The mud isn’t so bad, Awelah thought. Slippery, sure, and the ground at times tries to suck her in. But traveling near-blind through a forest at night, the mud just made you careful. She could cope.

What Awelah hates are the roots and vines that crawled underfoot. She couldn’t see them, could barely feel them before they tripped up her next step and sent her tugging on the nymph she was hanging off of like an invalid.

Was Makuja always this strong? Vesperbane nymphs are stronger than they look, Awelah knew that much from trying to spar against her older cousins. But Makuja hadn’t been a vesperbane for years. The longer this goes on, the more Awelah is unable to walk from pain and exhaustion, leaning on Makuja more and more, and yet the red nymph is supporting Awelah as if her weight is barely a burden. Awelah doesn’t know if she herself could do that, roles reversed, and she’s bigger, years older.

There’s a lot to learn, this close to Makuja. Awelah now knew of at least five places she hadn’t expect the red nymph to keep knives, easily and instinctively accessed in the face of a threat — though she’s not sure why she even bothers emptying her hands, at this point. Each reaction is subtle, yet unmistakable. Tensing, readying her hands with small, obscure motions — yet her breathing remains steady, her antennae don’t jolt in surprise, her head doesn’t spin around searching. Awelah holds her tightly enough to feel her pulse, though, and it spikes like a drum each time.

Sometimes, Awelah knows what sets her off — the calls of an owl, or the silent sight of it swooping down on a rat or beetle. A frog leaping from a puddle, the reflective glint of light against a huge snailfly’s reflective wing-shell, a snakepit Awelah almost trips into before Makuja pulls her to the side. Once, they almost walk into the meter wide web of a huge spider — that was enough to get a gasp out of the cool red nymph.

Other times, though, Makuja reacts and Awelah doesn’t know what she’s missing, can only imagine some unknown bump in the night. She almost asks. Then she scowls, and remains silent.

She hasn’t noticed Makuja react to anything new in a while when Awelah’s startled by her voice.

“Torches ahead.” Cool and hunter-like.

Pigment returns to Awelah’s pale eyes. She wasn’t drifting off — she was just as alert as Makuja.

When she looks, the light in the distance isn’t hard to find.

Awelah thinks for a second, and says, “Too tall to be ants.”

Small relief surges at that. They’d both agreed it’s safer to avoid the rendezvous point, looping around Wisterun to try their luck at another gate. This had almost doubled the length of their route back, and the woods aren’t forgiving terrain.

“Wait here,” Makuja says. “I’ll investigate.”

“No. I’m coming with you.”

“You’re asleep on your feet.”

“They’re mantids, have to be. Laybugs. They’ll be more scared if there’s two of us, and if there’s any threat, intimidation is our first line of defense.”

“If your clumsy steps alert them,” Makuja says, “I’ll let you face them alone.”

By now, the two of them face southeast, having hit upon one of the trampled trails leading out of Wisterun, following it back. They judged that the incoming mantids were coming west from Wisterun, walking up a nearby fork of the trail.

Makuja’s plan has them angle southwest for interception. They slip through the undergrowth, given cover by night, to wait behind metataxites for the mantids to walk by.

Feet coated with enervate, Makuja simply walks up the metataxite, perching on a shelf-like outgrowth. She’s high up enough no laybug would have the awareness to spot her. Awelah couldn’t do that, so she lays down on the cool ground, draping her cloak over her. It’s black enough to pass as a shadow if she were fully covered.

But Awelah can’t resist peeking. It’s quiet for minutes until they hear the footsteps, and then they’re in sight. Two torchbearers wear undyed plainclothes, and crude mallets strapped to their sides. Random citizens drawn into the night watch? Doesn’t explain why they’re here, though.

The mantis walking between them, following behind, wears garb with a finer cut, buttons and clasps gleaming metal. He wore a dress with suspenders and many trailing ribbons — and he’s familiar.

Tiredly, the three pass by Awelah before she realizes: this is one of the townsfolk they met just earlier today. This one had ambushed them outside the town hall, had asked to talk with Awelah about the Duskroot attack.

No signal is shared. Makuja just drops out of the taxite and strikes a silent, enervate-muffled landing. Awelah’s scrambling to her feet, shaking the dirt off her cloak. She’s nowhere near as silent, branches creaking and bushes shaking as she surges forward. The bugs all turn around. Two raptorial forelegs reach for weapons, while the third mantis startles and flinches back a step.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Fear and threat holds the faces of the night watch mantids, but the tiercel smiles the more he peers at them. The very same smile Awelah remembers from before, when he spoke like he knew exactly who Team Duskborn were — like he knew too much.

“Ah, isn’t it just, just the nymphs we’re looking for. Awelah and… Makuja, was it?”

Awelah doesn’t care that her mandibles show. She opens her raptorials, and asks, “Why were you looking for us?”

He raises to raptorials, folded inward, and gives placating pushes. “Call it an anonymous tip. I was told you three would be out, out looking for trouble tonight. And by that haggard look, I dare to think you’ve found it. Say, where is the third, third member of our group?”

“Perhaps you should start explaining,” Makuja says, stepping forward, as if to partially interpose herself between Awelah and the well-dressed tiercel. “If you meant us harm, you would not be the first friendly face to betray us.”

“Glad you find me friendly, heh!” It’s a brittle smile. “But no, my intent here is entirely, entirely benign. That anonymous tip told me you would be in danger, and I meant only to help, I assure you! No betrayal, not in the slightest.” He looks to his left, and then to his right. “Vesperbanes, I imagine, get into quite dire straits, perhaps too dire for two night watchbugs to help — but it’s the best I can muster.”

He nudges one of the bugs, neither of which had realized their weapons would be of little use against vesperbanes. The one just nudged then nods. A mantis of yellowish complexion, she speaks with the tight, high voice of a countrymant. “Right, just as Karatikale said. Is there anything we can do to lend aid?”

Makuja glances back at Awelah, but rather than answering them, she looks back at Karatikale. “Who gave you the tip? Was it an ant?”

“Oh, ‘twas through written correspondence, so there’s no telling. Though, I’m given to believe, believe that spinner ant writing have a… distinctive style, one my informant certainly lacks. Anything’s possible, though!”

Makuja doesn’t relax, and her eyes track to the two night watch, as if sizing them up.

“You wound me with this distrust.” Another brittle smile.

She doesn’t reply. She looks back at Awelah. “What do you think?”

Awelah takes her time to respond, genuinely thinking it through. “Can’t see an angle for this to be the weaver’s plot, or anyone else. I’d kill to know who that informant was, but he doesn’t even know.” Awelah sighs, and it sounds so tired. She looks at Karatikale. “Only things we need help with are getting back to Wisterun, and getting a message to Yanseno.”

“What about our teammate?” Makuja asks quietly.

Awelah shakes her head. “They can’t do anything about it. No use telling them, just in case this somehow is a plot and they go tell an enemy. If they tell Yanseno just what they saw” — two members of Team Duskborn without the third — “he can figure out the rest.”

Makuja nods once, then her head snaps around to give Karatikale an intense look. “Speaking of that… why didn’t you tell Yanseno? Why aren’t we speaking to him in your stead?”

Karatikale cringes, and shrugs. “We couldn’t, ah, find him? We went asking, when we checked the inn and confirmed you weren’t there. Yanseno still, still hasn’t gotten back, they said.”

“The hierophant asked for his help,” Makuja notes. “Perhaps he’s still assisting her.”

“That must be it.” His antennae curl up. “Hope he’s done soon, heh.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Nervous? I’m right terrified, haha! Outside the town walls at night, with vesperbanes and spinner ants on the hunt, and a new direbeast howling in the distance? Why, one might just catch their death out here!” He flinches back at that, as if afraid of the very possibility he outlined.

Makuja nods. “We would like to return to Wisterun. An escort is within your abilities, yes? My friend here is injured. One of you should be able to carry her.”

Awelah scowls, “I don’t—”

“Refuse it if you like. I will not help you walk any further. If you can get there of your own power, prove it.” The red nymph peers skeptically at the pale nymph.

It’s understandable: Awelah is swaying on her feet. (So much for intimidation.) The bigger of the two night watches steps forward now, hesitant. Makuja nods at her, and the yellow mantis moves to sweep Awelah off her feet. She grouses, but is too weak, and too aware of her exhaustion, to fullheartedly resist. She’s deposited on the imago’s back, saddled between their lower thorax and abdomen.

“Before we part ways, can I ask that we meet again tomorrow? I’d like to discuss tonight’s events.”

“Why, exactly, are we parting ways?” Makuja regards the tiercel.

His antennae twist. “Oh, there’s other bugs out there who need our help — the other member of your team, the ants you mentioned.”

“But…” Something’s bothering Awelah, and she’s almost too tired to articulate it. “Why are you here? Why not send the night watch alone? You’re just a, you’re just a laybug.”

Karatikale smiles. “Oh, haven’t I mentioned? I’m a writer. I intend to be the one to put this news to page and inform the town — a journalist, if you would.”

Awelah has another question, and she thinks she asks it. It’s last thing she remembers, she doesn’t remember if she got a response.

----------------------------------------

She doesn’t remember moving, or getting through the town gate at night, or navigating the streets by torch. The next thing Awelah’s aware of is Makuja shaking her, and when she finally growls for her to “Stop it, stop it, get off me,” she finds they are in their room in the inn.

The floors are dirt but seem now even dirtier with their arrival. Awelah’s lost her cloak and two of her shirts (Makuja’s doing? checking her bandages?) and she finds she lies on a bed.

“Calm down. I would have let you sleep, but you should see this.”

Awelah rolls to her side and then climbs up so she’s sitting on her folded legs. “What is it?”

“A note. It was under my pillow.”

She pushes a page so that it fills Awelah’s focused vision. Fancy white pages, fine, ichorborne parchment. Not euvespid chewed wood, or fungal substitutes. The ink is black written in a flowing, aristocratic style. There’s not much of it, only a few sentences and a huge signature embellished with stylized thorns and vines.

> We thank you for your cooperation. We have such grand plans for Wisterun, and you have already been just so helpful in their fruition.

>

> Until next you serve,

>

> Miss C.

“You know anyone who could be called... Miss C?”

Makuja shakes her head.

“I think,” Awelah starts… she scowls, but manages to say it: “You might have been right. Maybe there is someone, an enemy, behind the scenes.”

The red nymph doesn’t look happy to be right. “Perhaps. But… they will have to take on us both.” It’s not quite a question, the way she ends the statement, but she’s searching for something on Awelah’s face. Not finding it, she asks explicitly. “Did you mean it, earlier?”

“What?”

“That we’re allies, in this together?”

“Do you think I lied to you in the heat of battle? Of course I meant it. We’re not backing down. We’re going to get Ooliri and Quessa back, we’re gonna stop the direhound, and we’re going to take on whatever the One Who Shapes the Sky and this Miss C bug has in store for us. We’re gonna win, do you know why?”

Makuja quirks an antennae, but doesn’t venture an answer.

“Because we’re Duskborn.”

Makuja smiles, though there’s hesitation there. “We’ll make them suffer.”

And then they’re both smiling.

“But first… maybe we do need to sleep.”

“Wake me up, if you need to leave the room. I set traps.”

The red nymph is shedding her bags, and a layer of clothes before climbing into bed. Makuja wears an undershirt with dots and feathery lines, and something about that is funny to Awelah.

The pale nymph, meanwhile, she just falls over and rolls back into position. She stays up, just a few more moments to see and hear Makuja go to bed, and then she’s out.

That night, as they sleep, a gunshot rings out in the far distance, but, too low to disturb them, they only dream of Yanseno, arquebus in his grasp, slaying the monster that had hunted them for so long, standing steadfast against the new monsters that crowd around them.

Above the town of Wisterun, vast and dark clouds amass to obscure the stars and moon, and to the east, the black surface of a great lake is roiling.

Tomorrow, it will rain.

End of Arc 3: A Wisterun Welcome