One of the Penitent Faithful leaned towards Wyand as he passed. “Why can’t we go see the strange windows too?” the man asked, pointing towards the room at the end of the hallway. He didn’t seem angry, just intrigued that such a novel curiosity would be made off limits so shortly after its discovery. Others in the crowd echoed his question.
“There are dangerous things in that room—things that will make you sick,” Wyand explained, secretly worried that the shattered crystal might have marked him with a lingering illness. “Besides, all of the viewing windows in there only show places that the Cultivators have destroyed. Just follow me if you want an even closer view of that.” The man glanced back towards the room sadly, but quickly accepted the answer and joined the gathering throng behind Wyand.
There were more shouts, cheers, and questions waiting around each curve of the long hallway as it wound back toward the base of the Hall. Wyand smiled, offering encouragement or explanations along the way while his worry festered and grew stronger with each passing second. There was a moment of solace for him, though, when the entrance to the Children’s Quarters came into view. Wyand’s pulse quickened at the thought of being close to Eyrie again, but he soon learned that everyone had already evacuated that area. He pushed aside his quiet disappointment, labeling it as selfish and choosing instead to be thankful that all the children had been freed.
When Wyand neared the ground level, the sound of his sprinting steps approaching brought looks of concern from all he passed; despite the slow initial progress of his descent, he had managed to outrun the news that the Cultivators’ great weapon was destroyed. There were no sounds of fighting, no flashes of light or scenes of chaos, there were only people, and they all seemed to be waiting. Wyand searched for one face among the hundreds, and at last he found her. “Aemetta!” he called, and she spun away from a pair of Stonesisters to face him.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” Aemetta asked, her eyes wild and her isen at the ready as she looked from Wyand to Keltin and then Ryna.
Wyand came to a stop just in front of her. “The threat from the upper levels is gone,” he said, breathing heavily.
Aemetta nodded impatiently. “Everyone assumed as much once the scrid arrived without taking fire. But then why did you sprint back here?”
“I was worried the Cultivators might have attacked while I was gone,” Wyand explained. “They were able to track the Stormheart and use its location to their advantage. They nearly overran the Children’s Quarters.” Wyand’s voice grew soft and distant as he thought back to the scorch marks that now marred the floor of that place.
“I already spoke with several of the Sacred Vessels,” Aemetta replied with a pained frown, but then her expression quickly returned to its usual calm. “Still, it could have been much worse.”
“Never say that,” Keltin cautioned her. “We’re not out of this yet.”
Aemetta raised her hands apologetically. “Agreed, we are not. But as you can see, there was no attack here, so all of you can stop worrying about that. It is good you hurried back, though. Come with me.” She passed the Calling Room and continued down the spiraling hallway with Wyand, Keltin, and Ryna just behind her. “The evacuation of the workers is going well, both by foot and now by scrid, thanks to you. Both cities are lost, as you already know. Search teams were dispatched the instant the weapon stopped firing, but their results were…discouraging.
“Once it was clear there were no other survivors, we shifted our focus to clearing the lower levels of the Hall and all the winding passages that connect them. We, too, feared a surprise strike from the Cultivators, but none were found.” They passed the Last Calling chamber, then the entrance to Wracandyr. “We did find something, though,” Aemetta continued. “A door.”
“A door?” Ryna asked with a confused squint.
Aemetta nodded. “Not just a door, though. This was the only one that was sealed with a slab of metal like the entrances of the Hall. The initial plan was to use thunder stones to get through, but there was no safe way to do that since the corridor leading to it is so narrow. Instead, we posted guards in the event it proved to be the last hiding place of the Cultivators. When you returned from the top of the Hall, the guards had just sent word that the barricade is moving.” Their steps quickened from that news and Wyand realized he had unconsciously taken hold of the Stormheart once again.
Somewhere below the Isolation Cells, Aemetta led them to a dim side passage. After several more turns, a group of ten fighters appeared with arrows, isen, and oars all aimed at a dark opening. One of the men—a Legionnaire, judging by his grey field clothes—rushed over to Aemetta and the others as soon as they came into view. “The rumbling stopped and the barricade is down,” he reported, “but there are other noises coming from within.”
Wyand could hear the sounds, too: there was a steady—albeit faint—hum and a pair of tones that repeated every few seconds. Peering into the darkness, Wyand felt a growing sensation of heat against his hip. He removed the Stormheart from his waist pocket and its glow increased steadily. “I’ll go in first,” he said quietly. Faces bathed by the gentle blue light nodded as the fighters prepared themselves to once more follow Wyand into the unknown.
Wyand exhaled as he stepped forward and was shocked to see a cloud of his own breath in the sudden chill. Whatever this place was, it lacked the same temperature controls enjoyed throughout the rest of the Hall, not to mention being devoid of light windows. It wasn’t a large space, as the glow of the Stormheart soon revealed, yet the layout of its unnatural walls created many hidden areas that were impossible to see until he stood directly beside them. It made Wyand uneasy to know that a Cultivator could be waiting less than an arm’s length from him at any time, but fortunately all he found in the shadows were a series of large metallic cylinders.
Something about the cylinders was familiar, but Wyand couldn’t discern what possible memory he had that could be tied to them. There were six of them upright in a row, each standing slightly taller than his head, their width just under a stride in diameter. I know I’ve seen these before, Wyand thought, but he still couldn’t remember where or when. As he crept past the cylinders with an uncertain frown, something else suddenly came into view that brought memories flooding back into Wyand’s mind.
A single viewing window glowed against the wall, but it didn’t show Aldhagen or Locboran, nor any part of the Hall itself. Instead, the outline of a hand shone brightly against a background of solid black. Wyand’s eyes grew wide, because inside that handprint a word flashed in rhythm with the tones he’d heard from the passage beyond. It was a word he’d seen before—a word shrouded in darkness for hundreds of turnings, buried in the long-forgotten remains of a Seed Ship. “Crimorrah,” he breathed. “It says Crimorrah.”
“What is it?” Keltin asked as he stepped up to Wyand’s side.
“What is it?” Wyand laughed, no longer able to contain his excitement. “What is it? It’s the beacon, Keltin!” Then, before another word could be said, Wyand placed his hand onto the viewing window with an elated smile. The tones changed pitch and the outline of the handprint turned a bright green, and when Wyand felt certain nothing else was needed, he removed his hand slowly. Where before the word “CRIMORRAH” had flickered off and on, now it was displayed steadily with the word “ACTIVE” flashing beneath it.
After enduring so much fighting, pain, and loss along the way, to see the beacon active meant that all the sacrifices had been worthwhile. Those who died seeking freedom from the Cultivators—not just in the current fight, but in every conflict since the time of the founding—had all given their lives in pursuit of this moment. Wyand smiled even as tears hovered in his eyes.
“Amazing,” Aemetta whispered. Ryna and the others echoed her fascination as they all stared at the viewing window in disbelief.
Though still exuberant, Wyand knew what needed to happen next. “Spread word to everyone of what you just witnessed,” he declared. “And tell them all t
hat we can finally leave this place behind!” Stunned expressions around the room gave way to tentative smiles until they all understood the truth. Then their shouts of victory exploded forth from the dark recess, racing through winding passageways from one voice to the next, until the Hall echoed with the sounds of rejoicing.
Wyand was the last to leave the beacon room, and before he returned to its entrance, he cast a final proud glance at the viewing window that would soon change everything. The days of his thoughts being confined to Aldhagen, the Hall, Cynmere, or even Crolun Raigh were gone; the world of Crimorrah was waiting to receive its people, and they were finally free to embrace it. As Wyand smiled to himself, the viewing window flickered suddenly, distorting the outline of the handprint for the smallest fraction of second. Amid the distortion, an image manifested on the viewing window that sent a cold chill through his core.
A space appeared, faintly lit from above and large beyond imagining. Untold scores of machines lined its walls and they all simultaneously burst with a surge of light and movement. The sudden flash of light revealed hundreds if not thousands of Cultivators all standing motionless in the center of the enormous room. Their rows and columns aligned perfectly, making even an estimate of their true number impossible, but in the forefront, one figure stood facing the rest. Tan robes, stained and torn, covered whoever was positioned before the force of Cultivators, but a face could not be seen. Then, in an instant, it was all gone, replaced once more by the reassuring message that the beacon was functional.
A cloud hovered in front of Wyand as he exhaled into the cold air. Fear stole the voice from his throat, but questions screamed inside his mind. Was that real or a Vision? Was it a current image from somewhere in the Hall, or a view from a different time? From a different place? His heart raced as he thought through possible scenarios, but nothing he could imagine made any sense. In the end, no answers could be found—there was only the glowing handprint with its two simple words that carried in them the hope of an entire world. Wyand turned away from the viewing window cautiously, his hand on the Stormheart and his eyes scanning the room with each step.
Even after only a few strides, he could already hear sounds of celebration in the passage ahead. A sudden, heavy feeling of guilt forced him to keep silent about whatever it was he had either seen or imagined in the viewing window. The people of this world need a victory, Wyand reasoned. I won’t take that from them, not after they’ve given so much. They’ve more than earned their solace for a while.
Images of the legion of Cultivators flashed into his thoughts constantly, leaving the lingering sensation of being watched by unseen eyes, but Wyand somehow suppressed the urge to run through the Hall shouting for everyone to flee. Instead, he hurried to catch up with Keltin, Ryna, and Aemetta as they made their way back to the main corridor. “What were you doing?” Keltin asked when Wyand joined the group.
Thankfully, Wyand already had a valid explanation in mind. “I wanted to make certain it was actually safe for us to leave,” he said, and several quizzical stares suddenly fell onto him. “Since I have the Stormheart, it makes sense for me to be the last person in any given section of the Hall during the withdrawal of our forces. For safety.”
Ryna and Aemetta appeared convinced, but Keltin snorted a quiet laugh. “Always the worrier,” he said with a roll of his eyes. A quick jab of Ryna’s elbow into Keltin’s ribs changed his snort to a gasp quite quickly, however. “Still,” Keltin went on with feigned seriousness, “if you think that’s the safest option….”
“We would be honored to wait with you, Wyand,” Ryna interjected. “Once everyone else has cleared the Hall and you’re ready, we’ll all leave together.”
“Agreed,” Aemetta added. They soon arrived at the main corridor and took up a position where they could watch the steady stream of fighters leave victorious. Wyand smiled and laughed with everyone else as they passed, but it was even more difficult for him to maintain the façade than it had been at the top of the Hall. Where before he had been worried based solely on feeling and logical assumptions, now his fears had images attached to them, real or not.
Two familiar faces soon emerged from the mass of fighters as a pair of young boys sprinted toward Wyand. With joyous shouts, Adlig and Scur wrapped their arms around both sides of Wyand’s waist and beamed up at him. “Did you really get all of them, Depthcarver? Did you?” Adlig asked excitedly.
“We did,” Wyand replied with as much certainty as he could muster. “The Cultivators are gone.”
“And what about the beacon?” Scur wanted to know.
“A message has been sent to the Old Kingdom, which means we are finally free to leave this place, boys.” The Tailings were in awe, but to Wyand’s surprise, Adlig glanced up the passageway with a troubled frown a moment later. “Adlig, what is it?”
The Tailing looked at Wyand timidly. “What’s it like out there on the other side of the walls?” he asked.
“It’s amazing,” Wyand said with an encouraging grin. “Everything is so big—the desert, the mountains, the ocean. You’ll see it all soon. Just keep walking.”
Neither Tailing was eager to move, though, even after Wyand’s description. “Can you come with us?” Scur asked quietly. Wyand was struck by a truth that he’d overlooked until that moment: in spite of all the bravery they’d shown and all the horrors they’d seen, the two boys were scared of the unknown just as Wyand had been at first.
“We’ll all go with you,” Aemetta interjected. “For now, you can wait here with us.” Adlig and Scur visibly relaxed when they heard her offer, and they were happy to accept it. The Tailings released Wyand and instead took hold of Aemetta’s hands as they prepared to embark on their journey beyond the walls.
The next few minutes were filled with congratulations and praise until the flow of workers at last dwindled to nothing. “That’s everyone,” Ansund announced as he rounded the curve at the upper end of the corridor. “All survivors have been secured and the Hall is clear. Time to go.”
Even though Wyand knew what waited at the end of the long walk back to the Lake of Skulls, his heart still raced with hope the closer he came to the small entrance at the base of the plateau. Then a faint glimmer of daylight—muted by the clouds, though it was—pierced the darkness of the tunnels and revealed the world beyond. We made it back safely. It’s really over, Wyand thought in amazement, and his steps suddenly felt lighter than they had ever been. With a laugh, his walk changed into a victorious run.
The journey back to the Deadlands camp was a blur for Wyand as giddiness and exhaustion competed for control of his consciousness. Drugoth and its death-covered shores slid from sight, and soon the Hall itself was a distant spire atop a smoke covered mountain. The rain subsided but the clouds remained; the cold air they brought with them still whipped through the canyons of the Deadlands. None of it seemed real to Wyand, almost as though he was floating from one place to the next in a dream.
Once back in the camp, he told and retold the events of the day more times than he could count. After his second session with the Elder Council, a quiet moment finally arrived in the late afternoon where Wyand found himself seated beside a fire in one of the wider sections of the canyon. The smell of food and the sound of music filled the air as he slowly and tentatively dared to relax. Even after all the excitement of the day, Keltin and Ryna somehow still had enough energy to join a group of dancers several dozen strides away. On the opposite side of the fire, Cailla and Aemetta stared into the blaze and occasionally exchanged snippets of conversation, but otherwise they sat in exhausted silence. Adlig, Scur, Haemlan, Tir, and a hundred other familiar faces were close by, but Wyand found it difficult to focus on any of them. He glanced at his left hand, to where Eyrie’s fingers intertwined with his own. She never looked away from the flames, but smiled the moment she realized that Wyand was staring at her again.
“So, this is what the future looks like, is it? Instead of fighting, our great warriors sit around fires and hold
hands?” The Voice of War appeared suddenly just over Wyand’s right shoulder with Ansund by her side. This time, though still surprised and slightly embarrassed, Wyand clung to Eyrie as he stood to face Tilia. The old Bloodsister noticed this detail and her stern demeanor vanished beneath a warm smile. “You’ve earned it, I suppose,” she chuckled. “I won’t distract you for long. I wanted to congratulate you and to wish you peace before I begin my final journey back to the Lake of Skulls.”
Wyand nodded, but then suddenly paused. “You don’t have to go back there,” he said. Ansund and Eyrie eyed him with curiosity. “There’s no one left to be cast out, no one left to save. I say let the haugaeldr have their lake so we don’t lose anyone else to them.”
The Voice of War was thoughtfully silent for a moment. “There is wisdom in your words,” she admitted, “but not all decisions are based in logic. My path is set—I will return to the haugaeldr and my blade will dance among them until the death fires are lit and I am no more. This is our custom and I will honor it, futile though it may be. It is likely that this world will always bear some of the scars left by the Cultivators, and the haugaeldr will forever be the most grievous wound. I do agree with you, though. After today, there is no reason for anyone else to be forced onto the path I must now walk. Never forget that, especially when the time comes for you to lead our people to whatever is waiting next.”
There was no fitting reply Wyand could give, and a moment later he watched in silent sadness and pride as Tilia departed with Ansund still by her side. They paused after a few strides, however, and The Voice of War turned to face the fire once more. “Eyrie,” she called, motioning for the younger woman to come to her. Wyand felt a pang of longing when Eyrie released his hand, but he didn’t dare protest her meeting with Tilia. The two Bloodsisters spoke softly together before embracing, then something metallic flashed in Eyrie’s hand as she reached toward the older woman’s face.
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