Scores of scrid clung to the edge of the cliff, their riders all armed with either bows or thunder stones. The shining blue eyes of the Cult of the Guided surveyed the battle; though they were no longer able to see in the traditional sense, Keltin knew the Guided were watching him all the same. Another blue light suddenly shone in the middle of their line. One of the scrid riders held aloft a small stone that pulsed and flickered, growing brighter with each passing second. Keltin recognized the stone and its owner instantly as a surge of renewed motivation coursed through him. It seemed impossible, but Wyand had returned.
The light from the Stormheart grew to its brightest yet, and at that moment Wyand smiled. “Crimorrah!” he roared, and the cry echoed throughout the Guided above. Seconds later, it appeared to Keltin that there were more arrows in the sky than drops of rain as the Guided archers unleashed their vengeance upon the haugaeldr. Where the orbs of light from the Hall had only served to draw in more haugaeldr, the thunder stones that accompanied the arrows cleared a wide swath anywhere they landed.
Inspired by everything that had happened in the span of a few seconds, Keltin gripped his oar and turned his attention back to the haugaeldr. He struck with speed and determination, confident that his task actually carried a vital purpose. Ryna smiled at him excitedly from the other side of the opening to the lower level and soon the mound of haugaeldr in the cart began to diminish rapidly. The weather in the Deadlands continued to deteriorate, but Keltin was numb to the rain, the cold, and the biting wind. Instead, he laughed to himself in disbelief as the fight raged on.
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Wyand smiled with pride as the glow of the haugaeldr faded on the lakeshore below; each thunder stone drove the beasts farther towards the water, and every arrow fired by Guided hands met its mark. The explosions gave life to the swelling heartbeat of victory, and Wyand reveled in the rhythm of its righteous fury. The Stormheart pulsed a blinding blue as Wyand held it high for all to see—it was a beacon of inspiration desperately needed, given the obstacles already encountered and those yet to come.
Even with all of this in mind, a sudden spasm of pain in Wyand’s arm caused him to lower the Stormheart for an instant. The healing process was far from complete, as his wounds had reminded him from the moment he climbed out of the cage and taken his place atop a scrid. Though his arm curled onto itself at an awkward angle, Wyand forced his body to keep the glowing stone in the air. When compared to the suffering and death rampant throughout the ranks of fighters below, Wyand knew that any pain he felt from his arrow wound was trivial.
“Hold all!” Hirst called from Wyand’s right. It was an unexpected command, but Wyand immediately understood why it had been issued. As he scanned the valley, he spotted a force more than a hundred strong of Cynmeren and Penitent Faithful alike charging through the eastern end of the barricade of haugaeldr. They sprinted towards Wracandyr, slaughtering the creatures as they ran, and leapt between bursts of fire from the Cultivators. It was madness, but Wyand was fascinated that only a handful of these people fell to the deadly orbs before they were finally shielded from the sight of the Hall. No swarms of haugaeldr pursued them; instead, it was as though these fighters were invisible to the beasts. Then the tragic truth suddenly became clear.
“They’re infested,” Wyand whispered. Sorrow replaced his confusion, but he remained fixated on the doomed warriors as they encircled a group of nysk carts near the base of the waterfall.
“Resume fire!” Hirst shouted over a roll of thunder, and the Guided once again pelted the mass of haugaeldr that stood between the main force of fighters and Wracandyr. The isolated group of infested formed two rings to the west—one expanding outward towards the shoreline, one collapsing inward towards the nysk carts. Clear ground devoid of all haugaeldr filled the gap between the two rings as the fighters methodically eliminated every one of the glowing beasts.
“It’s time to move in,” Carnan advised from the back of the scrid to Wyand’s left. “The haugaeldr aren’t defeated, they’ve just been pushed away for now. We won’t get this chance again.” With a nod, Wyand pocketed the Stormheart and commanded his scrid into motion. Using only his left hand to pull on the tusk ropes was awkward, but Wyand maintained control of the animal all the same. As he neared the sand and mud below with Hirst and Carnan at his back, the infested continued to expand their perimeter closer to the main force to the east. Explosions from thunder stones and the Cultivators’ orbs rattled the bones on the ground as well as those within Wyand’s body, but another sound flooded the air between blasts. Every one of the Cynmeren fighters who had suffered the haugaeldr’s sting now sung in unison the deep, guttural hymn of those condemned to die. The sound was familiar to Wyand after his time in Cynmere and beyond, but hearing the song carried by so many voices sent a chill over his skin. These people would face death in a matter of days, yet they chose to sing when most would weep; Wyand prayed for even a fraction of their grace and strength.
As the Guided on the cliff above continued to push back the haugaeldr, one of the infested fighters raced to meet Wyand’s group, her left arm bandaged and still bleeding in a spot that Sreathan plate had once covered. She removed her Watch helmet and shook free a tight sima of dark red hair; when her sharp green eyes found Wyand, he felt the air drain from his lungs. “Adelea!” he breathed in disbelief as sadness burdened his heart.
“Peace to you, Bloodbrother,” Adelea said with a knowing smile. “It’s good to have you with us.”
“I should’ve been here sooner,” Wyand replied quietly, staring down in stunned shame.
“And I should’ve stayed in the Wargarden!” Adelea laughed. Seeing that Wyand wasn’t ready to share in her dark humor, the Bloodsister placed her hand on Wyand’s shoulder and continued in a softer tone. “I chose this path, Wyand. For the last five turnings, I’ve trained fighters while hiding in the comfort and safety of Cynmere. Never once in that time did I have to face a threat, yet I asked hundreds to do so in my place. It was my turn to serve, and I do so gladly even now.” She smiled at Wyand as he searched for a response but found none. “Come. The Voice of War will want to speak with the three of you.”
After dismounting and directing their scrid to hold position safely on the canyon wall, Wyand, Hirst, and Carnan followed Adelea to the row of six ravaged nysk carts. The bodies of haugaeldr lay in mounds that poured from the base of each cart while the dark eyes of frightened nysks peered uncertainly from within their protective shells. Dozens of infested fighters worked quickly to remove the haugaeldr from the carts, until at last the occupants were free.
Dazed and distant expressions marked the faces of the exhausted survivors as they exited onto the muddy ground. Some bore wounds—marks that Wyand was certain would place them among the infested—but others, astonishingly, were unscathed. A sudden shout drew his attention to one of the carts closest to the cliff, and Wyand’s heart raced at the sound of a familiar voice. Through the torrent of rain, across the desolate ground, Eyrie sprinted towards him, her eyes burning with determination. Without a word, she leapt against his chest and kissed him as though nothing else mattered more at that moment. For everything that Wyand was supposed to represent to the people of this world—hope, power, bravery—Eyrie was the embodiment of all those things in his mind. He gazed into her eyes after their lips parted, amazed by both her strength and her beauty in equal measure.
“This is still a battlefield,” an old, familiar voice called from the row of carts. The scene surrounding Wyand and Eyrie returned with painful clarity as Wyand spotted the Voice of War approaching with Draeden Ansund close by her side. Eyrie stepped back quickly, leaving the memory of her touch lingering in Wyand’s thoughts. Tilia stared at the Bloodsister intently before giving a soft chuckle. “You arrived just in time,” Tilia said to Wyand before glancing at an injury on her left wrist. “Well, a little sooner might have been better.” She smiled sadly as the realization of her fate became clear in Wyand’s horrified mind. “It doesn’t matter, not
one bit. I can say that I helped bring us all to this point—now it’s your task to finish this. Lead the people of Crimorrah to victory just as you’ve led us all to freedom. I’ll be here to advise you for as long as I can.”
Tilia stepped closer, then to Wyand’s astonishment, she embraced him firmly. “Thank you for bringing my son back to me,” she whispered. In that instant, the Voice of War’s air of authority and focus was stripped away as the blinding radiance of a mother’s love shone through her. Smiling, Tilia returned to Ansund’s side and the two of them walked away towards the bridge in the distance.
As Eyrie recounted the surge of haugaeldr to Carnan, more familiar faces emerged from the devastated carts. Cailla, her eyes wild with fear, moved as close to Eyrie as she could comfortably stand. Aemetta strode forward next and solemnly bowed her head to Wyand. “Thank you,” was all that she said, but there was a depth of gratitude in the way those two words were spoken that couldn’t have been captured better by a thousand pages of text. Wyand bowed in return, but before he could reply to her, he was left speechless by who he spotted next.
“What are you doing here?” Wyand asked, his voice a mixture of astonishment, worry, and joy. Keltin and Ryna stepped out of a cart, both mustering exhausted smiles when they saw Wyand hurrying towards them.
“Waiting for you, I suppose,” Keltin panted. Wyand scanned both of them quickly and gave a relieved sigh when he found no sign of injury. Curiously, he noticed Keltin’s fingers intertwined with Ryna’s, but Wyand decided that was a question for another time. An instant later, Keltin had released Ryna’s grip and instead flung his arm around Wyand’s shoulder. “I thought we were going to lose everything,” Keltin admitted, sounding as though he was on the verge of weeping when he thought back to his most recent encounter with the haugaeldr.
“The Cultivators already took everything from us a long time ago,” Wyand replied. “In the short time we’ve spent fighting them, think of all we’ve gained. Think of all you’ve gained,” he risked a glance towards Ryna who, thankfully, didn’t see him. Keltin noticed the subtle gesture, though, and narrowed his eyes at the implication. Wyand suppressed a smile and went on, confident that his suspicions were correct. “Even if we all die right here, we’ve still lived better lives outside the walls than we ever would have known as servants of the Cultivators.”
Keltin frowned in consternation, studying a series of recent scars on his left forearm that Wyand didn’t recognize. Before Wyand could ask about their origin, Keltin began to nod. “You’re right. I’d still prefer to avoid dying for a while, though, if you don’t mind.” He grinned faintly and tilted his head in Ryna’s direction, but this time she noticed that they were talking about her.
“We’re wasting time,” Ryna said suddenly, and Wyand and Keltin looked away from each other, both embarrassed to have been caught. It turned out Ryna was not the only one watching them, though, and the embarrassment deepened. A crowd had gathered and Wyand realized they were all waiting for their next set of instructions; more than that, they appeared to be waiting for him. With the blockade of haugaeldr all but destroyed, he knew it was time to shift the focus to Aldhagen.
Wyand spotted the bridge and hurried towards it. “Bloodsister Tilia!” he called as he crossed the muddy strip of land. “How do you suggest we proceed from here?”
The Voice of War pointed to the dark recess on the far side of the bridge. “Unless that Stormheart of yours can burn through a wall of metal or solid rock, we’ll need thunder stones to progress any farther into the plateau.”
“I can help with that,” Stormbrother Hirst said. Sometime after Wyand had arrived at the nysk carts, Hirst had summoned two Guided from the ridge above without word or gesture. Their scrid now waited on the wall with the others, and two transport cages laden with supplies lay open at the base of the cliff. The two Cultists stepped forward with bundles of thick cloth and carefully placed them onto the ground. A moment later, ten thunder stones glistened in the dim light.
Tilia nodded, but frowned all the same. “All of you who have not felt the haugaeldr’s sting, fall back to the base of the cliff,” she ordered. Then, under her breath, she added, “If anyone is going to die using these thunder stones, let it be one of us who is already marked for death.” She and a small group of infested fighters gathered around the thunder stones as Wyand and the others moved a safe distance away. Even Ansund was forced to leave his mother’s side, though it wasn’t without a great deal of convincing.
“Have arrows at the ready for whatever comes out of that door!” Ansund shouted to the unharmed fighters as he begrudgingly made his way to stand by the cliff with them. After the infested moved onto the bridge, nine thunder stones vanished into the dark recess; the tenth remained in Bloodsister Adelea’s hands as she waited on the near end of the bridge. The other infested returned one by one until the last of them gave a nod that all of the thunder stones were in place. The Voice of War issued a quiet order, and Adelea charged forward to hurl the last thunder stone across the bridge with a triumphant cry.
Perhaps it was the combination of ten thunder stones detonating at once, or it may have been the confined space in which the explosion occurred—whatever the cause, the resulting blast was stronger than anything Wyand had heard or felt thus far. After being flung into the air, Adelea landed with a splash twenty strides away from the bridge amid hurtling chunks of metal and stone that dug ruts into the muddy ground around her. The other infested rushed over to her, but thankfully she was soon back on her feet.
A tense stillness followed the thunderous explosion. Bows creaked impatiently around Wyand as everyone waited for the smoke to clear from the opening on the far side of the bridge. “Hirst, what do the Visions show you?” Wyand asked quietly.
The Pathshaper shook his head slightly as he stared towards the recess with sightless eyes. “I see nothing,” Hirst breathed, “but in my mind, I hear the echoes of screams.” The fear that tinged the Pathshaper’s normally confident voice was unsettling, but Wyand’s heart raced even more when he considered what Hirst’s words implied. Across the bridge, the remaining wisps of smoke drifted aside and the recess at last became visible. Through a gaping hole in the wall of rock, it was clear that the large metal barrier lay in ruins. Scores of arrows remained in place against tense bow strings, but there was no sign of movement from within the plateau. “The tragedy may yet be stopped, if we are swift. Go, Wyand,” the Pathshaper urged him, but the anger and worry that now plagued Wyand’s thoughts needed no encouragement. In seconds, he stood with Tilia and the other infested.
“We can’t wait any longer—Hirst says there is a mass of people in imminent danger up there,” Wyand explained hurriedly. “Since I have the Stormheart, I’ll lead.” As he spoke, he removed the stone from his pocket and clutched it firmly against his chest.
“Understood,” Tilia said. “The other infested and I will remain here to keep the haugaeldr from advancing. When the Stormheart’s light shines from the top of the Hall, I’ll send the scrid up to begin the next phase of the assault.” In her wisdom, she must have been able to see the shadow of doubt that clung to Wyand’s newfound resolve. The Voice of War stepped closer and looked up at him with a glint in her eye. “Do you want to know the secret shared by all of those who are expected to lead in battle?”
“Of course!” Wyand breathed. “Please, tell me.”
The Voice of War smiled. “Despite all the planning and all of the details we try to think through, not one of us ‘great leaders’ has any idea what to expect next.” Wyand stared at Tilia blankly, confused by her strange admission. The old woman continued. “Anyone can make plans—the trick of being an effective leader is to be able to make decisions in the midst of chaos and adjust your plans in an instant. Be calm and stay focused, Wyand. We will be with you. All of us.” She swept her arm in an arc, revealing that the fighters who had been waiting at the base of the cliff were now making their way across the muddy peninsula. At the forefront of the g
roup were the people he’d prayed would be with him when this moment arrived—Keltin and Ryna, Aemetta and Ansund, Cailla and Eyrie. Wyand sighed, relieved to see that the Voice of War’s words held truth.
From the eastern end of the valley, the rising cry of a thousand voices suddenly echoed across the normally silent waters of the Lake of Skulls—the haugaeldr barricade was broken and the combined force of Cynmeren and Smokedwellers now charged along the shoreline. The deadly fire from the Cultivators continued, but it had shifted to Aldhagen once again. Hirst’s words left a burden of worry in Wyand’s chest as he considered who might be suffering the Cultivators’ violence now.
Determined to succeed, Wyand ascended the steps of the ancient bridge, but then paused to focus on the opening ahead. Though his right arm still throbbed with pain, he lifted the Stormheart proudly as he took the first step forward. He glanced defiantly at the dark clouds that boiled in the sky above until the brilliance of the stone’s blue glow washed everything else away. Wyand felt a surge of hope unlike anything he had ever known as shouts filled the air behind him—soon, he shared in the cry of victory. His steps grew faster and his voice grew louder with every stride until the shadowy confines of the recess at last enveloped him. For the first time since the fall through Wracandyr, Wyand and the Stormheart returned to Aldhagen.
The darkness within the recess was stifling, a suffocating layer of uncertainty that obscured all but the nearest stride of the floor from view. Wyand’s voice caught in his throat as soon as he felt the thick air surround him. Thankfully, the Stormheart flared to life once more, its pulsing blue light revealing the way forward. The scene was eerily familiar: a rough-cut tunnel three strides high stretched into the distance, its slick walls bearing the marks of ancient picks. As he crept forward, a multitude of drifts appeared seemingly at random on either wall. Wyand hurried past these voids—something about them made him fearful that the Cultivators were hiding in every entrance.
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