke, I darted forward and pierced its side. This knife is light and quick—and surprisingly sharp! It slid through the Cynmeren’s hard exterior with ease.”
“That’s good,” Ansund replied quietly. “It will be the last time you use it for a few days, though.”
Keltin’s excitement deflated instantly. “My injuries aren’t that serious. I can still fight!”
“It’s not that.”
“I won’t rush into battle anymore, if that’s your concern.”
“It is a concern, but that’s not it either.” Ansund stared at Keltin, his expression completely unreadable. Keltin’s eyes moved around the room as he struggled to think of what the Draeden could mean until Ansund finally leaned in close. “Tomorrow, while the other Penitent Faithful strike at multiple Cynmeren camps, we will spend the day together in one of the carts, pushing north and east as far into the mountains as the nysks can take us. Then we will be on foot for the next two days as we traverse the rugged terrain beyond in swift silence.” Ansund’s eyes burned with fury and hunger, and Keltin at last understood. “Rest. Heal. Cynmere awaits us, Keltin.”
In the midst of such excitement, and even though it was barely mid-morning, it was easy to follow the Draeden’s instructions once Keltin found himself alone again in the shadowy cart. Exhaustion seeped into Keltin’s body with the desert heat, and he allowed himself to succumb to sleep for many hours. True rest eluded him, though, because his dreams were fraught with images of Cynmere and the battles that were sure to occur once he arrived there. When one of the Servants returned to rouse him, the entirety of the day and most of the night had already passed. “We’re leaving,” was all the man said, and as Keltin stretched he felt the nysk cart lurch into motion.
In the darkness, Keltin peered around the lower level of the cart and found the forms of three other people sleeping nearby. He quietly rose from the comfort of his blanket and made his way to the stairs that led to the upper level. Stars filled the sky beyond the canvas overhead, but a thin line of dark red stained the western horizon—sunrise was only a few hours away. It was difficult to make out details in the grey, but he saw the desert disappearing rapidly behind the cart amid a growing barrier of dark hills.
Then Keltin had a sudden realization—there was no smoke behind the cart. He turned his attention to the light directors and found them folded low against the nysks’ backs; neither torch was lit, which meant no smoke and no light to see the way forward. Keltin walked closer and noticed it was Aidlan who was guiding the nysks, but just before he could ask the Vessel Guard what was happening, a familiar voice pierced the silence. “I see now why they call you Sleeper,” Ansund said with a quiet laugh.
Keltin peered into the shadows at the front of the cart and sighed when he saw the Draeden sitting against the wall. Legionnaire Deorna sat beside him and slowly lifted her veil in an attempt to suppress her laughter. Keltin decided to ignore them entirely and forget that he had yet again heard someone use Tir’s infuriating name for him. “Why aren’t we using the smoke or the light directors?” Keltin asked no one in particular.
“A fine question, since I still can’t see thirty strides in front of this cart,” Aidlan grumbled as he watched the ground ahead with intense focus.
“We are too close to the Cynmeren to risk revealing ourselves,” Ansund explained. “The torch lights would quickly become targets for their arrows, and the smoke would draw a line directly to our cart. Besides, the Cynmeren will be wary of smoke—and fog, for that matter—after our last attack, so they will be watching for it. That is why we will continue to move without using our typical methods.” Aidlan growled quietly, but no other complaints were voiced.
“So, what do we do now?” Keltin asked.
“Watch the way forward. Point out any possible threats and we will change our course. Or you could choose to rest—that seems to be something you take very seriously,” Ansund replied with an almost-imperceptible smirk. “Either way, this will be a day of patience until we reach the mountains in the distance.”
Keltin slumped against the wall near Aidlan and looked north and east to the chain of snow-capped peaks that would soon become his path to Cynmere. He took out the scrid knife and spun it idly from one hand to the other as he watched the muted grey of night slowly give way to the normal colors of the Eastern Hills. Being this far from the Venerates made Keltin uncomfortable; he would be glad when there was no longer a reason to ever traverse these hills again. Patience, he reminded himself. We’ll be done soon.
---
Pebbles stirred beneath the legs of the four scrid, the sound of their movement echoing on the ancient rocks that loomed overhead. It wasn’t a particularly loud sound, but this high in the mountains even the faintest noise seemed to travel for thousands of strides. Wyand glanced up idly at the ridgelines on either side of the rocky valley, but nothing moved among the patches of spineleaf that seemed to burst forth from every recess the stones offered. Beyond the spineleaf, snow clung to an even higher ridgeline that continued out of sight to both the east and west. He was relieved, for once, to be wearing the Watch Helmet since it kept the cold bite of the wind off of his face.
With the sun now above the high western ridge, Wyand moved his scrid forward as quietly as possible to ride alongside Gasric. “We’re supposed to be back tomorrow,” Wyand whispered just loud enough for the Watch Leader to hear. “How much farther is this camp?”
Gasric stiffened visibly against his securing ropes. “Not far,” he snapped with quiet irritation before digging in his heels and once again moving away from Wyand. This was the answer Wyand had come to expect after the past six days of following Gasric from one camp to the next. It was never revealed exactly where the next Distant Watch camp might be or how long it would take to get there, only that it was “not far.” Progress was slow, with fewer than two hundred members of the Distant Watch experiencing the Thoughtcaster and fewer still committing to joining the fight. Now progress seemed to have stopped completely; to Wyand, it felt like turnings had passed since his small group left the last camp. The way ahead in this narrow pass was constantly obscured, either by the winding of the path itself or by old clumps of trees and brush that clogged the valley from one side to the other.
“This needs to be the last camp,” Laersi said from behind Wyand’s left shoulder. “If we don’t start the return trip south by midday, we won’t be able to make it back to the main force before tomorrow’s end.” Wyand nodded—this wasn’t the first time this same conversation with the Stormsister had occurred. He glanced at the sun’s position again, but as his eyes moved past the ridgeline he saw a strange flutter of movement. Uncertain of what he had seen, Wyand clicked once to bring the group to a stop. Even Gasric slowed, but it was not from Wyand’s command. The Watch Leader stared at something on the western ridge as he carefully lifted his hands away from the tusk ropes.
A series of loud clicks and hoots erupted from unseen Cynmeren hiding somewhere above the cliffs on both sides of the valley. Wyand understood only the most basic commands in An’ymb Glor, so the rapid sounds meant almost nothing to him. “What are they saying?” he called softly to Carnan.
“Lift your hands and be silent,” Carnan hissed. “This group is suspicious of our sudden arrival here, though I don’t yet know why.”
“Can’t we just talk to them?” Wyand asked as he raised his arms.
“Doubtful,” Carnan whispered. “Look more carefully.” Wyand surveyed the ridge and found nothing at first, but then his eyes saw the same flicker of movement as before. To his astonishment, he watched as a cluster of spineleaf branches materialized into the form of a man, only to disappear once again at the base of the next tree after a few swift strides. This Distant Watch had taken elements of their
surroundings and somehow attached them to the Sreathan plate in a way that made them nearly invisible. It was impressive but also terrifying, especially when Wyand at last spotted the dozens of concealed bows with arrows aimed at each member of his group.
After a few seconds of tense silence, one of the Cynmeren on the eastern ridge issued more instructions that Wyand didn’t understand. To his horror, he quickly discovered that the command was to lower the transport cages and then dismount as he watched Gasric and Laersi both comply a moment later. Wyand hesitated. “Carnan!” he called out in a hoarse whisper, terrified of what would happen when the Distant Watch spotted Aemetta.
“We’ll figure something out,” Carnan reassured him. “Just follow the commands and stay very calm. Better they see her now than discover her hiding later.” Wyand surveyed the western ridgeline again—each time he looked, he always found more disguised Cynmeren than had been there before. Seeing no other option, Wyand sighed and instructed his scrid to lower the transport cage.
Seconds seemed to stretch as the furious pounding of Wyand’s heart grew louder in his ears. The cage settled into the gravel and Wyand stepped off of the scrid as he waited anxiously for the inevitable. A cold northern wind slashed through the valley, stirring the coarse grasses and spineleaf branches in rippling patterns that he would have found beautiful if the current circumstances were less tense. Then Aemetta emerged, veil and hood both lowered, and lifted her hands just as the others had.
There were no clicks of confusion, no stern demands for explanation, there was only the sound of a single bowstring humming suddenly from the eastern ridge. Before Wyand could react, a dark arrow streaked towards Aemetta’s chest; to his amazement and horror, though, it did not find its intended mark. Moving with unimaginable speed, Stormsister Laersi leapt between Aemetta and her assailant, using her own body to shield Aemetta from the arrow’s lethal force. Laersi then collapsed into the gravel, the blood-stained tip of the arrow protruding from the right side of her back.
---
Keltin’s eyes ached as he struggled to keep up with Ansund in the blinding white landscape. Snow covered the ground on all sides and reflected the sun’s light painfully towards the small group of Penitent Faithful as they continued the relentless march east. In the brief moments when Keltin could see clearly, he took relief each time he spotted the cluster of mountains in the distance that he knew harbored Cynmere. It still seemed agonizingly far away, but Keltin was confident that the current pace would bring them to Cynmere within the next two days as planned.
Maintaining that pace, however, was proving more difficult than expected. Since leaving the relative comfort of the nysk cart the day prior, Keltin, Deorna, and the three other Legionnaires had only been permitted an hour of sleep as they followed the Draeden across the treacherous terrain in total darkness. Now that the night was over, at least the narrow fissures and jagged overhangs were easier to spot before stumbling into them. Twice already that morning, though, Ansund had demanded they move faster and forego even short periods of rest so they could maximize the distance covered in daylight. Keltin closed his eyes again, both from exhaustion and from the pain of the sun’s light on the snow.
“All of you, feel the Venerates’ embrace once more and join me in victory!” Ansund declared, signaling it was time for each of them to ingest another vial of cofa from his pack. Keltin worried it was his fault that the sacred liquid was required again, but when he saw the faces of the others in the group, he knew they shared his exhaustion. The cofa’s effects were helpful—fatigue burned away instantly, focus and strength returned—but their duration had diminished greatly since using the first vial during the night. Now with shaking hands, Keltin took a vial from Ansund and eagerly drank more in the hopes of escaping the weariness that riddled his muscles, even if that relief only lasted for a few hours.
As the cold, salty cofa flooded into Keltin’s body, he opened his eyes wide despite the snow’s brightness. All traces of pain were gone, and he marveled at the harsh but beautiful land the Venerates had blessedly placed before him. With his veil lowered, Keltin inhaled the crisp, clean air and felt it revitalize his lungs and spirit. His steps felt light as he followed Ansund’s billowing black cloak east towards a steep drop, and Keltin almost laughed with excitement. Cynmere is right there! his mind shouted as he looked to the group of mountains again.
A dense layer of spineleaf waited just below the edge of the cliff, their uppermost branches draped in glistening snow. Unmoved by the beauty to pause for even a moment, Ansund walked north towards a collapsed section of the ridge that would offer access to the lower levels of the valley. Keltin knew the group would spend as little time in the lowlands as possible before ascending the next mountain to the east. Good, Keltin thought, that means more views like this. He followed Ansund and the others down the ridge.
The soft snow crunched quietly under Keltin’s boots until he reached the first of the trees; from that point forward, his steps were silent atop the bed of spineleaf needles that covered the ground in place of the snow. It was in that stillness that a dreadful sound suddenly drifted through the forest—it was an uproar of howls and clicks that sent a shiver of frightened recognition through Keltin’s body. The group halted immediately, for they all knew what those sounds represented. “Cynmeren!” Ansund growled, his sunken eyes scanning the trees ahead for signs of the beasts.
“What should we do, Draeden?” one of the two male Legionnaires asked quietly. Ansund held up a hand to silence the man and carefully took a few steps forward. Another burst of clicking echoed from the Cynmeren below and forced Ansund to halt once more.
“We need to find another way to the next ridge,” Deorna urged, but the Draeden shook his head.
“We study this group. If it is sizeable, then we will talk of changing course. If there are only a few of them, we cleanse this valley and then continue on to do the same to Cynmere. To change course now would mean losing half a day at least, and I doubt the Penitent Faithful can withstand that sort of delay.” He removed a black bow from beneath his cloak and nodded for the others to do the same. After knocking an arrow, the Draeden turned to face Keltin and the others again. “Venerates willing, it is a small group.”
As they crept forward, another sharp slope revealed itself beyond the dense forest of spineleaf. When they were within twenty strides of the cliff, Ansund brought the group to a stop and pointed to each of the trees that lined the ridge. Perched along the edge of that slope were half a dozen armed Cynmeren, visible only because of their occasional movements as they focused their bows to the east. Keltin was stunned by how well these creatures seemed to merge with the surrounding forest, but more than anything he was confused when he spotted what they were targeting on the floor of the valley.
A group of three Cynmeren riders stood motionless beside their scrid, clearly aware of the bowmen on the ridge, but appearing outwardly calm even though their arms were raised defensively. Why would they target one another? What bizarre sort of ritual is this? Keltin wondered as he watched a fourth scrid deposit some kind of wooden cage onto the stones of the valley. Then the fourth rider dismounted and gazed at the hillside just as the others were. To add to the confusion, Keltin saw the front of the strange cage open and a figure emerge to stand beside the scrid riders; in that moment, the behavior of the Cynmeren made sense with horrifying clarity. Keltin recognized the figure’s dark grey field clothes instantly—he was wearing a set of the same—and then he recognized the face above those clothes. Without thought, Keltin gripped Ansund’s shoulder and pointed to the Legionnaire being targeted by every Cynmeren in the valley. “It’s Aemetta!” he whispered desperately.
The Draeden never glanced back, instead drawing his bowstring taut as a gust of cold wind howled through the valley. Though Keltin wanted to rush forward with his knife ready, he instead followed Ansund’s example, as did the rest of the group from Dism Slyde. Then, in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the wind, the Draeden ga
ve the order Keltin longed to hear.
“Kill them all.”
---
Time returned to its normal pace but then accelerated sharply as events unfolded around Wyand too quickly for him to comprehend. The valley thundered with shrieks of rage from the Distant Watch that merged with his own cry of disbelief. Aemetta stood defensively over Laersi, holding two isen that she had somehow covertly acquired during the journey. Ignoring the Distant Watch entirely, Stonebrother Carnan knelt beside the fallen Stormsister and placed a hand on her neck. “She lives, for now,” he said grimly.
No other arrows flew down from the ridgeline, yet the sound of bows firing still filled the air. Before Wyand could investigate further, four members of the Distant Watch fell from the western hillside and crumpled against the stones below. All of them had arrows protruding from their backs, but these were not of the usual Cynmeren fashion. Wyand was confused, but when Watch Leader Gasric saw the dark arrows, the old Bloodbrother flew into a fit of rage. “YOU!” he shrieked as he charged towards Aemetta with his spiked oar suddenly in hand. “You led them right to us! Filthy Smokedweller!”
Aemetta anticipated Gasric’s attack, though, and with nothing more than a look of minor irritation she sliced the shaft of his oar in half with one of her isen. Gasric stumbled past her, then turned quickly and prepared to strike again with his now-shortened oar. Wyand was there in an instant to intercept the crazed Watch Leader. “Enough!” Wyand shouted, his own oar now lowered to point directly at Gasric’s chest. “What’s happening? Why are you attacking her?” Wyand demanded.
“She’s killed us all!” Gasric cried, then he continued with murderous disgust. “Her smoke-sucking friends are here.” As proof of Gasric’s claim, a member of the Distant Watch on the western ridge howled in pain and was then suddenly silent. The dead Cynmeren plummeted to the rocks below, his throat gushing blood as he fell. Wyand’s eyes followed the path the body had taken just fast enough to spot a blur of dark grey as it disappeared behind one of the spineleaf.
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