Rogger spit roasted a marsh hare over the pit. Upon the thief’s recommendation, they had built the fire in a shallow pit to shield its sallow flame in the night. He had even caked the rabbit’s skinned flesh with clay to cut down the scent of its sizzling flesh.
Next to him, Delia huddled in a cloak lined with otter fur. She was bone tired, as were they all.
No one spoke. Their small party, led by Krevan and his band of cloaked knights, had ridden all day, then fled all night through the marshes: punting a pair of skiffs, trekking salt flats, crawling through a forest of vines and creepers. They dared not risk the main road through the swamps, a rutted overgrown path that wound around stagnant stretches of water and forded bubbling rivers with bridges of stout oak.
And it was good they had taken Krevan’s advice to abandon the road and seek out old trapper paths and animal trails. Lord Balger had not waited long before sending out his hunters, a mix of his own sworn Shadowknights and swamp trackers. Their pursuit proved dogged.
A full day and night stretched into one endless chase. Krevan set up traps and looped their course to confound pursuit. But the hunters had the advantage: the blessing of the god of the land. They followed with scent hounds Graced in alchemies of air, they bore weapons anointed in fire, and followed in swamp crawlers fueled as much by Balger’s fury as the god’s blood.
With such pursuit, the party had little chance to rest. But with dawn nearing, they were forced to ground, too exhausted to tackle the rolling mounds that marked the borderlands of the accursed Dell.
“What do you suppose is waiting beyond those hills?” Tylar asked.
Krevan shrugged.
“Will Balger have sent word ahead?” Tylar glanced to the east, where the skies were just beginning to lighten. “Will he have alerted Tashijan?”
Rogger snorted and pulled the spitted hare from the fire. He sniffed at its baked clay surface. “To raise the alarm, Balger would have to admit that he had you and let you escape. The bastard has too much pride for that. He’d lose face among the brigands and sly folk that make up his countrymen. Word won’t travel beyond his borders until you’re either dead or captured.”
Krevan lifted a hand, standing quickly with a rustle of cloak and shadow. “Someone comes.”
Tylar’s palm dropped to the hilt of his sword, a borrowed short sword with a bone grip.
Krevan stepped back, half-dissolving into shadow. A whistle of skit-swift sounded from his lips. It was answered by another… and another. He stepped back into the circle of firelight. “One of the scouts.”
As if drawn out by his words, shadows stretched and birthed the figure of a cloaked man. It was one of Krevan’s knights. The man stepped into the glow, shedding darkness from his form. Tylar recognized him as an older knight named Corram. While it took a keen eye to discern one masked and cloaked Shadowknight from another, years of living among such men and women had sharpened Tylar’s attention: to the cut and color of hair, to the shape and hue of eye, to the subtle scars and wrinkles. Even the manner of movement, rhythm of gait, and a knight’s carriage revealed clues.
Despite his advanced years, Corram moved with a stealth few could match. His eyes were ice, his hair a matching silver.
He nodded to Krevan. “The hunters have found our scent again. They move even now to close us off from the border mounds.”
“How quickly?”
Corram shook his head. “We have a quarter bell at best.”
Rogger swore and began kicking dirt atop the wood coals, dousing the flames. “Then let us not tarry.” He lifted the roasted hare and cracked the caked clay. The scent of sizzling fat and flesh wafted strongly. He handed the spitted hare to one of Krevan’s men. “Stake this little bait on the raft by the stream. The current will carry her off, drawing the scent hounds away from our path. I never knew a hound that wouldn’t follow a bit of roasted hare.”
With a nod, the knight stepped away.
The others quickly broke camp and set off.
Krevan again led the way. His ten knights flanked forward and behind, alert for attack. Rogger strode behind the leader of the Shadowknights. Tylar followed next with his short sword and kept Delia close to his side. She met his gaze for a breath. Her face was smeared with mud, a cheek scratched deeply, and her eyes were rimmed with fear.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. It was the only consolation he could offer.
It seemed enough. Taking a shuddering breath, she nodded.
The party stumbled through the tangle of bog brier that had been their bower and splashed across a sluicing riverbed, smelling of stagnant mud and root rot. As they climbed the far banks, the mounds rose before them, limned in the thin light of approaching dawn.
These borderlands, named the Kistlery Downs, were chalk-and-flint hills rising from the swamplands, a hard boundary separating the lowland swamps and bogs of Foulsham Dell from the central plains of the First Land. While the mounds were not high, they were steep sided, creating a maze of vales, hollows, and dells. Confounding the matter, the lowest portions remained shrouded in foul mist. It was as easy to get lost among them as it was to be trapped.
“Do you know the way through here?” Tylar asked.
“Rough enough,” Krevan answered.
Tylar found little comfort in his answer.
Rogger dropped beside Tylar. “The only known route through Kistlery Downs is the main road. And that will be guarded.”
Delia studied the white cliffs on either side of them. They glistened with bits of gypsum and quartz. “I heard that dark alchemists set up black foundries here, dug into the hillsides, spewing corruption and burned Graces from their subterranean chimneys.”
Rogger waved aside such worries. “Blood witches and Wyr-lords are the least of our concerns. They may haunt the Downs, but they’ll shy from us as much as we might wish to avoid them.”
“Why doesn’t Lord Balger rid the hills of their foul ilk?”
Rogger glanced back to her. “Where do you think His Largeness gets most of his revenues? More of Balger’s humours flow through the black fires here than are traded across borders.”
Tylar noted the deepening frown on Delia’s face. Sheltered in schools and selected young as a handmaiden to Meeryn, she’d had little chance to understand how trade among the lands was more often black rather than white. Whereas Tylar had direct dealings with the Gray Traders, those who plied the rivers of commerce that flowed beneath all else, traffickers in Dark Graces, stolen humours, and accursed weapons and tools. Tylar knew that the bale dagger he had stolen from Lord Balger, a blade that healed as fast as it cut, would fetch a significant ransom among the Traders.
And one time he would have made that deal.
As a young man, he had thought himself wise in the ways of the world, capable of moving within that gray territory between the light and the dark. He had raised coin through some shady profiteering. And while most of it went to help the orphanage where he had been raised, a fair amount still found its way into his own pocket.
He’d had a wedding to plan… to Kathryn.
He shoved this last thought aside.
But memories still flooded through him: of blue eyes looking deep into his own, of hushed breaths in the stillness of a long night, of tender lips, of promises both whispered and shouted aloud. And through it all, laughter flowed, light, yet coming from the heart.
All had been so easy, so very easy.
No longer.
He gripped his short sword, fingers firm and sure. While his body had been healed by Grace, his heart remained untouched. There was no blessing to heal that which had died long ago.
“How far to reach the border?” Delia asked, drawing his attention to his current plight.
“Another six reaches,” Rogger answered. “Barring any missteps-which is not hard in this skaggin’ place-we’ll reach the far plains a bell or two after sunrise. And if the morning sea mists have burned away, we might even catch a glimpse of Stormwatch Tower in the dis
tance.”
Tashijan’s tallest spire.
“So close…” Delia mumbled.
She glanced over to Tylar. Both had listened silently to Krevan’s report on the current tidings at the Citadel. Argent ser Fields had been named the new warden. After hearing this, Delia had bowed her head. Tylar kept silent about the familial tie between Argent and Delia, father and estranged daughter. It was not his place to speak of it.
But all knew of Tylar’s tie to Argent’s new castellan, Kathryn ser Vail. His former betrothed. Eyes had carefully avoided his as this detail was recounted.
Only Delia had the courage to meet his gaze. Both their pasts had become tied together in one place. A place they must explore to solve a riddle uttered by a dying god.
Krevan stopped ahead, his form barely discernible in the fetid fog that filled the hollow spaces between the hills. With his head cocked, he waved them to his side.
“What-?” Delia began.
He shushed her. Silence pressed down upon them-then a wheezing rasp echoed from up ahead. It was not unfamiliar. They had heard the same telltale noise chasing them all night.
“How many?” Rogger asked in a matching wheeze.
“Too many,” Krevan answered under his breath.
He motioned them back. A fresh rasping rose behind them. This was no echo. They were being surrounded. From the darkness, Krevan’s knights coalesced, closing ranks.
“They’ve cut us off,” one of the knights hissed.
“What do we do?” Tylar asked, raising his sword, firming his stance.
Krevan glanced to him. “Run, fight, or die. Take your pick.”
Beyond Krevan’s shoulder, a tall spindly shape crept out of the fog. It moved on eight jointed legs, like some bronze metal spider, twice the height of a man. Each leg ended in a sharpened point, perfect for maneuvering through the muck and rot of the swamps, jabbing into logs and tree trunks for purchase, slipping in and out of the mud with ease.
A swamp crawler.
Tylar smelled the blood burning from exhaust flutes behind the mekanical crawler. Its two riders crouched in the central egg-shaped seat. One controlled the swamper, the other squatted with a crossbow. Both were deadly.
A bolt sliced through the fog, ripping through a fold of a knight’s shadowcloak. At the same time, one of the sharpened legs lashed out with a burr of mekanicals, nearly impaling the same knight. But a dance of cloak saved the man. Tylar recognized Corram-then the older knight vanished into deeper shadows.
Krevan grabbed his shoulder. “This way.”
His cloak billowed out to either side, sweeping out to encompass Tylar and Delia. Corram reappeared on their other side, offering the same protection to Rogger-but not before flinging out a dagger from a wrist sheath. The blade flashed in the misty starlight, slicing through the fog. It struck the lead rider in the eye.
The bronze mekanical faltered as its pilot fell back, dead in the riding sling. The crawler’s front legs crumpled, no longer fueled. The mekanical toppled. The second man tossed his crossbow and struggled to escape his own sling.
Tylar never saw the man’s fate as he was guided away. A crash and clatter of bronze echoed after them.
They fled back down the misted vale.
A new pair of crawlers blocked their retreat, moving in tandem, half-climbing the walls to either side, legs digging into the flinty hills. More movement stirred behind them.
Krevan led the way off to the side, to a narrow gorge between two hills. They had to proceed in single file. Corram kept to their rear.
“What about the other knights?” Delia asked.
Cries answered her, coming from behind them. The bronze spiders were finding these flies had teeth.
Still, Tylar knew that Balger had sent a full score of crawlers after them. Too many for the Shadowknights to handle. The others were only providing them breath to escape. But how much breath?
Already the baying of hounds carried to them. More hunters. The dogs’ keepers would not be far behind, armed with flaming swords and oiled fireballs in leather slings, capable of incinerating entire patches of forest to the ground.
“I guess those hounds weren’t interested in my fine rabbit stew,” Rogger mumbled.
Krevan suddenly grabbed Tylar and Delia and dragged them to one wall of the gorge. Corram did the same with Rogger against the far wall. Both knight and thief vanished under a wave of shadowcloak.
Overhead, bronze legs crested over the top of the gorge. Another crawler. It stopped, perched above them.
Krevan pulled Delia farther behind him. Tylar felt the tingle of Grace flowing through the Raven Knight’s cloth, keeping them hidden.
The seat lowered into the gorge, suspended by the legs. The pilot worked the controls, swiveling the cabin. The archer kept his crossbow fixed to his shoulder and scanned the gorge. He mostly concentrated back toward the valley.
The pilot settled the crawler in place. It looked as though they were staying. They must have been sent here to block this pass, pinching off retreat in this direction. Other crawlers were probably blocking other escape routes. The noose was tightening.
Krevan stirred. If any alarm was raised, they were doomed, trapped between the walls of the gorge.
Tylar closed his eyes, calculating in his head. He felt Krevan begin to step away. Tylar reached out and grabbed his elbow, warning the knight from rash action. Then Tylar slipped a hand to Krevan’s belt and relieved him of one of his daggers. He slid the blade through a fist, slicing skin. As blood and sweat anointed the blade at the same time, Tylar pictured flames, the sear of flesh. He felt the blade heat up in his fist.
Balancing the dagger in his fingers, he pushed from the wall, rolled out under the crawler’s cabin, and threw the dagger straight up. The blade struck where one of the legs joined the seat.
He dashed back to the wall, enveloped again by shadow and cloak.
“What…?” Krevan asked.
Tylar silenced him with a hiss.
Overhead, the crawler began to spew smoke from its flues. He prayed the strike of the dagger would be mistaken for a burp in the mekanicals. He watched the pilot struggle to hold his crawler. Its movements grew jerky and labored. More smoke billowed, followed by a cough of flame. The crawler lost its footing, tumbling forward. The pilot fought his controls. The cabin seat struck one of the gorge walls, jarring like a struck bell.
“Go,” Tylar urged and pointed deeper down the gorge.
With the hunters distracted by their foundering craft, Tylar and the others fled unseen up the gorge and away. Finally, Krevan spoke. “What did you do back there?”
“I cast a blessing upon their crawler. Using blood and sweat.”
Delia glanced back over her shoulder. “You cast heat?”
Tylar nodded. “Crawlers are fueled by fire alchemies. They steam hotly. It takes only a little extra heat to push the mekanicals beyond their limits, burning them out. The same can happen if you overwork them. I hoped that flaming out their mekanicals would be taken as simple bad luck.”
Krevan nodded. “And now those same hunters will guard our own path. They’ll hold their position and swear no one passed them.”
“Changing hunters into guardians,” Rogger said. “Not bad, Tylar. You’re becoming a right good alchemist.”
“I had a good teacher.” He nodded toward Delia, who shyly glanced forward.
Corram pointed ahead. “Where to now?”
Krevan forged deeper into the narrowing gorge. “Off to strike a bargain.”
“Where?” Tylar asked.
Krevan simply scowled.
Rogger answered, struggling a few steps ahead of Corram, his voice thick with distaste. “The Lair of the Wyr.”
As the sun rose, Tylar found the dawn brought little light. The cliffs were high and narrow, shrouded in mists, trapping them in eternal twilight. It seemed they had been marching for days. Tylar trudged after Krevan, Delia behind him, followed by Rogger and Corram. All sounds of battle ha
d long grown silent.
No knight had returned, but Krevan had expressed no worry. “They know to lead the hunters astray, away from our path. We’ll regroup in Muddlethwait across the border.”
“That is, if we ever get out of these hills,” Rogger added.
Tylar glanced to the high walls. He was thoroughly lost. Even Krevan seemed to be losing his faith in his sense of direction, slowing their pace, pausing at crossroads among the maze of gorges.
“How much farther?” Delia asked. “Where is this Lair?”
Rogger moved closer, his voice an edgy whisper. “Child, we’ve been among the Wyr for the past full bell.”
Tylar tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt.
“They watch us even now,” Rogger said.
As if hearing his words, a rock crumbled from the cliff edge and skittered down the wall.
Krevan ignored it all and continued forward.
Tylar now eyed the crevices and side chutes with plain suspicion, sword pointed and ready. He had, of course, heard of the Lair, an assembly of Wyr, those who practiced arcane alchemies upon themselves, seeking some measure of corrupted Grace. It was whispered that an ultimate goal was sought by the Wyr: the creation of a perfect abomination, to birth a god from human flesh, to bring new divinity into the world from mortal union.
But in this quest, they created misshapen creatures, some raving, others wise beyond measure. And ultimately theirs was a mad goal, an impossibility. Even when gods lay down with a man or woman, no child was ever born from such a union. As Grace foreshortened the lives of the Hands who served their gods, such strong emanations destroyed this earliest spark of life. No child could be born into Grace. It could only be granted by a god.
Still, the Wyr-lords persisted, producing abomination and deformity. Their ilk, while mostly hidden away in the depths of the hinterlands, could be found throughout Myrillia.
And the true heart of all the Wyr was rumored to be hidden here.
The Lair.
At last the narrow gorge opened into a wide hollow, framed by the tallest of the mounds. In the center, a small pond shone in the thin light, rimmed in red algae and as dark as oil. It bubbled slowly and stank of sulfur that burned the nose.
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