Keys of Awakening

Iltiaran stood frozen in place as the dining hall erupted into chaos.

The guards posted along the walls leapt forward, their swords drawn. Several Chosen and Riders jumped to their feet; others, still seated, looked on in confusion.

Iltiaran staggered away from the Princess’ body, which lay in a slowly widening pool of blood.

The Steward looked about herself as though she was waking from a dream. She stared in stunned disbelief at the weapon, still clenched in her hand.

Horror contorted her face.

She cast the knife away from her as if it were an asp; it clattered and spun across the pristine marble floor.

The Steward gaped at the blood on her hand, and then down at Sestel’s body. The wail that erupted from the woman was as if her soul was being torn asunder.

She took a faltering step towards the crumpled form of the Princess, her shaking hands reaching out to touch the girl, but two guards intervened and seized her by the arms.

The pair looked ill at ease, clearly unsure as to what they should do next. Illiom understood their predicament: one of the two women they had been sworn to protect had just been slain by the other; nothing in their training had prepared them for this.

More guards rushed into the hall now. Illiom had moved away from the table without even realising it and someone jostled heavily against her, causing her to lose her balance momentarily and stumble backwards.

Through the throng she saw a guard down on her knees by the Princess’ side. The warrior’s face was drained of colour and she was trying to stem the flow of blood with her hands, but Illiom knew that this was a futile act.

She looked at Sestel’s eyes and was reminded of Wind’s last expression; like Scald’s Rider, her eyes were open, but could no longer see anything pertaining to this world.

The Princess of Evárudas was dead.

In no time at all, the dining hall was filled with Legion, and soon all the doors were heavily guarded. None could come or leave unchallenged. Illiom’s party had been largely left alone until now; nevertheless, Illiom drew a breath of relief when Fluxeine appeared, the only familiar face in this room full of strangers. Her arrival was timely, for Illiom had already noted a few speculative and mistrusting glances levelled in their direction by some of the soldiers.

The warrior took in the scene at a glance and then went directly to where the body of her Princess still lay. She felt for a pulse, caressed the girl’s forehead tenderly, and then gently pressed the lids down over the girl’s sightless golden eyes.

Fluxeine stood up again, her mien grim. At her command, those who had stood watch in the hall were brought to stand before her. She addressed them quietly, inaudible from this distance, and then listened to their accounts, nodding occasionally. Eventually she must have heard enough, for she dismissed them and turned towards the Chosen, still gathered near their table.

“You also witnessed Steward Iltiaran carry out this deed?” she asked bluntly when she was amongst them.

They confirmed what she had already heard. Fluxeine barely listened, however.

“And I am told that a warning was called out from your table, even before the attack took place?” she asked, but as she formulated her question she focused pointedly on Azulya.

“From you?” she asked directly.

“Yes,” Azulya said, nodding.

“What did you see that alarmed you?”

“I did not see anything,” she replied, pulling the pendant free of her vest. “But I do have this stone that seems to be endowed with qualities that I do not fully understand. One of its properties is that it grows hot in the face of deception. Today, just before the attack, it suddenly became intolerably hot; so hot in fact that it burned through my undergarment.”

She loosened her garments to reveal the evidence of burns on her clothes and upon her skin.

“This alerted me that something was amiss, but because of my ignorance I was not able to say what it was or what it meant until it was too late. I am so sorry that I could not do anything to prevent this atrocity.”

Fluxeine nodded. Reaching across to touch the stone with her own hand, she twirled it around in her fingers for a moment before letting it go.

“Very well, I see no reason to detain or delay you. It is clear that our Princess was slain by …” the Commander hesitated, momentarily overwhelmed, but, breathing deeply, she continued, “… the Steward herself. You are not at fault and the promise of an escort to Kuon still stands. I would personally advise you against lingering in Cevaram and truly, if it were possible, I would speed you off immediately. However, it is not, so you will leave with your detail in the morning, as arranged. That was Princess Sestel’s wish.”

“It was not Iltiaran,” Sereth said.

“What?” Fluxeine snapped, her eyes fixed hard upon the Chosen.

“Did you check to see if she was tainted?” Sereth continued, unruffled.

“She is not tainted, that was the first thing I checked. No black stone over her heart has caused her to do such a deed.”

“Then it is something else,” Sereth insisted. “This is new, something that we have not encountered before. This is even worse, more insidious than the taint, for it somehow came upon Iltiaran, claimed her, caused her to slay your Princess, and then left her again. I saw it leave; I saw your Steward’s grief and it was not feigned … I would wager my life that Iltiaran was not herself when she attacked the Princess. That monster lurking in Lodeh found a way of getting to her …” Sereth hesitated before adding, “… perhaps it can now get to any of us …”

Fluxeine held Sereth’s gaze for a long, silent spell.

“Sereth is right,” Azulya added. “If there had been any deception earlier, my pendant would have alerted me. Instead, it was cool before the attack and it also cooled down immediately afterwards.”

Fluxeine nodded slowly.

“Very well, I will take what you say into account,” she sighed. “But you should leave this hall now and return to your rooms. One word of advice - do not be seen wandering about the palace, alone. Many of our people will be in grief and suspicion will be rife everywhere.”

They were escorted from the dining hall to a common room near their quarters. Here they sat, guards posted at every entrance, unwilling for a time to address the tragedy they had witnessed.

Malco was the first to break the silence. Until that moment, he had been pacing up and down like a caged animal.

“How can we fight an enemy who can wear even the most trusted of faces?” he asked, pausing before one of the guards as if he was addressing her.

“What would we do if one of us was taken over? How would we fight that?”

The Legion woman looked at him dispassionately. No one responded.

“Am I the only one who is trying to get to the bottom of this?” he asked, raising his voice. “Am I the only one with the balls to try and face what just happened? Are we just going to let that aberration in Lodeh get away with this?”

“What is the use of yelling at us, Malco? We are on the same …” Azulya started.

“Oh, but are we really? How do we know that we are truly on the same side, when even now one of us could be falling under the spell of that thing in Lodeh?”

Azulya moved to placate Malco but he pushed right past her.

“What are we going to do? So much for the unity that Memester was talking about!” He sneered as he searched their eyes. “How can our group possibly reach unity, when at any given time any one of us can suddenly turn around and stick a knife into your belly? What hope in hel do we …”

“ENOUGH!”

Azulya sliced through Malco’s tirade like a gust of wind extinguishes a candle. Illiom was jarred to her teeth by that single word.

Malco gaped dumbfounded at the Kroeni.

“Enough,” Azulya repeated, more mildly. “Malco, we have all witnessed a terrible thing. That poor child’s life has been taken; all of her future days have been stolen from her. We have all been wounded by this attack. All frightened by it. It does not help anyone if we turn upon each other now … it would be like admitting defeat and laying our surrender at the Bloodrobes’ feet.”

Malco simply stared bewilderingly at Azulya.

“What did you do just then …?”

The descrier’s eyes stared back at him, cold, expressionless.

“Unity is far bigger than just a word, Malco. Greater even than just an ideal. Unity means to become as one, and we are still far from reaching that. When we do come together as one, that very oneness will inform the rest of us of any potential danger. We will all know, instantly, because that is what oneness means ... no separation, no difference, and no distinction between you and me …”

Malco blinked several times.

“But what did you …?

“Later, Malco!” Azulya snapped.

The Blade opened his mouth to protest but Azulya held up a hand.

“Not now, this is not the time to speak any further about this!” she said, and her tone admitted no discussion.

Illiom glanced at the rest of the Chosen.

Elan stood silently next to her Rider, her green eyes lost in some distant thought. Mist reached for her hand. His other hand gripped the pommel of his sword tightly.

Undina stared, devoid of expression, at the marble floor.

The main doors opened and Pell entered, followed by the Shieldarm and two members of the Legion.

Argolan looked at the faces of those gathered around the room.

The smile in her eyes died.

“What has happened?” she asked, pointedly looking at Tarmel.

She listened alertly as the Rider reported the details of Sestel’s assassination. Illiom had not seen the Shieldarm lose her equanimity before, but she did now. Argolan closed her eyes and seemed to shrink into herself. After a moment, she sat down in the nearest chair.

Malco, Sereth, and Scald gathered around the Shieldarm, discussing the possible implications of this development, but they did so in soft and subdued tones as the Riders stood around them, listening without contributing.

Illiom listened also, but distractedly, for it was all talk and speculation. She was far more interested in what Azulya had asked Malco not to speak of, for her shout had revealed - to Illiom at least - a quality that she had not known the Kroeni to possess. Azulya’s voice had held an irrefutable energy, a power that went beyond the quality of the sound itself. There had been command in the voice and it had been compelling. She resolved to ask the Kroeni about it, later, when circumstances allowed.

Just then, Scald raised a question that drew her attention away from her musings.

“Does anyone know what became of Memester?”

When no one answered, he pressed on.

“Does it not strike you as somewhat interesting that these beings, who are meant to protect and guide the realms, vanish into thin air the very moment things become challenging?”

“Are you questioning the Draca?” Elan asked.

Scald shook his head.

“No, but I am asking the question,” he countered. “Does it not strike you as peculiar? They are ageless, the legends around them hint at powers beyond mortal reckoning, and yet they appear to do nothing. Nothing but talk that is …”

“Your question is deserving of an answer,” a soft voice said.

Illiom’s head spun around to see the Draca standing in the doorway. Her cowl lay loose over her shoulders and her long, silver hair cascaded around it. Her mien was peaceful and she betrayed no sign of grief at the loss of the future Queen of Evárudas.

Scald stared at her, momentarily speechless, and took a step backwards.

“I did not mean to …”

“It is a fair question,” Memester interrupted. “Why indeed should the Draca not intervene, if it is truly in our power to do so?”

The Evárudani Draca took a few slow steps into the room.

“So I should tell you something that will stop you from relying upon abilities that are no longer available to us. Our time, the time of the Draca, is over.”

She allowed this announcement to linger before continuing.

“Our power and influence is well past its prime and is now fading by the day. The only powers we retain are subtle ones, such as the power to warn and to guide. And even then, the weight of all consequences and repercussions must be taken into account …“

“What of Sestel?” Malco asked, managing to push past his own shock at the Draca’s timely, if unexpected, appearance. “What happened to your power of warning with her? Did you know that this was going to happen? Did you not foresee this?”

Anger and recrimination dripped from the Blade’s every word, and his face twisted with pent up anger. Sereth began to say something appeasing, but Memester stopped him with a firm gesture.

She turned back to Malco.

“Did I know?” she asked evenly. “Did I know that Iltiaran’s hand would be the cause of Sestel’s death?”

Again, she waited for a breath before continuing.

“Yes, I did know.”

The Draca’s easy admission froze everyone in the room.

As Illiom stared at Memester, she felt her throat begin to tighten, choking her.

“I also know that Sestel’s death will bring a reprieve to the people of Evárudas. Had I or anyone else intervened to stay the evil that drove Iltiaran’s hand, it would have been at the expense of the Steward’s own life. Now the evil that claimed her has withdrawn and will not return; not here, not now …”

“Are you saying that you chose to sacrifice that young girl’s life in order to protect the Queendom and buy it more time?” asked Elan, her voice no more than a whisper.

“That is but a small part of it, yes,” the Draca ceded. “But there is so much more to it than that …”

“Such as?” snapped Malco.

Memester straightened as she turned to meet the Blade’s accusing tone. She did not answer immediately but looked at Malco, holding his gaze as she walked slowly towards him.

“At every turn of the Wheel there was only death in store for Sestel.” The Draca’s words were like nails of iron, forged upon the anvil of her will. They drove into Illiom with a finality that stole her breath away.

“The choice was never between the Princess’ life and her death. It was always, and only, a question of when and how. Through our silence and inaction, we chose the now over a later time, when she would still perish, along with all that she loved and held sacred, after having witnessed the complete demise of the things she treasured. We chose to let the girl die at a time when the flame of hope burned strong in her heart, not later when her soul would be lost in a despair worse than any of you can possibly imagine.”

Malco’s fury abated slowly, though it did not leave him completely. It still smouldered in his eyes but, for now at least, he contained it.

Azulya took a few steps towards the Draca.

“What should we do, then? What is the best course open to us?”

As Memester turned to face her, Illiom could see nothing in the Draca’s gaze of the power that had burned in her just a moment earlier.

“Continue as you are now ... follow the path you are on as it opens up before you. There is nothing else for you to do. To extend yourselves too far along possible future pathways will achieve nothing but to deflect your focus.”

“So if you cannot help us any further, why have you come here now?” Malco challenged.

The Draca looked at him, unruffled by his tone. A hint of a smile curled the corners of her lips.

“I came because you called me …” the Draca of Evárudas said softly. “I came to answer your questions and to put to rest the doubts that were already beginning to undermine your purpose.”

After a moment, Malco’s intensity drained away and he simply nodded.

“Memester, what is in store for Evárudas now that the Princess is dead?” Azulya asked. “Surely Iltiaran will not be trusted to steer the Queendom after what has happened …”

The Draca nodded.

“I will steer the Queendom’s course for the time being,” she said. “At least until such a time as the Council can deliberate a more permanent solution.”

Dinner that evening was an informal affair. Food was delivered to their quarters where it was consumed in silence. Afterwards, Illiom went straight to her room and to bed. She was bone-weary but sleep eluded her.

She knew that she should at least try to snatch every comfort, for the way ahead was becoming ever more perilous and uncertain. But each time she closed her eyes she saw the knife being driven into Sestel’s belly, again and again, the girl’s life being snuffed out by the one she trusted most.

She got up eventually and went out onto the balcony. There, she watched as a massive bank of storm clouds rolled in from the west to obliterate the stars, casting the world into a deeper darkness. Occasional flashes of lightning illumined the city around her with short-lived, ghostly glows.

Illiom’s mind wandered down the alleyways of recent memories, meeting people she had left behind to fend their own way through the gathering chaos. Had she remained alone in the mountains, would any of this have affected her?

She shivered.

That aloneness, that solitude she had endured and cherished for four years, was now completely abhorrent to her. The mere thought of war and devastation spreading across the land, unbeknownst to her, was an intolerable prospect. No, she knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be. As terrible as it all was, and as uncertain as the future seemed, she felt that she was at last accepting her life, not resisting it or fighting it, and neither was she hiding from it.

She knew that, given the opportunity to choose all over again, she would choose no differently.

Illiom arose the next morning as tired as she had felt the night before. Outside her room there was a bustle of activity, which grew as she made her way down towards the common room.

“Have you seen Tarmel?” she asked Elan, as the priestess emerged from her room, carrying her pack.

“I have not,” came her reply. “He may already be in the dining hall. That is where I am going; do you want to walk with me? I was just looking for Mist …”

The priestess found her Rider, and Illiom followed the pair through the palace’s lofty hallways.

Illiom spotted Tarmel the moment they entered the dining hall. He was standing next to one of the tall, narrow windows, looking out at the grey world beyond.

As she approached her Rider, Illiom saw that it was raining heavily outside. The whole of Cevaram was awash with it; the nearest buildings were the only structures visible in the downpour; the rest of the city seemed to have vanished into a haze of grey.

As she reached him, she laid her hand tentatively against his back.

“Tarmel, are you well?”

He turned at her touch and acknowledged her question with a small nod.

“Just thinking,” he added.

“About?” she prodded.

He responded with a soft snort and a shake of his head.

“Everything,” he offered. A moment later, he turned to look into her eyes. “Or maybe nothing ... it all amounts to much the same these days, does it not?”

Illiom frowned at his answer. This was not the Tarmel she had grown used to; something about her Rider was different.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Tarmel exhaled loudly.

“Memester has given me a glimpse into what it means to have vision. Until now, I have always deemed it a gift, but now it seems to me that the Draca may in fact be afflicted by a curse. The curse of seeing too much, of knowing too much, of having to make choices that no one else can possibly comprehend, because they do not share the same vision of reality.”

He turned to look at her and she saw that his eyes were moist.

“They must be the loneliest people alive …”

He shrugged, looking outside at the weeping world. He blinked several times and finally made a sound like a half-strangled laugh.

“To act was such an easy thing, Illiom. The training in the Ward was so simple: assess, discern, and act. That is the warrior’s way. Always in the moment … now I am no longer sure it is enough …”

He shook his head, took a deep breath, and turned to face her.

“I feel that a great wind is blowing, Illiom, one that is threatening to shatter all my training to pieces and to unravel who I am …”

But in the next moment his smile was back, and she recognised immediately that it was not a lie. The Rider’s training ran deep indeed. He had rolled with this attack upon his confidence and had bounced back to his feet, ready to throw himself into the fray once more.

Still, the whites of his eyes glistened.

After breakfast they gathered outside in the rain, in the palace forecourt, and there mingled with hundreds of Evárudani warriors who were assembling around the waiting chariots, making ready for departure.

The party of Chosen were eyeing one another questioningly, for no one had come to see them off or to wish them Godspeed, or to instruct them on what they were to do next. So Argolan stopped the first warrior who came along, explained their purpose to her, and asked for clarification. The young woman left to seek help.

She returned soon enough with another warrior, a woman with a strong jaw and prominent chin. The colour of her eyes reflected the grey clouds overhead.

She introduced herself curtly as Hannak, Wedge-leader with the Legion, and bade them follow her. They soon found themselves clambering onto Hannak’s chariots with all of their gear.

So the Chosen departed Cevaram, leaving unceremoniously by way of the same slender bridge they had crossed just two days earlier. Only now they were preceded, and followed, by the largest army that Illiom had ever seen. The Evárudani Legion gleamed in the downpour, forming a long, silver column that snaked away to be swallowed in the distance by haze and rain.

They did not stay on the road to Holack Harbour for very long at all, but left it within less than a league from the bridge, in favour of a lesser road that bore them westward.

Illiom clung to the railing as the chariot careened along the uneven surface, and clenched her teeth against the constant swaying and jarring that seemed inclined to fling them all headlong into the trees.

The road eventually descended into tracts of wild forest and she found herself searching the foliage for signs of the Qwa’kol. She saw nothing, other than the odd glimpse of the steel-grey expanse of the sea.

The horizon, now completely invisible in the rain and mist, gave her the impression that the water and the sky had fused together to become one.

“I think we are heading for the strait that separates Tersalan from the mainland,” Scald shouted over the din. “I have never been this way; I guess the ferries along the usual route must be bulging with traffic.”

“So how are we getting across?” Tarmel asked.

The Chosen pulled his sodden cape over his face and shrugged.

“I suspect we are about to find out.”

It took another hour of careening through the storm before they finally descended towards the western coast of the island. An improvised city of tents, numbering in the hundreds, lined a long, narrow band of grassland that separated the forest from the sea.

The rain was now relentless and being soaked was unavoidable. Dozens of rowboats bobbed in the shallows beyond the pebble beach, waiting for their cargos of warriors. Out in the cove, eight ships sat at anchor. A couple of them were identical to the Diamantine.

The Chosen and their party waded out towards the rowboats, as the skies opened up even more. The roar of the torrential downpour drowned out all other sounds, making speech impossible. The storm intensified as their rowboats drew up alongside one of the waiting ships.

With rain hammering down and thunder exploding overhead, Illiom climbed the ship’s netting and was helped over the railing.

As luck would have it, the hold was already full of chariots and warriors, so they had no recourse but to sit on the deck as the oarswomen eased the ship out for the slow journey across the strait.

It was a full three hours before they reached the mainland and it rained for that entire time. Disembarking, another lengthy process, stretched into the afternoon, but eventually they were in the chariots once more and speeding towards the town of Atlan.

Weary, drenched, hungry, and harbouring a heavy sense of dejection and futility, Illiom took an immediate dislike to the town. Its wooden buildings looked dark and dank, while the road that crossed its centre had become a river of mud and slush. Here they were led to a pair of sodden tents to bed down for the night. They ate a cold supper of Legion fare that Scald referred to as mouldy mud stew then they lay themselves down, wet and shivering, to while away the night before resuming their journey at daybreak.

The following morning Atlan did not look like a town at all. Instead, it looked exactly like what it had become: an army encampment, the staging ground for an invasion, albeit a friendly one.

Someone thrust a bowl of watery gruel into Illiom’s hands. She sniffed at it dubiously and tasted it. It had just one redeeming feature - it was hot – and that, more than anything else, persuaded her to eat it. She knew she needed to build up her reserves of energy for the day ahead.

Within the hour, they had boarded their chariots and were on their way again, travelling through pastoral and hilly country, a serene reprieve from the dense and tangled forests of Evárudas. The sky remained overcast but, mercifully, they were no longer pummelled by rain. The chariot ride was challenging enough without any further discomfort.

When the road allowed, Illiom could see the endless train of chariots, loaded with warriors and weapons, trailing into the distance. The road avoided the mountains rising out of the north, and seemed content with the gentle rise and fall of the undulating lands that stretched along the coast.

The coastline itself appeared or disappeared, entirely at the whim of the terrain. Illiom caught glimpses of high cliffs, tapering coves, and even an occasional stretch of narrow, black-sanded beach. Eventually a great promontory jutted out to sea and blocked their way, so the road finally abandoned the coast to plunge directly towards the mountains.

The climb, however, was not as steep as Illiom had initially feared. The road did its best to meander from valley to valley, following the beds of turbulent streams and snaking at the bottoms of gullies and ravines until, at last, it suddenly broke out onto the northern side of the peninsula and they had their first glimpse of the Besene Sea. With the mountains now to the south and safely behind them, they continued to make their way towards the Albradani border.

By nightfall, they reached the vicinity of the small village of Unter, and it was here they camped for the night. Their fire was one of many hundreds that burned around the small town that night, providing warmth and comfort and a short reprieve from the journey that still lay ahead.

Illiom, numb with fatigue and sapped of energy, sat staring into the flames, only half-listening to the Riders’ murmurings. In the end, she just lay down where she was, before the flickering flames, covered herself with a blanket and an oiled skin, and fell into a fitful sleep.

She awoke to find the fire reduced to a pile of ash-covered embers. A slender plume of smoke was all that escaped to rise into the still, grey morning air.

Thanks to Grifor and Pell’s efforts, they breakfasted on goose eggs, goat cheese, and good solid bread, before setting off again.

Illiom and Tarmel found themselves sharing a vehicle with Azulya and Argolan. Their driver, a well-muscled young woman endowed with what appeared to be a permanent sneer, grumbled about being overloaded but otherwise did not speak to them much during the first leg of their ride together.

The rest of the Chosen, their Riders, and the scholar Shrian, were spread between the three chariots that followed.

The road, straight as an arrow at first, soon became torturous as it wended its way through a steep cluster of barren hills. When it levelled out again and began its descent on the far side, Illiom saw signs of fortifications ahead: two black strongholds rose ominously, looming over the only road that connected Albradan to Evárudas.

“They are as old as time,” Tarmel answered her question about them. “Relics of the hostilities that plagued these lands during Dur Egon, the age before Theregon came into being.”

“Well they are sure to come in handy now,” commented their chariot driver. “This is where a large number of our forces will stop, to garrison these old forts. If the defence of Albradan fails in the north, then it is here that the Legion will make a stand and try to stop the Kroeni army from taking Atlan and using the peninsula as a springboard for invading Evárudas.”

“Let us pray that it does not come to that,” Argolan replied.

“Judging by the condition of those buttresses, your people will have their work cut out for them,” Tarmel commented. “You will need skilful engineers to reinforce that sorry lot.”

The chariot driver shrugged.

“That is men’s work and not really our concern. They will do what needs to be done.”

The actual crossing into Albradan was an uneventful affair that would have slipped by Illiom completely unnoticed had the driver not pointed out a worn and inconspicuous half-hidden sign that marked out the border’s location. This was as good a symbol as any, of the amicable relations that existed between the two realms.

Beyond the border, the road continued much as it had before; except now, with the Atlan Ranges safely behind them, the road meandered far less and their speed of travel picked up considerably.

But Illiom scarcely noticed this change. What consumed her attention now was the dark cloud that hung over all of the northern reaches. The more she looked at it, the more unease she felt.

“That looks like the same storm that hovered over the north when we left Kuon …” said Azulya, her comment cutting Illiom like a sharp blade, draining heat from her body.

“You are right, it is the very same.”

“No,” Tarmel countered. “Surely it cannot be … no storm can last for that long …”

“Normally I would agree with you,” the Kroeni replied, “Yet if this is a different storm, it has the very same quality as the other, and I have never seen such darkness in any cloud before …”

“It is also a lot bigger …” Argolan mused.

They spoke no more of the storm and rode on, but Illiom was unable to tear her gaze away from the ominous darkness looming directly ahead.

A few hours later, Illiom squinted ahead at what appeared to be a distant town. The hills and the woods had given way to a stretch of grassy plains that offered an unhindered view of the coast and the Besene Sea. As they came nearer, she suddenly knew what she was looking at.

“Which ruins are they?” she asked.

“Tevlas,” Argolan answered, and then, seeing Illiom’s expression, she added, “Do not be concerned, Illiom ... the road gives them a wide berth.”

Illiom watched as the ancient ruins gradually drew nearer. She could not help but stare at them, as if by doing so she might somehow divine their deeper mysteries.

It was then that she saw something moving amongst the molten structures. She peered more intently but could not make out what it was; it seemed something akin to the mirages that appear in the distance on hot days. The lowest part of the ruins appeared to be expanding, elongating and spreading onto the nearby land.

“What is that?” she asked, when she was certain that something was indeed stirring amongst the ill-fated structures.

“What is what?” the driver questioned.

Suddenly, Illiom realised what she was seeing. The ruins were not moving - it was something else - a herd of animals perhaps?

Whatever they were, the creatures were racing out of the ruins, directly towards the road ahead. Yet she still could not make out what they were; too fast and squat to be horses or cattle, and yet far too large to be wolves.

Up ahead, a horn sounded, deep and ominous.

“What does that mean?” Azulya demanded.

The horn blast was picked up by others, nearer, louder.

“That we are under attack,” their driver explained.

The swarming mass had reached the road and, where it met with the Legion’s chariots, there seemed to be an explosion. Bodies were flung into the air, horses reared, and chariots were overturned. She saw the flash of weapons as the Legion met the onslaught.

Suddenly, everything happened at once. They had been moving quickly toward the chaos up ahead but the driver, following the lead of the chariot in front, veered off the road onto the expanse to their left, away from the ruins and the attacking creatures.

Glancing behind her, Illiom saw that others were following their lead. Yet others still, perhaps following some predetermined strategy, diverted to the right and careened directly for the ruins themselves.

Illiom was tossed to and fro as they hurtled along but, instead of slowing, the driver spurred the horses on to even greater speed and, to Illiom’s horror, after tracing a wide arc, turned directly towards the battle.

Their chariot sped past the area where the brunt of the attack had taken place. Here, scattered and strewn about, lay the broken bodies of women, horses, and damaged chariots, as well as the corpses of their attackers. The battle had already moved on as the creatures had split into two groups. One pursued the soldiers headed towards the ruins, while the other swept around in a great curve and was now barrelling back across the field, directly towards them.

In a blur of speed, her chariot banked sharply.

Illiom heard Argolan shout, but the Shieldarm’s words were lost in the incredible clamour that now enveloped them.

She saw the enemy clearly for the first time.

Their likeness to wolves was uncanny, but wolves they were definitely not. Their thick, black fur and hind legs were like a wolf’s, but they were far too tall, as high as a man’s waist. The head, too, had a lupine-like, elongated snout, but the face and eyes - these were eerily human.

With a screech that made Illiom’s knees buckle, one of the creatures made directly for their chariot and leapt.

Hatred, fear, and madness blazed in the creature’s eyes. As its front legs came up, Illiom saw that its paws were in fact huge, calloused hands, with talons for fingers that looked capable of shredding anything that came within their grip.

While in mid-leap, three arrows pierced the creature‘s side. It twisted with a hideous shriek and crashed against the side of their chariot, almost overturning it.

Looking back, Illiom saw the creature collapse in a writhing, howling heap in the long grass.

Argolan was yelling at their chariot driver.

“Back away! Take us back!”

But the woman holding the reins seemed completely oblivious to the order. In a co-ordinated action, all the chariots around them turned simultaneously and charged into battle once again. To their credit, they never entered into the full brunt of the fighting, but rather, came within javelin range.

The creatures, however, were agile as well as fast. Illiom saw several successfully duck or side-step missiles that were aimed directly at them, a feat that no human could accomplish.

The attack continued with mindless abandon. Illiom watched as some of the monsters seized fallen javelins and swords from the battlefield. Using the Legions’ own weapons, one managed to skewer the driver of the chariot alongside theirs, whilst another decapitated the unfortunate warrior who tried to wrest the reins that her comrade had let fall.

The crashing and din of combat were overwhelming.

“Look out!”

Illiom turned.

One of the beasts was almost upon her.

She fell backwards onto the chariot’s platform with a frightened cry, the only thing that probably saved her.

Their driver was not so fortunate. The claws raked across her back, tearing through leather armour and skin, rending muscle, and exposing bone. Tarmel and Argolan grappled with the monster. Between them, they delivered crippling wounds to its side and the creature lost its hold of the chariot’s railing.

As it fell away, the Legion warrior on the chariot immediately behind them landed the deathblow that sliced its throat wide open. As the creature fell with a gurgle of pain, a gush of dark blood sprayed from the wound, drenching the woman’s arm.

The warrior screamed.

Where the blood touched her arm, the skin fell away in strips, leaving behind raw flesh and convulsing muscle. She lost consciousness, while her entire arm continued to shrivel and wither until nothing remained but a thin and blackened stump that ended just below the elbow. It was merciful that she had passed out, but the poor girl’s screams continued to ring in Illiom’s mind.

Around them, the battle raged.

Even though more chariots continued to arrive and join the fray, the creatures – despite being hopelessly outnumbered – fought on until none remained standing.

Tarmel gathered up the reins of their vehicle and pulled on them until their horses came to a halt.

The entire area, between the ruins of Tevlas and the road, was now strewn with the debris of combat and the bodies of the dead and dying.

A dreadful silence descended, one that held the imprint of a thousand screams.

Illiom pulled herself up from where she had collapsed and stood, trembling, leaning against the railing for support. It was only then that she saw their own driver lying face up in the grass, eyes open but empty. Illiom looked away from the terrible rends in her armour and from the sight of the woman’s organs spilling out onto the earth.

Tarmel walked from corpse to corpse, human and inhuman alike, searching for any signs of life then either calling for help or plunging his blade into dying flesh.

Others all over the field were doing the same.

The Chosen and their Riders gathered by the side of the road.

“None of our own has died,” Argolan announced. “Even amongst the Legion, there are more wounded than dead.”

The Shieldarm had received a long gash down her sword arm – nothing terribly serious, she insisted, but her arm was caked in blood and her face was covered in dust and sweat. There were other injuries as well. Sereth was bruised and battered as a result of his chariot overturning, Malco had a nasty cut on his head and blood trickled down his face like tears, but he had no recollection of how he had acquired his wound. Undina had also been hurt: her arm hung in a most unnatural way and she grimaced with pain when a healer tried to inspect it.

Grifor had suffered two wounds, one to the right leg and the other to her side. She sat on a destroyed chariot, her mouth a grim line as she tried to blink the pain away.

Pell had been sprayed with the blood from one of the creatures. Luckily, the droplets had been small and had not caused too much damage; even so, the skin around his neck and left arm was red and blistered.

There were several other lesser injuries, fortunately all inconsequential.

“What they be?” Undina asked. The Pelonui looked very pale, fear making her look younger than she was. A Legion healer worked on her arm, gently setting it right and then bandaging a splint tight against it.

“Kresh,” answered Pell.

“They were not!” Angar scoffed. “Kresh are nothing but stories to frighten little children. These things were very real.”

Pell shrugged indifferently.

“Do you have a better name for them?” asked the giant Rider. “They looked like Kresh to me.”

“Whatever they were,” Tarmel muttered, “they are no more ... for now anyway.”

He surveyed the battlefield.

Legion soldiers were scattered across the area, tending to the wounded and carrying bodies to newly arrived chariots.

Down the road, back in the direction of Atlan, there was a congestion of forces as warriors and their equipment continued to arrive. Illiom saw that a few tents had already been erected there, probably for the benefit of the wounded.

“They came out of the ruins,” speculated Scald, looking at the dark structures with a frown. “How did they get there in the first place?”

Azulya nodded thoughtfully.

“Good question; there is nowhere to hide in the ruins, there are no intact structures …”

Just then, something occurred to Illiom.

“Surely, the only shelter that could be found within the ruins would be that provided by their reputation. If I am correct in my understanding, no one much cares to venture into them …”

Argolan nodded.

“Yes, but I agree with Scald; where did they come from before they were in the ruins? And how did they make their way there without being seen?”

“Could they have killed everyone who saw them?” ventured Elan.

Argolan narrowed her eyes.

“I doubt that very much; they would have left a trail of some kind … they did not look terribly bright to me.”

Pell stood up, reattaching his scabbard and sword to his belt.

“Let us go and take a look,” he said, turning to walk towards Tevlas.

“Are you mad?” Scald called after him, recovering a little of his former fire. “What if there are more of those things hiding in there?”

The Rider shrugged disinterestedly.

“I hope there are,” he replied, his tone dark.

“Pell, wait,” Argolan called, and the Rider stopped but did not turn to look back.

“If we are to go,” the Shieldarm continued, “and I do agree that we should, let us do it properly. Go and gather an escort first.”

Pell nodded and headed towards the nearest group of Evárudani warriors.

Soon Illiom, Azulya, Elan, and Malco, together with Tarmel, Mist, Pell, and the Shieldarm, headed together towards the ruins. An escort of several chariots and mounted warriors of the Legion accompanied them.

Grifor, too, had wanted to come but Argolan had forbidden it, sending her instead to have her wounds seen to by the Legion’s healers in the chirurgeon’s tent.

Even though well protected, the party approached the ruins with great caution. All eyes were fixed on the remains of the ancient buildings, in readiness for another onslaught.

None came.

Tevlas was once more deserted.

Illiom looked at the molten forms of the buildings and remembered the vision of the ancient cities that Menalor had allowed the Chosen to see, during their first meeting with the Draca. It was hard to imagine that these black, vitreous remains had once been a vibrant and beautiful city.

Tevlas, like Akta, smacked of a land that was cursed.

“Well, at least they have left some traces of their passing,” Mist said, indicating a few piles of droppings. “Whatever they are, they defecate,” he pronounced, with a measure of satisfaction.

“How do you know it was them?” Elan asked.

Mist snorted.

“Does that look like cow-dung to you?”

“Anyway, who else would come into the ruins to shit?” Malco threw in, dryly.

Tarmel made a sound somewhere between a splutter and a laugh, but offered no comment.

When they reached the centre of Tevlas, they all stopped at the edge of what had once been the city’s central square. They stared and, for a time, no one spoke.

Azulya was the first to break the silence.

“I suppose this is an answer of sorts …”

The centre of the square had sunk into the earth by a depth of several spans. They were looking at a perfectly circular depression, similar to a crater. It was filled with a black liquid. Illiom had no idea what the liquid was – it might even have been water – but she was clear about one thing: she would not be venturing any closer to find out. The pool reeked of decay and danger.

Mist voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“What is it?”

No one spoke.

“Look,” Pell pointed at something. “There, and there also … tracks. Coming out of the pool, do you see them?”

Illiom looked to where he was pointing. They walked around the perimeter of the pool, although no one went anywhere near the liquid’s edge. Apparently, everyone else felt much the same way about it as Illiom did.

She saw them: wet, black prints of clawed feet and hands, where they had emerged from the pool. Some were still visible, although many more must have dried.

Malco shook his head.

“This does not answer any of my questions.”

He spat on the ground to underscore his frustration.

“I wish Kassargan was here,” Illiom murmured.

There was no doubt in her mind that this pool was the product of some magical power, but a very different question now stirred in her heart. What chance did they have against powers such as this?

She made herself pull back from the brink of that well, for it led only to fear and despair.

“Whoever or whatever created this,” Elan said, “they used the ruins to send those abominations against us …”

“If they can do it here …” Illiom started, but her voice failed her.

She looked at those gathered around her, watching as the same conclusion dawned upon them as well.

They left the ruins and made their way back to the Legion’s makeshift encampment. Once there, they wasted no time. Argolan sought out the Wedge-leader, Hannak, and related to her what they had discovered.

“We should let everyone know what happened here as quickly as possible. If it has happened here, it can happen elsewhere. All of the ruins should now be regarded as potential enemy outposts.”

With her next breath, Argolan asked Hannak for two horses. When the Wedge-leader began to protest, the Shieldarm countered immediately.

“I must send word of this to our Wardmaster. There are ruins on top of Varadon’s Keep, and he must be informed before … anything like this happens there also.”

The Wedge-leader’s protests ceased immediately and she quickly commandeered the two horses that Argolan had requested.

The Shieldarm turned and limped back towards the Chosen.

“Where is Tarmel?”

“Here,” he answered, rising to his feet from where he had been rummaging in his saddlebag.

“Take these mounts and go to the Keep. When you get to Saryam’s Gate tell them to send, immediately, as many Bows and Blades as can be spared, to surround Akta. Then go directly to Menphan Tarn, inform him of what has happened here. He will know what to do from there. Now go, and do not stop until you get there.”

Illiom stepped forward.

“I will go with him,” she said, but Argolan shook her head.

“No, Illiom, you will not. Both horses are for Tarmel. He has to travel with speed and, sorry, but I have seen you ride; you will not be able to keep up. He is going alone and you are coming with the rest of us.”

She turned and limped away and Illiom knew that nothing she could say would change the Shieldarm’s mind. Besides, she knew that Argolan was right.

She looked on as Tarmel mounted.

He turned to her and nodded grimly. He held her gaze for a long moment before turning away. With a shout of encouragement, he spurred his mounts down the road at a full canter.

Illiom watched him go until he was out of sight.

The Chosen and the remaining Riders quickly regrouped and set out at speed towards Kuon, riding in three chariots. It did not take them long to reach the rear of the forces that had been spared from the brunt of the attack. Now, however, the Legion’s presence on the road forced them to slow down once more.

A warrior in the lead chariot cleared their way by issuing a series of conch-shell blasts each time the road ahead was blocked. They made good progress in this way, and Illiom peered ahead in the hope of seeing Tarmel but, of course, there was no sign of him. He was long gone.

The horn tactic served them well until they passed a turnoff leading east, towards Healung, the Albradani main harbour town. Here they encountered a new and much more challenging obstacle: a column of people all travelling towards the capital.

“Refugees ...” Scald groaned, catching Illiom’s eye. “This will grind us down to a crawl ...”

This column responded much more slowly to the horn blasts, hampering the Legion’s advance considerably. In the next hour, the numbers had swollen to fill the road completely and their progress became increasingly difficult. The very old and the very young, the pregnant and the infirm; these were crammed onto painfully slow wains or carts, where they jostled for space with their scant belongings and cages filled with fowl or piglets.

The vast majority of people were on foot. Children tugged at their mothers’ skirts or sat upon their fathers’ shoulders.

All too soon, their plight began to weigh upon Illiom’s heart: so many people fleeing, trudging towards the unknown, bearing with them the few possessions they were able to snatch up and carry. Their grim and downcast looks revealed the depth of despair that prevailed amongst them. Misery and fear lay heavily upon them and many of their children, sensing this, wailed inconsolably.

She looked around at her companions.

Azulya stared stoically ahead and Pell was cursing under his breath.

“Rumour spreads fast,” Azulya commented. “Tales of the ancient wars still strike terror in the hearts of even the bravest.”

The refugees were making for the only sanctuary they knew: the impregnable bastion of Varadon’s Keep. They were hoping against hope that they would find safety there, that Queen Eranel would protect them.

What would they say if they knew that their own Queen was dying, probably the very first victim of the same evil that was, even now, clamouring at the gates of the realm?

Illiom, too, was eagerly looking forward to returning to Kuon. Even to her, Varadon’s Keep seemed like a safe haven, a place of refuge, where they could at last be delivered from the trauma they had recently endured.

They continued on their journey, but very soon it became abundantly clear that something other than a conch-shell would be needed if they were to reach Kuon with any kind of speed.

“Best if two of us go ahead on horseback and clear the road,” Argolan called out from the lead chariot when they were forced to pull up and wait for the third time.

She negotiated with the Wedge-leader and was granted two more horses. Angar and Pell took up the task and rode ahead, spurring the column of refugees to the side of the road to make way for the bulk of the party coming up behind them.

One of the Legion warriors, who had been forced to surrender her mount, climbed onto Illiom’s chariot, taking Tarmel’s place. The young woman looked furious at having had her horse commandeered, but she said nothing and stood with her arms folded, staring stoically at the road ahead.

By the time they reached the town of Harma, Iod had begun his final descent into the west and had spilled a vat of indigo across the sky. The cloud to the north loomed closer now, the ominous darkness adding to the fearful atmosphere. They stopped to consider their options.

All the accommodation in Harma was spoken for, and many had simply drawn their carts to the side of the road for the night. Even here in the town the atmosphere was one of rampant fear and suspicion.

“I do not want to spend any more time here than we must,” muttered Scald, and it did not require a seer to realise that his was the view of the majority.

To aggravate things, as they weighed their options a steady rain began to fall, further dampening body and spirit.

“Oh, to Hel with this! Why not press on?” Malco cussed. “We will make Kuon before dawn, then all this nonsense will be over.”

Argolan nodded.

“I agree.”

The Shieldarm looked around for a moment before turning to Elan’s Rider.

“Mist, see if you can get some lanterns and oil in the village. Offer money first, and threats second, if coin is not enough to sway them, but only if you must. Be sure to pay for anything that you take.”

Mist nodded, caught the pouch that Argolan tossed to him, and sped away in the direction of the houses.

“Of what use are the lanterns?” questioned Elan.

“No use to us, but they will make us more visible to others,” Argolan explained.

“If only we still had our horses,” Malco complained, shaking his head.

“Yes, well, we do not, so there is no point in wishing for it, is there?” Scald snapped.

Malco gave Scald a blank look then turned away with a dismissive shrug.

We are all tired, Illiom thought. The sooner we get to the capital, the better.

It was well past the first hour when they finally reached the crossroad that gave birth to the Serp, the only access to Varadon’s Keep and the Albradani capital, and here they stumbled upon another, much larger obstruction. The inn and the handful of houses that serviced the crossroad were swamped with people. Amidst a cacophony of shouts and calls, cries of children, and the implorations of frightened mothers, Pell and Angar made their way back to Argolan’s chariot.

“The Ward is stopping everyone,” Pell shouted over the din of the crowd. “They are letting through only a trickle of people at a time …”

This blockade had created a bottleneck, and the tide of refugees swelling up against it had filled the hamlet to overflow. The party of the Chosen found itself surrounded by exhausted, terrified, and bedraggled people who stood in the rain and waited to be allowed up to the Keep’s promise of sanctuary. The distance between them and the Blades who blocked the way was not great, but it was so packed with people that it might as well have been ten leagues.

“We cannot get through that,” Elan announced. “We will have to camp nearby until morning …”

Argolan shook her head.

“It will be even worse by then. You saw how many people were on the road. This crowd could triple in number if we wait.”

The Shieldarm caught the attention of the nearest Evárudani warrior and pointed to the woman’s conch shell.

“Blast that thing like you have never done before,” she instructed and, turning towards the other Legion warriors behind her, she yelled, “You too, blast those horns and form a tight formation! Let there be no gap between the horses and the chariots in front of them.”

She indicated to Pell and Angar to press on and open a passage through the crowd. The chariot lurched slowly forward.

“Make way!” Pell and Angar shouted at the back of the crowd as the conch behind them began to blare. “Make way or be trampled!”

That turned heads.

People cursed at them and screamed, but they also began to move aside. Slowly, painstakingly, a pathway began to form. The Riders continued to yell and to threaten and the conches blasted their deafening warnings. But those dislodged by this advance grew angry. They began to shout insults and abuse. Argolan paid them no heed. In the very midst of the dense crowd, they found themselves suddenly stuck. The people closest to the chariots were still trying to get out of the way, but those further ahead began to force them back, fury burning in their eyes at what they perceived as a privileged few pushing ahead of the rest.

The crowd swarmed like a tide, pressing back and immobilising them.

The Riders and the Legion warriors drew their weapons then, threatening anyone who tried to clamber onto the chariots. Little by little, span by span, in stops and starts, they fought their way forward, until at last they reached the barricade of Blades who regulated the traffic beyond.

Here they were challenged, but were let through the moment Argolan was identified as a Shieldarm.

As they passed through the roadblock, a Rider handed Argolan a flag bearing the symbol of a red hound at full canter.

“The ones seeking refuge have been instructed to stay on the left side of the road. The right side is reserved for the Ward’s exclusive use, so hoist this onto your leading chariot and no one will stop you until you reach Saryam’s Gate.

Argolan passed the flag to Grifor who secured it to a lance which she fastened to the side of the chariot. Then, for the first time in a seemingly long while, the chariots approached the Keep at full speed. As Illiom watched, the dark mass of the plateau emerged gradually from the gloom ahead.

It was still raining, though not as heavily as earlier. Nevertheless, Illiom braced herself for the climb. Daunting as it was, even in the light of day, it now seemed to her nothing short of suicidal. The dark, the rain, and the hordes vying for refuge; all of these combined to create conditions that courted disaster at every turn.

Still, there was no choice, and they began the long climb. At every elbow of the Serp a large fire had been set ablaze, and Blades stood watch, keeping the line of refugees from swelling out of proportion. The fires went some way towards shedding a modicum of light upon the road, and helped the refugees to find their footing and to keep clear of the edge. Inwardly, Illiom praised whoever had been responsible for this foresight.

It felt like an eternity, but eventually they crossed the drawbridge and stepped into Saryam’s Gate where, like everyone else, they waited until they too could be screened for signs of the taint.

Yet even this final obstruction did not dilute the relief that Illiom felt at the proximity to Eranel’s Palace. She mused that it was almost like the relief of one returning home.

Almost.