Ansund stood with Tilia a few strides away, and Ryna suddenly became interested in their conversation. “…was the plan when we first set out: in the event of total failure, retreat to Dism Slyde and regroup,” Ansund was saying. “Whatever happened to them, it was significant. If you wish to end this fight swiftly, I recommend we advance and trap them within Dism Slyde.”
Tilia didn’t reply immediately, her weary eyes fixed on the sand in the distance. “It could be a ploy designed to draw us out and stretch our forces even thinner,” she said quietly. “They know if we move into the desert, we will be exposed and totally reliant on our supply lines, which are already struggling, as I know you’ve seen.”
Ansund nodded in understanding and looked away from the Plateau Desert briefly after hearing his mother’s logic. When he spotted Ryna, a look of uncharacteristic excitement suddenly came over him and his tightly-sealed lips curled up into a smile. “Could they change your mind?” Ansund asked, pointing to Ryna and also Eyrie, who now stood beside her. The two women looked at one another in confusion—they had barely spoken to the Draeden since his arrival in the camp two days earlier—but then shouts from the eastern side of the camp made them realize that Ansund hadn’t been pointing to them at all.
A line of at least twenty scrid appeared at the base of the closest hill to the east, and they were flanked on either side by scores of Cynmeren. Cheers erupted throughout the camp as the column wove its way up to the group of tents. “Haemlan was right! The Council Guide is ready to end this!” Eyrie shouted before she ran to greet the new group. Ryna followed, stunned to the point of laughter just as many others were around her. People rushed forward to greet old friends and to exchange tales of their time spent apart. Those who weren’t already aware of Ansund’s presence received the information with understandable skepticism until they spotted the Draeden walking towards them. As more and more Watch helmets were removed, Ryna found looks of astonishment on almost every face.
The Voice of War arrived by Ansund’s side as the scrid began lowering their cages to the ground, and even she seemed surprised and impressed by Stormbrother Leomar’s sudden gesture of commitment. Additional food, supplies, fighters, and weapons were now at her command, all of which were desperately needed after so many days spent holding the Smokedwellers in place. Tilia spoke with Ansund briefly, then nodded and addressed the entire camp. “Everyone! Your attention!” she cried over the sounds of celebration. Though it took several attempts, eventually the Cynmeren were silent.
“The Old Ones are truly watching over us today,” Tilia began. “Through a series of events that could only have been set in motion by fate, we have been granted an opportunity. If you look west, you will find no smoke on the horizon—that was not the case until just a few moments ago. For weeks we dreaded the sight of that smoke, and now it is finally gone. I asked myself if we should risk following the Penitent Faithful, but I did not receive my answer until I saw these reinforcements.
“This proves to me that the Elder Council is with us; I can hear Leomar’s voice as I look at each one of you. Should we follow the Penitent Faithful? The answer is an emphatic yes, all the way to Dism Slyde if we must. Make your preparations—we advance at nightfall.” When the cheering had subsided, the air buzzed with conversations focused on imminent victory; Ryna hadn’t felt that level of momentum building since leaving Cynmere. It was reminiscent of the energy that followed the Thoughtcaster and the Stormheart wherever they went….
“Wyand and Aemetta!” Ryna exclaimed aloud, surprised by her own absentmindedness. In all the excitement of the smoke disappearing and help arriving from Cynmere, she had forgotten for an instant about the missing group. Many scouting parties had gone in search of them, but they had come back without any promising news. None of the Distant Watch camps had any information either—it was as though Wyand and the others had simply vanished.
“Did you say something?” Eyrie called from a few strides away as she helped a Bloodsister with dark red hair unload items from one of the scrid cages.
“We have to find Haemlan,” Ryna explained hurriedly. “Now that there are finally more people to help with the daily tasks around here, he can take us to search for Wyand’s group.
“You mean Wyand isn’t here?” the Bloodsister asked with an incredulous stare, and Ryna suddenly noticed that it was Adelea. Both women smiled when they recognized one another.
“He’s supposed to be, but somehow he convinced the Voice of War to let him leave for the Distant Watch camps,” Ryna replied with a note of irritation. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, he took the Thoughtcaster and the Stormheart with him, and now the entire group is missing. Eyrie and I want to go look for them.”
“I see,” the Bloodsister frowned to herself, then waved to someone behind Ryna. A moment later, Haemlan appeared from the last row of tents. “Ryna tells me you’ve managed to lose Wyand and both of his relics,” Bloodsister Adelea said accusingly.
“That wasn’t my doing! Why is it that when anything bad happens, you instantly blame it on me?” Haemlan countered defensively.
“Because it’s usually your fault,” Adelea pointed out. Before Haemlan could try further to prove his innocence, Adelea continued. “Doesn’t matter. I’d like to be part of the scouting party that Ryna and Eyrie are forming. Evidently, you’re already a part of it, Haemlan.”
The Stormbrother shook his greying head. “There is no scouting party. You heard the Voice of War: we are moving on to Dism Slyde, and that means everyone.”
“Our absence couldn’t have that much of an impact,” Ryna protested, but Haemlan wasn’t willing to listen.
“We’re all going to Dism Slyde!” he snapped, then instantly hung his head apologetically when he noticed the surprise and hurt on each woman’s face. “We remain united or we die. That’s what the Visions have shown me,” Haemlan said gently. “Besides, I have a feeling if something happened that could draw the entire force of Penitent Faithful back to Dism Slyde, it probably involves Wyand, the Thoughtcaster, and the Stormheart. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find him waiting for us when we get there.”
Ryna glanced at Eyrie, who offered only a defeated shrug in reply. What else can we do? Ryna wondered. “I hope you’re right, Haemlan,” was all that she said before hauling an armful of supplies to the sick tent. After several more trips, the transport cages were empty and it was time to begin preparing for the journey to Dism Slyde. As darkness set in, Ryna slipped on her Watch helmet and found Eyrie with her scrid ready to leave.
“I still think we should be allowed to head north and look for them,” Eyrie grumbled. Ryna nodded in agreement and then sighed quietly when she noticed the transport cage on the ground beside the scrid. Eyrie was quick to understand Ryna’s irritation. “I’ll teach you how to ride one of these soon,” the Bloodsister promised, gently stroking the scrid’s tusk. “For now, I’ll do my best to avoid any unnecessary bumps along the way. Here, you’ll want to put this on before you get in.” She passed Ryna a thin fabric sack as she pulled an identical one over the top of her own Watch helmet; instantly, the glow was obscured.
Ryna covered her helmet and slid her legs into the cage, but paused before she was fully confined. “Do you think what Haemlan said could be possible?” Ryna asked quietly.
Eyrie hesitated. “We’ll find them,” she said, with what Ryna knew was forced certainty. There was nothing left to discuss, so Ryna crawled into position and readied herself for the inevitable flip of the cage. As she lay on her back waiting, Ryna witnessed the remarkable scale of this new assault force. On every side, dozens of scrid with riders were in various stages of loading their transport cages and making their way to the northern side of the camp. The creatures clicked and chattered, sometimes with their riders, sometimes with one another, until the sound formed a constant buzz beneath the other noises of the camp. Though even the sight of the scrid sometimes conjured memories in Ryna’s mind of the horrifying night that Cynmere burned, seeing so m
any of them amassed and ready to travel was both impressive and unexpectedly comforting.
As promised, Tilia was waiting for the enormous group of scrid when the last light faded in the eastern sky. With Ansund beside her, Tilia raised her hand for silence once the assault force had gathered. “I know you are all eager to find the Penitent Faithful and end this fight—we will not confront them as soon as we find them, though.” There were several dissatisfied grumbles amongst the Cynmeren, but the Voice of War went on undeterred. “We will trace their movements but maintain our distance until we have time to assess what they are planning to do next. Do not rush ahead and do not reveal our presence until I tell you to do so. If there are issues or you become separated from the main group, return to this camp and wait for further instructions. Are there questions?” Tilia’s Watch helmet searched the crowd, but no one spoke. A moment later, she was atop her scrid with Ansund in the cage beneath her, ready to lead the way to Dism Slyde.
It was a strange feeling to no longer fear the sight of the Plateau Desert—with the smoke and the imminent threat of the Penitent Faithful gone, the sand felt calm, constant, predictable. Still, the assault force remained close to the base of the Eastern Hills in the event they needed to retreat, however unlikely that might have seemed as the hours wore on without incident. Ryna’s eyes snapped open more than once as she struggled to keep her head up off the floor of the cage. Even though Eyrie controlled the scrid, Ryna scolded herself; she knew that it was her duty to keep watch for any signs of the Smokedwellers, just as it was for everyone else in the group.
Progress was steady but cautious, just as Tilia had ordered. Sentinels broke away any time the route forward was obscured by the shifting terrain, and the main force slowed to a crawl until they returned. More interesting, though, were the moments when the Sentinels ventured into the hills to the east and returned a short time later with more Cynmeren and scrid from one of the dozens of Distant Watch outposts that lined the route to Dism Slyde. Soon, the initial group of scrid had expanded into a mass of nearly a hundred animals sprawling across the desolate sand.
As dawn drew closer, the group shifted away from the Plateau Desert before its unbearable heat turned the sand into a furnace. They found refuge at one of the nearby Distant Watch camps in the Eastern Hills, and the exhausted scrid were finally permitted a brief rest. The camp was little more than a clearing in the middle of a towering pile of jagged rocks, but there was shade and a small supply of safe water. Once free of the transport cage, Ryna assisted Eyrie with the scrid before discovering there was little else to do but wait for the day to pass. Unable to sleep, Ryna chose to stifle her anxiety by examining the area in more detail. She eventually found strange stone formations lining a canyon that led away from the western edge of the camp; large boulders had somehow been suspended above the sand on columns of stone—some taller than her head—that seemed too narrow to support the incredible weight.
At the sound of footsteps, Ryna turned to find the Draeden showing interest in the stones as well, but his frown did not echo the fascination that she felt. “Ansund?” she asked hesitantly. “Is everything all right?”
“These stones….” His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance of the canyon ahead. “One of the scout groups that sought to find Cynmere found this place instead,” he answered quietly. “They were attacked here. It’s disturbing to be standing on the same sand where some of them may have died.” Ryna could think of nothing comforting to say in response to such a grim realization, but to her relief, Ansund’s frown faded quickly into his usual look of keen focus. “Much has changed,” he declared with a nod, then he marched hurriedly to the main camp. Ryna peered into the canyon, her anxiety now doubled by the idea that this route was known to the Penitent Faithful and could be used again if they deviated from their retreat to Dism Slyde.
46
Muffled voices floated into Wyand’s dazed thoughts, but he was in too much pain to open his eyes. “Gently,” the voices said, and “hurry,” then Wyand felt the arrow shift within his arm and his earlier notion of pain was shattered. His eyes flew open and he shouted with all of his remaining strength, but the sound was nothing more than a whimper, lost beneath the thunder of blood pulsing inside his head. In the flash of sight, he recognized Stonebrother Carnan standing by his right shoulder.
“Drink this and be still,” the Stonebrother commanded as soon as he noticed that Wyand was conscious. A familiar warmth and taste entered Wyand’s mouth, and he was grateful to drink the Melsca that Carnan had offered. “Do it,” Carnan said as he lowered the cup, causing Wyand to squint at him in confusion. A moment later there was a sensation of pressure in Wyand’s right arm followed by a sharp lifting and pulling; then the pain truly began.
Through the feverish haze, Wyand watched in horror as the arrow shaft was broken just above his wrist and then his arm was lifted free of the arrowhead that remained buried in his chest plate. Blood poured from both sides of Wyand’s arm from the gaping hole left by the arrow. Too much blood! he worried, but the thought was quickly silenced by the dark fog of unconsciousness.
When Wyand next awoke, a dull pain still lingered in his right arm, but at least his head didn’t feel like it was going to burst any longer. A glance at his arm revealed that it was wrapped tightly in bandages that showed no hint of the blood that he was certain still flowed from the arrow wound. He blinked and looked from one side of the small, drab room to the other, finding nothing but mud walls and a doorway. In that doorway stood Silax, blood dripping from an isen by his side.
Wyand recoiled, a shout forming in his throat until another blink revealed that it was Hirst standing in the entryway, not the crazed Feller. Blood dripped from a clump of bandages in his left hand, and he looked almost as startled to see Wyand awake as Wyand had been terrified to see who he thought was Silax. Once the initial shock had subsided, Hirst smiled. “It seems the fever has passed. Good. That worried the healers far more than your injuries,” Hirst said softly. “Do you need anything? Water?” Wyand nodded and Hirst disappeared quickly into the hallway. He returned a moment later with a small wooden cup in his right hand, being careful not to touch it or anything else with the soaked bandages.
When Wyand had swallowed enough of the cool water to soothe his thirst he cleared his throat. “Crolun Raigh?” he asked faintly, his eyes moving around the room.
Hirst nodded tiredly. “We arrived early this morning. You can be surprisingly heavy when I only have Carnan to help carry you,” the Pathshaper said with a laugh. “Your wound became infected on the way here, then the fever set in—to be honest, I began to doubt the Visions themselves when they still showed you bringing the Stormheart to Aldhagen. Now that the fever is gone, though, I am once again in awe of the Visions’ truth.” He tilted the empty cup from side to side. “Still, you are far from recovered. Let me know if you’d prefer to find Melsca in the next one,” he said with a knowing smile. “For the pain, of course.”
Wyand thanked him and then settled back against the thin mattress. Out of curiosity, he flexed the fingers on his right hand, but discovered they were unable to move more than a fraction before the pain became unbearable. He winced as he felt the damaged tissues in his wrist and forearm struggling and failing to match the demand of his muscles. How am I supposed to carry the Stormheart if my fingers don’t even work? Wyand wondered angrily to himself, but then the memories of how he obtained the injury flooded back to him and all other thoughts were silent. Keltin and Aemetta are gone, he remembered, the knot of emotion in his chest growing heavier as images of their faces flashed into his mind.
“How could you leave them?” Wyand demanded quietly, and Hirst stopped in the doorway. The anger of betrayal must have burned brightly in Wyand’s stare, because when the Pathshaper turned to face him, the man’s jovial expression sank instantly into a hardened frown.
“Do you really think this is the first time I’ve ever been burdened by the decisions I’ve had to make?” Hirst
replied as he walked back to Wyand’s bedside. “Every step along this path has required sacrifices, and though the blood that’s been shed has not flowed from my veins, I carry the combined weight of the dead on my conscience. When I showed my Woodsmen the way to the truth in Aldhagen, I knew then that some of them would die. When I passed the thunder stones to the Distant Watch camps, I knew that such a tool would be misused by some and bring with it even more loss of life. And when we reached the conclusion of our task in Dism Slyde, I knew our only chance of survival was through the loss of Keltin and Aemetta.”
Wyand shook his head in stubborn silence, but Hirst leaned closer until Wyand was forced to meet his gaze again. “This is the lesson you must learn, Wyand,” the Pathshaper said sternly. “As a leader, there will come a time—in battle or otherwise—when you are forced to issue an order that you know will end someone’s life. It is the single most important, sacred, and agonizing duty that all leaders must be prepared to endure without hesitation.
“The people in your care will look to you for guidance and a feeling of certainty, they will trust you, and any time one of them dies, you will view it as your own failure. This is normal, and unfortunately it never gets any easier or less painful when it happens. But there is hope: as long as your actions and the actions of your people are in line with a collective goal, those who die will not have done so in vain. It is the ability to remain focused on that vision—not the Visions as witnessed by the Guided, but true vision of how the future can be shaped for the better—that will give purpose to your people’s lives and meaning to their deaths.”
Kingdomturn Page 94
