They're talking about me, I realize, craning my neck to get a better look at the clandestine meeting.
I briefly glance down and freeze, noticing something crawling on my arm. It is large and hairy, with spindly legs as long as human fingers and fangs like tiny wet daggers. It looks up at me with beady black eyes and moves forward, fearlessly making its way toward my neck.
A blood wolf spider.
I recognize it immediately, having confronted one once before in a cellar at the Academy. It has dark brown hair like a wolf and red stripes running from its head down its thorax that resemble blood. Evoker Laramie had said that they are extremely venomous – a single bite being enough to kill a fully-grown adult.
And it is crawling on me.
I suck in a breath to avoid screaming and swat it away, brushing the monstrous thing off my arm and onto the dusty floor.
It wriggles its legs and tries to right itself, but I kick it with my foot, sending it flying across the crawlspace where it thuds against something in the darkness.
"What was that?" I hear one of the cultists say above me.
Eleven Hells blight me! I mentally curse, sitting perfectly still beneath the floorboards.
"I thought I heard something," another one remarks, looking around the common room in confusion.
"I didn't hear anything," argues another. "We checked this place out before you arrived. Stop being so paranoid!"
They bicker back and forth and after a moment, I breathe a sigh of relief. That was a close one.
Something tickles my ear and I jerk to the side, twisting to see another blood wolf spider suspended from a web right next to my head. I bat it away with my arm, twisting my body away from it in fear, but something crunches beneath my leg. It feels like a piece of pottery, hard but fragile enough to crack when broken, and I look up in horror, wondering if it was loud enough to be heard.
"Somebody's in here," one of the cultists bellows, drawing a knife from his belt. "We've been compromised."
"Search the room," the leader orders in his deep, commanding voice. "They cannot be allowed to leave here alive!"
The cultists begin to fan out, breaking from their circle as they begin to search the common room for signs of intrusion. My stomach twists as the floorboards squeak above me. They've found me! My cover is blown! I close my eyes and force myself to calm down. Breathe, Zara, no one has found you yet. You're safe in this crawlspace... as long as you avoid any more spiders.
For a time, it appears that I will remain undiscovered, my hiding place proving sufficient enough to keep me hidden from their searches. However, my blood turns to ice as I hear one of the men exclaim that he has found footprints in the dust. Soon after, a grating sound comes from behind the bar, suddenly flooding the crawlspace with light.
This is it, I think frantically, grasping at my talisman. Time to put those new spells to use!
I begin to channel source energy when something odd happens – radiant magic begins to shimmer all around me, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. Cords of pure energy materialize around my wrists and hands, intertwining around my fingers with a strength beyond that of steel.
I gasp as my hands are forced behind my back by some invisible source, twisting me painfully and rendering my own magical defenses inert.
Another magic user! I realize with horror, watching as a dark figure in a mask leaps down into the crawlspace. There is a glowing source crystal held in his hand.
"Looks like we've found our eavesdropper," the man says in a snide, triumphant voice. "On behalf of the Harbingers, welcome, little Magus. We're so glad you've come to join us."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Owyn
My horse’s hooves thunder through the woods, carrying me to an uncertain fate.
Push yourself, Owyn. There’s no time to rest.
Don’t let yourself give up.
The screams of the townsfolk still haunt my thoughts as I ride with the other defectors, reminding me all too well of the slaughtered villagers at Haven, who had been cut down like wheat before the sickle.
Only those people were murdered by demons, I think to myself in despair. Not by people who were sworn to protect them.
Elias would be ashamed.
The sun wanes overhead, bathing the Ashwood in an ominous red light. It reminds me of the color of blood, drawing a sharp contrast from the long shadows being cast by the trees, and making the world look like a tapestry of crimson and black.
I push myself onward at the head of the column, not allowing any of us the chance to rest.
The rhythmic pounding of horse hooves on the stony forest floor are like the beatings of a hundred drums, droning on in my ears and fading into nothing more than background noise. As we ride I try and puzzle out the meaning of all of this, trying to understand why everything is happening the way it is. Master Warden Thorne seemed so determined to attack the Nightingales, I think to myself. It's almost as if he wanted to start a war with them.
Technically, the Nightingales are already at war with the crown. It is, however, a mostly bloodless rebellion on the fringes of civilization, not an armed insurgency bent on the destruction of Tarsynium and her people. My father had been killed by Nightingales, of course. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive them for that. But violence from the Nightingales is far from commonplace, and it usually only happens when soldiers encroach on territory they've claimed.
None of this makes any sense.
The presence of the demon complicates matters further. What is its role in all of this? Perhaps it had taken control of the Nightingales in an attempt to raise an army, but for some reason that seems unlikely. If it was trying to build up a great host of mind slaves, why waste them on a half-hearted attack on the Grand Lodge? The other possibility causes my blood to run cold. Perhaps it wants a conflict between the rangers and the Nightingales, in an attempt to sew chaos within the Arc of Radiance. That would certainly complicate matters.
I only hope that it is a single demon, and not a horde like the one Moloch had brought through.
Riding with all haste, we run our horses into the night almost to the point of exhaustion. Eventually, we are forced to stop and rest to avoid killing the beasts before reaching our destination.
Not to mention the darkness, I think, pulling my horse off the road and into a small clearing in the woods. I wouldn't want it breaking a leg out here on an uneven piece of ground.
Fortunately, we are able to locate a small stream of water for the horses to drink, and we set up our bed rolls without lighting a fire.
None of us want to be easily found while resting.
Lying on my back and looking up at stars through the twisting canopy of trees, I nibble on some jerky and lose myself in thought. It is a somber group of rangers this night, everyone trying to come to grips with everything that is happening. Many of the rangers, even men much older than myself, regard me with newfound respect, acknowledging my courage and telling me that Elias would be proud.
To me, the praise feels odd. I was only doing what I thought was right.
It takes some time, but eventually I drift off to sleep, something I am profoundly grateful for. The events of the day have left me feeling worn out. Fortunately, I am not chosen to be put on watch.
Grisly dreams plague me while I sleep, causing me to wake up every few hours in a cold sweat. Each time I wake up, however, the dreams quickly fade, leaving me paranoid and shivering in the middle of the forest. By the time dawn begins to peek over the horizon, I feel even more tired than I had before.
Eyes burning, I untie my horse with the other rangers and start back out on the trail, eating and drinking in the saddle as we make our way back to the Lodge.
Again, we fall into a rhythm, pushing hard to get there as fast as we can while the sounds of hoofbeats drill into our skulls. Like the others, I keep a wary eye on my surroundings as I travel, careful to keep a hand on my bow and my quiver within reach.
; IT IS AROUND MIDDAY by the time we reach the Grand Lodge. I smell the wood smoke before I even see the squat wooden buildings, the trees thinning out and revealing the broad military-like compound that is home to the rangers.
Guards step out onto the road to intercept us but wave us through to the Lodge when they recognize us as their own.
My side aches and I am saddle sore from the journey, but my focus is still razor sharp. Reaching down, I pat my mount's neck as I guide him into the camp, his coat lathered and his breathing heavy. "You did good today," I say soothingly. "Good boy."
We ride up to the barracks I stayed in the other night and dismount, leading my horse by the reins to the spot where the other horses are tied up. The other rangers disperse, going to speak with the other guards and their friends about what happened in the woods.
The door to the barrack opens and Talon steps out, rushing over to me with a questioning look on his still-battered face.
"You're back!" He says, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Wow... and you're not alone."
"I need to speak with the First Warden," I say, tying my horse off at a hitching post near a trough of water. "Do you know where she is?"
Talon looks around the camp before pointing to the north side. "The last I saw her, she was checking on the sentries posted over there."
I nod, then begin walking in that direction.
"Hey!" Talon exclaims, jogging up to my side. "What happened out there?"
I take a breath. "We attacked the Nightingale encampment," I reply simply.
"Well that's good, isn't it?"
"No!" I reply with more vehemence than intended. "It's not good. It wasn't the military camp we were led to believe it was. It was full of civilians... women and children and elderly folk. Our rangers slaughtered them like animals."
"Hells," Talon breathes, his expression turning into a grimace.
"That's why I need to talk to the First Warden," I explain, rounding the corner of the Medicine Hall. "She needs to know what Advisor Creed and the Master Warden have done."
I find Tamara on the north side of the Lodge, surveying the construction of a watchtower just within the tree line. Other rangers guard the workers as they toil, watching the forest with guarded expressions, their weapons held ready. Tamara turns to regard us, one of her eyebrows quirking up in a look of puzzlement.
"Back so soon?" She asks, her tone brimming with ice. "Do you have something to report, apprentice?"
"Yes, First Warden," I reply stiffly as Talon and I step up to her.
"Well, out with it, then," she says impatiently.
I look around, eying the other rangers. "May I speak to you somewhere a little more... private?"
The rangers nearby glance at us over their shoulders, their expressions curious.
She gives me a curt nod then strides away from them, walking over to the tree line and out of earshot.
Satisfied that no one can overhear us, I begin. "The reports that your scouts gave you were inaccurate," I say, still keeping my voice low.
"Inaccurate?" She asks, folding her arms in front of her. "How do you mean?"
"It was not a military camp that we attacked," I reveal, looking her square in the eyes. "It was a settlement of ordinary civilians. They were defenseless, powerless to stop us, but some of our rangers attacked anyway. It was a massacre."
Tamara is silent for a long moment, her expression revealing nothing, before responding. "Who ordered the attack when this information became obvious?"
"Advisor Creed," I reply. "The other rangers seemed uneasy about attacking the settlement, but Creed coerced them into giving the order. He invoked the will of the Master Warden, threatening any ranger with a court-martial should they choose not to attack."
"And yet here you are, alone." Her face is still unreadable.
I shake my head. "Many of the rangers came with me. We could not go through with the attack. We ran back to our horses and fled as soon as they began attacking, then made our way back here as fast as we could."
Again, Tamara is silent for several moments, leaving Talon and I to stand there uncomfortably. Behind us, the sounds of mallets hammering wood can be heard as the workers assemble the new watchtower. Finally, Tamara speaks up.
"This is a terrible thing," she says, her usually-cold expression softening somewhat, her eyes becoming sorrowful. "I did not personally see the scout report, but Master Warden Thorne and Advisor Creed did. Those scouts are good men – they would not have committed such an oversight. The Master Warden knew exactly what he was doing when he ordered our rangers to go attack those people."
Abruptly she turns toward me and rests a hand on my shoulder. I see something new in her eyes, something that I have not seen there before. Respect.
"I commend you for bringing me this information," she says, holding my gaze. "It must not have been easy for you, knowing what awaited if Advisor Creed caught you. Thank you, Owyn Lund, for your integrity."
I can feel my chest start to swell with pride as she pulls away, her face becoming a stoic mask once more.
"Where does that leave us now?" Talon interjects with his usual brusqueness. "Creed and the others will be returning soon, and the rest Nightingales in the area are not going to be happy when they find out that we murdered their families."
Tamara sets her jaw and places a hand on the hilt of her sword. Now, more than anything, she looks determined, ready to shoulder a heavy load. "We do the only thing we can do," she replies, breaking from our group and walking toward the center of camp. Then, looking over her shoulder, she elaborates.
"We need to confront the Master Warden at once."
Chapter Thirty
Zara
I stumble as two pairs of strong hands forcibly guide me through an alley.
Without my talisman, I feel completely vulnerable, forced to submit to these vile cultists as they take me blindfolded to some undisclosed location.
The mage who had discovered me in the crawlspace had bound my hands with the same spell I had used to bind the assassin from the crypts. Completely immobilized, the cultists pulled me out of my hiding place like a sack of flour and up into the light of their candles. They mocked me and cursed me from behind their black masks, then blindfolded me, tied my wrists, and shoved me out into the night as the effects of the mage's spell wore off.
Stumbling, I silently berate myself for my stupidity; not for putting myself into this situation, but for getting caught.
Should I have done anything different?
No, I conclude at length, there was nothing else I could have done. Except to maybe check for spiders before I settled into that dank crawlspace.
My foot splashes into a puddle of something cold and slimy, and I grimace as I am brought back to the present.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask my captors, trying hard to keep the fear out of my voice.
"Shut your mouth," one of the men whispers harshly in my ear. "Say one more word, and I'll punch that pretty little mouth of yours, mage girl."
Rude, I think sourly, biting back a retort that will likely cause the man to make good on his promise.
The night is cold as we traverse the twisting alleyways, weaving between buildings in a dizzying pattern that makes it impossible for me to track in my mind. Wherever we're going, I think as I walk, they must not want me to be able to figure out my location.
The cultists had, of course, taken my talisman from me before binding my hands behind me with rope. This made escape impossible, rendering me unable to channel source energy into radiant magic. Frustrated, I decide to bide my time. Now is not the time to escape. I will wait until an opportunity presents itself, and then I will act.
Hope is not yet lost.
Eventually, I am half-dragged up a set of steps and brought into an enclosed space – the footfalls of my captors on wood make me think I am in some sort of warehouse. It isn't long after that I am forced against something hard, my bindings attached to clinking chains behind me.
"Where am I?" I ask defiantly, squinting until my eyes can adjust. I can make out three cloaked figures standing in front of me, their hoods drawn and their masks imperious. The one in the middle steps forward and reaches out a gloved hand.
"You are safe, child," the man says, pulling a lock of brown hair from behind my ear and rubbing it between his fingers. I recognize his deep voice as that of the man in charge of the meeting I had overheard. "You have nothing to worry about... for now."
"Why have you brought me here?" My eyes slowly start to adjust to the torch light, and I realize that I am in some sort of holding cell, my back to a column of splintery wood.
The man chuckles softly to himself from behind his mask. "You're an inquisitive one, aren't you? Perhaps it was your inquisitive nature that led you to eavesdrop on us. Perhaps not. There are many spies in the city who seek to undermine our work."
Work? What is he talking about? He makes it seem like they are involved in something noble.
The man shakes his hooded head, continuing. "It matters not. Regardless of your motives, you will be brought to see the true light of the Chosen – and then you will be given a choice. We are all given choices, Magus, and it is our privilege as humans to live with the consequences. Such is the grand design of life."
With that the three figures leave, exiting the holding cell and closing the door behind them. With the torches gone, I am left in darkness, chained to a post and completely immobilized.
Waiting until I can hear their footsteps fade away, I begin struggling against my restraints, trying desperately to untie the ropes binding my wrists to the chain. I rub my skin raw trying to extricate myself, but to no avail. Eventually I give up, slumping against the post and resting my head against the wood.
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