IV.

See how they gather, Krachnis said. You doubted me in Westerbrook, but here you can see the darkness in their hearts.

The group fanned out before Ash was hardly the unruly mob Krachnis imagined them to be. A few people stared, transfixed by his words. Some of those would be shëlls--those humans who had given themselves to Krachnis. They believed so fully in Krachnis’ promises--and by extension Ash’s cause--they considered themselves members of his skeletal army trapped in their fleshy bodies. Touching their dreams, Krachnis had recruited them but forbid them to commit suicide as many had desired. Only then could they become their true, skeletal selves. For now, they were more valuable in their current state.

As one who had fought his entire life to stay alive, Ash couldn’t understand their feelings. The few shëlls he had met, usually to receive funds or information, had babbled incoherently, prostrating themselves before him. Krachnis fed on the devotion, sighing with great satisfaction, but Ash abhorred such weakness.

Most of the listeners had an air of curiosity, and many, like the burrower still examining the stone wall, eyed him with open hostility, clearly disgusted. Ash didn’t blame them. Krachnis fed him the words, each more vile than the last. They had done this routine before, many times during the earlier days of conquest in the Ashen Lands. Then, he had trusted Krachnis completely, but he was finding it harder and harder to keep doubts from flitting across his mind like scum seekers skating across the surface of a pond.

“Vigilance and healthy doubt will save us,” Ash said. “Watch the moon-cursed closely. Don’t trust them. Eventually they’ll reveal themselves, drinking the blood of supposed murder victims, and we’ll be there to see. To cast them into the light.”

Could they truly not see that Krachnis advocated the opposite? He would have them shrouded in doubt and prejudice.

Ash cast a final, lingering glance at the lycanthropes marching through the square. By all accounts, they were doing amazing work as a police force, but Krachnis wanted them all as part of the greater army. Those lycanthropes beyond saving, lost to their animalistic impulses, would serve well in the army if they could be controlled, but Ash wondered if the others shouldn’t remain in the positions Gailinn had secured for them.

Dropping from his perch, Ash joined the light traffic wending its way through Liar’s Square. In the few smaller cities he had visited thus far, he had been surprised to find others with silver in their hair. Always it came in streaks. No one so far had a full head of silver as he did. It didn’t make him stand out as much as he had once feared it would, not as it had in the Ashen Lands where the Untamed had dark hair, but he still drew occasional comments from strangers about his unusual hair.

He pulled up his hood, and in moments, he was no longer the strange figure shouting denouncements of the lycanthropes. Nor was he the young silver-haired man catching the occasional wandering eye. He was merely another anonymous figure.

I’ve touched upon the lycanthropes’ dreams and even more are ready to join us, Krachnis said, sounding pleased for the first time in recent memory. With those who have already committed themselves to us, they’ll spread discord among the packs. Those humans loyal to us will carry our message through Breeze Tower as they have the other places we visited. Soon, the lycanthropes will be driven out and only too eager to fight against those they tried to protect.

During Sineck’s time the lycanthropes had found refuge in the Ashen Lands, not accepted as they hoped to be in the Radiance but tolerated. When the battlemother’s army had fallen, without her to hold the disparate Untamed and lycanthrope forces together, they had fled to the Radiance, joining others of their kind to eke out an existence on the fringes of civilization. Like Ash. Who was he to deny them their chance at a place in this world?

All goes according to plan, Ash thought, barely paying attention to where he was going. Unattended children raced past dressed in oft-mended clothes. A cluster of the city watch lazily scanned the street he was filtering into. Two young men pushed a cart laden with fruits, many of which Ash had never seen before. He fell into step behind them as others hurried by on either side.

By my plan! My will! Krachnis thundered. Ash winced and considered pushing the entity to the furthest reaches of his mind. Doing so would spare him the creature’s fury for the immediate future, but when he allowed Krachnis to resurface, its anger would be a stampede instead of a single enraged dreshen.

Your rashness in Westerbrook has completely altered our initial incursion, Krachnis said. Rather than striking at a mildly fortified town, we’ll be arriving in the north at one of the most heavily defended forts in the Radiance.

Ash stepped to one side of the street between vendors’ stalls, pinching his nose at the bridge as if suffering from a sudden headache. No one paid him any mind as he turned his full attention to the voice in his head.

The Ostelan are not the mindless savages the Untamed believe them to be. Were their minds not beyond my power, I would clear a path for your forces. And all you had to do was win a simple game. Be glad I don’t abandon you. Without me, you would obviously fail before our war could truly begin.

I won’t fail you again, Ash thought.

See that you don’t. Krachnis dissipated, allowing itself to ruminate quietly on the edges of Ash’s consciousness. As usual at such times, the voice spoke in forgotten languages that sizzled and crackled like a fire burning low in a hearth.

Only when the voice was completely gone did Ash realize he hadn’t once called it Master. When did that begin? Was this the first time? Odd that Krachnis hadn’t noticed. Unless it didn’t care. Perhaps it had expected as much. Ash had not known how greatly the Radiance would change him until it was already happening. From the onset, his visit to Westerbrook had confronted him with a land so unlike the corrupt and broken kingdom described by Krachnis. Even knowing he was an invader, Knock had welcomed him with honor and respect. The hob had even shared his most painful story.

Banishing such thoughts for a later time, Ash took stock of where he had paused. To one side, a vendor sold bottles of milk. Though it was still midmorning, the young freckle-faced woman attending the stall had already sold through nearly all the glistening bottles on display. With her dark hair, she almost matched descriptions of Gailinn. No, her hair was not black, merely a dark shade of brown, and when she turned to regard him, offering a weak smile, he saw a thin silver lock of hair tucked behind her ear.

Milk had been a staple of his diet in the Ashen Lands, but it had been bitter and gray whereas the woman’s wares almost seemed to shine with a white inner light. Though tempted to ask questions about what kind of animal had provided the milk, Ash feared the question would announce him a stranger to these lands. Such a thing wasn’t rare, but he had been directed to draw as little attention to himself as necessary when not stirring up crowds against the lycanthropes.

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On his other side, an old hob carved a piece of wood. Ash didn’t think it a strange sight at first, mistaking the creature for a forest hob. When he saw the hob’s size--smaller than Ash himself but only barely--and the peach hue of his skin with slight brown undertones, he realized it was a swamp hob. Their gifts lay with water, but this one was fashioning wood like one of its forest cousins.

Raw chunks of wood rested in a pile behind him, and Ash couldn’t decide which was more wrinkled, the deeply grooved bark or the hob. The piece in his hand was unfinished, a collection of odd bumps and grooves. On the countertop directly beside Ash rested an incongruous assortment of wares.

Some pieces were practical. There were two unstrung shortbows. One well-sanded length had a hand grip and could have been a knife handle but sported no blade. There were quite a few wooden bowls and cups of all sizes and shapes, no two of the same design. They all looked to be masterfully crafted, protected with some kind of finish that shone in the morning sunlight.

But the other pieces were truly breathtaking. There was a tree so lifelike, so intricately carved he could see the shape of individual leaves and half-expected them to flutter on the next breeze. Beneath was a collection of animals that also looked as though they might begin moving any second. There was a nightwing statue only slightly smaller than the real thing, its eyes shining with an eerie light. A carriage had wheels that looked as if they might turn when pushed, but no mounts were tethered to the front. Like the knife handle and shortbows, it felt oddly incomplete. The works reminded Ash of the stone columns he had seen on Knock’s bridge.

Before he could survey all the wares, the wood sculptor called out to him.

“All carved by hand. Tell me which one you want, and then we can haggle over the price. You’ll end up paying what I wanted in the first place, unless you’re a lousy negotiator, but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun.” He chuckled to himself and continued working the wood with his long thin tool, having never taken his eyes off the task at hand.

“What’s that tool you’re using?” Ash asked.

“Had it specially made by one of my cousins. She’s a stone shaper in Core. I call it Quertir’s hand.” The old hob held the tool up, flashing it in the sunlight for an instant before pulling it back through the wood. Ash had recently seen a statue of the burrower deity in the temple district. Similar to the four-armed statue of Quertir, the wood shaper’s tool had four sides, though he hadn’t gotten a good enough look to guess at their purposes.

The various religions of the Radiance were one area where Ash was wholly ignorant. Krachnis had seen no worth in imparting whatever wisdom he possessed on the topic, only growing more and more enraged each time Ash asked. He knew Krachnis was beyond anything his mind could imagine. It had never classified itself since the day it had first spoken to him, but Ash was sure the creature considered itself a god.

But was that Krachnis’ typical hubris or was there truth to the idea? It had the power to visit others’ dreams--a power Gailinn seemed to share--but the lycanthropes also possessed such a gift. Krachnis perceived most of the world through Ash, but the young man knew it was able to garner information from other sources. Members of any race that opened themselves to Krachnis through dark thoughts or deeds could potentially be host to the entity.

What else could Krachnis be doing now in the furthest reaches of his own mind? Surely it was casting its consciousness out to others, issuing orders and gathering intel. But why would a god need a host?

During his short time in the Radiance, Ash had heard references to Unmaker and Worldender. They were different names for the same being--a dark force which corrupted and destroyed. Krachnis had once called Ash naive, but he was wise enough to understand the voice in his head was the one most races called Unmaker.

The knowledge should have horrified him. If the citizens of Breeze Tower learned he hosted Unmaker in his mind and could summon its magic with a question, most would have fled in terror. The rest would have torn him apart. But Ash had no illusions about the entity he served. Krachnis was a tyrant who coerced the simple-minded whether they be humanoid or beast. Only the kilkinteth seemed immune, guided by their queens who had thus far proven incorruptible.

And yet the godlike being had saved his life numerous times. It was the only parent he had ever known. Not a kind parent, but not an abusive one either. Stern and direct, Krachnis brooked few failures. It knew what Ash was capable of better than he did himself and had molded him into the man he was--a warrior, a user of magic, unchallenged Scheltro of the Untamed.

A weapon.

“...can see how easily it pulls through the wood.” The wood shaper was still speaking, though Ash had been too absorbed in his own thoughts to hear anything that had been said.

“But you’re a swamp hob,” Ash said.

“So?” the hob asked, one eyebrow raised in anticipation, the suggestion of a grin playing about his lips. “I can’t carve wood because I wasn’t born a forest hob?”

“You’re right,” Ash said. “Shouldn’t you have an apprentice?”

“Hard to find any interested in the craft. Not enough money in shaping wood,” the old hob grumbled. “Unless you accept conscriptions from wealthy menogs or merchants. Then you can have all the apprentices you’d ever want. That kind of work--it’s not for me. They don’t listen to the wood. Always trying to force it into things it don’t want to be. There was a time when I could find those who appreciated my unique ability to see the wood’s true form.”

“That would explain the variety of your wares,” Ash said. He struggled with the right words in these lands. Back home, the Untamed were direct, but here in the Radiance, Ash was still learning to speak carefully for fear of offending.

“Aye, there’s a shape hidden in each piece of wood. It may not be alive the way it once was, but there’s still life at its core. Know what I mean?”

“I...think I do.” Ash wasn’t being polite. The wood seemed to call to him, a slaghound longing to be scratched in its favorite place. The differences between here and the Ashen Lands were too plentiful. There was no benefit in ruminating on each of them, but this was an important one. He had come from a land without art or craftsmanship. There was no beauty for its own sake. Life was too unforgiving for such distractions. Everything was either a tool or a weapon.

“You do, don’t you,” the shaper said. For the first time, the old hob stopped working. “I can see it in your eyes. Been a long time since I’ve seen that hunger in anyone’s eyes but my own. Of course, I haven’t seen my reflection in quite some time. Years even. Couldn’t get over how handsome I was.” Again, he chuckled at length, telling jokes for his own benefit.

Except, Ash found himself smiling, won over by the hob’s strangeness and earnest personality. He was so similar to Knock in many ways. Despite the mountain hob’s tragic past and insight into Ash’s purpose in the Radiance, Knock had shown him a similar warmth.

The shaper rose with none of the lethargy or stiffness Ash would have expected from one so old, though he did walk with a permanent slope to his back. Without explaining what he was doing, the shaper opened the lid of a small unlocked chest Ash hadn’t seen sitting on the ground behind the hob. It took but a moment for him to find what he wanted before approaching Ash with one of his custom carving tools. Quertir’s hand he had called it.

“How much?” Ash asked, unable to pretend he wasn’t interested in the tool.

“Dewdrop pie.”

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Goodwife Nat makes a decent pie if you know of her shop. Ah, who am I kidding? It’s the best pie in the Radiance, and I’m as much an expert on that as I am shaping wood.” Again he chuckled, but it quickly turned into a frown as he continued speaking. “The problem is she knows how good it is and charges accordingly. Don’t know it? Unmaker’s touch, what have you been eating? Lots of meaty stew by the look of you. It’ll do you some good to indulge, and it’ll do me plenty more. Nat’s shop is three streets over. There’s a wisp dancing around a pie on her sign, but you’ll see the line coming out her door and know it's her shop. Get there early.”

“You want me to pay you with a pie?” Ash asked.

“Smart as well as big.” The hob tugged one of his large ears which was festooned with scraggly white hairs as if it had grown its own semblance of a beard. “There’s a lumberyard to the north. You know it? Good. They’ll sell you some wood. Might throw in a few extra scraps if you’re lucky. Bring me a pie, and we’ll see if your hands know the wood’s truth.”