It was not the first time that Górin had been to these lands, or even to the Silver Hills themselves, for that matter. It was, however, the longest venture into them that he had yet been on. As he stood in those grey fields with Troíde by his side, peering out and studying their location, unnerve came to him. It had been the case for some while now, and for most of the day so far, he had spent as much time scouting ahead as he could, or at least too far for the others to talk to him. Troíde must have felt the same, for she often left the guard of Jynge to the other rangers while she followed Górin from some hundred paces behind. Occasionally, she had come up to ask a question, to which he would speak his mind, but not his feelings on the matter.
“You smell it, too?” he asked before she had a chance to speak when she approached.
From behind him, Troíde gave a smirk. “I had been wondering if it were just imaginary. Although,” she paused, considering her words, “I would say rather that I feel something strange rather than smell it.”
“Both are part of it,” Górin replied, nodding but not turning around. “In truth, I am surprised that it has taken us this long to reach it. I know the lands of the Silver Hills little, but there is no mistaking this. Have you ever gone far into blighted lands?”
“Ah…” she said, frowning, “I had suspected as much. I just...expected to smell and see it rather than feel it. I thought that the odd tension and unease was because of hunger or tiredness.” She paused to take a slow and deep breath. She gave a contemplative look, then one of disgust. “I suppose you were referring to this faint odor of...carrion?”
Górin gave a sigh. “It will only become stronger and more unpleasant the further away from the Stékkr we go. You don’t need to worry yourself now, though. I wouldn’t even consider taking you near any deep blight. Not as we are currently equipped. That said, even the traces that we will face can chill the heart, if not the body.”
There, the two waited in place as their companions closed the distance between them. Upon rejoining, Górin addressed them all.
“We are reaching the outer limits of lands where it is safe to travel unprotected from the blight,” he announced, “It is faint now, but the less of it that passes through us, the better our morale shall be in the coming days.” He looked to Jynge, whose eyes were affixed to the horizons ahead.
“The voices of this land trail upon the winds like a withering smoke,” she muttered without any hint of a smile upon her face. Only when Górin spoke again was she broken from her concentration. “Yes, yes,” she quickly said, “I am sorry, I was distracted. Are you in any hurry to continue onward, or might we rest for a while as I prepare our protections?”
“Certainly.”
Jynge dismounted and went to work almost immediately. She searched through her satchels, removing objects and trinkets within before withdrawing five white leather masks, similar in make and appearance to the one she had worn beneath the Stékkr, five days ago. Making a small pile, she continued to search through the other satchels, removing little wrapped bundles and bindings. She tossed some carelessly into the pile, while she laid others down with a gingerly touch.
Górin took a breath and looked back towards the southeast. “It will be darkening soon, but I warrant we could still put three or four miles behind us if we do not tarry here, and do not rest again for the remainder of the day.”
“I won’t be long,” Jynge reassured as she sat down before her collection and began to sort out the objects and tools into a small working circle. “Only a small amount of spellwork will be required, but don’t worry. It is a simple thing, and I will be quicker than ten deep breaths.” She gave each a quick look. “I would ask that you give me my peace when this is happening, of course. As you know, such work requires an unbroken concentration.” Handor gave a grin towards Dákk and Górin, but everyone nodded anyway.
“Furthermore,” Jynge slowly continued, “An extra pair of hands would be tremendously appreciated, and would make the conclusion of this come all the sooner.” Her companions all sat down around the circle she made, and once all were situated, the witch began to hand each some various trinket or object.
“Grind this to a powder,” she instructed Handor as she passed him a mortar with a large pile of dried leaves within.
“Remove all of the bark from these twigs. Don’t cut off any of the flesh if you can avoid it.” To Dákk, she gave at least twenty finger-sized sticks, along with a small paring knife.
“Make a paste with this. Just enough to wet everything, not make mud out of it.” Troíde was certain that the substance in the bowl Jynge gave her was nothing more than common dirt.
“Loosen the leather in the beaks,” she said to Górin as she passed him four masks, keeping one for herself, “Be careful not to break the glass.”
Górin had never seen one of the masks up close, except for when the witches wore them upon the morning of Brannaht. Holding one in his hands, he marveled at the craftsmanship, and felt envy grow as he thought of their efficacy against even deep blight. The leather that covered the face from forehead to past the chin, ending in a long crow-like beak, was firm and resistant to movement, and had been treated enough to give it an almost bone-white hue. The black cowl that was tightly-stitched to it went down past the shoulders, and was likewise thick and oiled. Even the eyes were shielded, with the holes being fitted with thin panes of glass, even, clear, and colorless. He wondered how much the cult of Irka had paid for the commission of such fine work.
The group worked quickly and silently, occasionally looking up towards the witch who uttered the only words during the process. Though they all sat nearby her, she spoke so softly and under her breath that none could discern what words or in what tongue that she spoke. Occasionally, she would pause and look towards one of her companions, who would return the materials back to her, prepared to her request. Sometimes she made some further preparation, but mostly, she immediately deposited them into a small copper pot that she sat in her lap.
Towards the end of it all, she bowed her head for some moments, and after silence once again ruled over the circle for a short time, she raised a silver knife into the wind, tracing unseen shapes and figures with slow and twisting gesticulations. Suddenly, tiny flames appeared from about the crown of her head, flickering in the slow air. As her hands descended back down to the pot, tiny embers likewise glowed from between her fingers and along the knife’s edge. Dropping them into the mixture, sparks scattered upwards like a dry log thrown onto a fresh cookfire. As she stirred the concoction, now glowing with hundreds of little points of ember within the earthy mass, a powerful odor came to Górin’s senses. Strange and fragrant, the scent filled the air around them, and he felt surprisingly warm from what little actual flame was involved. Like a benevolent smoke alongside a twisting flowervine. Yet no true smoke came from the pot, unless it were a thin and wispy trail of white steam, hardly visible and quick to fade.
They all watched closely as Jynge took each mask and began to pack the burning mixture into the hollow beaks. With her knife, she ladled the damp and fibrous concoction into the mask, and packed it down with her fingers until she seemed satisfied, setting each in the middle of the circle of participants. “They should fit you all well enough,” she said with her voice back to its casual tone from the low and unfocused timbre in which she had been speaking up until that point. “When you breathe, the only wind upon your face should pass through the slits in the beak so that the poultice may touch it first.”
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Górin felt a sense of anxiety as he raised one of the masks to his face. Even though he knew quite well that her fire would not harm him, he still could not easily find himself willing to place glowing embers so close to his nose and mouth. It was nothing like what he had been used to in his previous journeys to blighted land. At best, the rangers would have a rag that would be wrapped around the face, lightly dampened with a poorly-made potion from fallen Stékkr leaves. Reaching back to fix the supple straps and lock the mask firmly upon his head, he felt the warmth of the glowing mixture of the beak rise up and fill his nose with a soothing air. Placing a hand to the underside of the beak where he had found tiny slits and holes while working the leather, he slowly took a deep breath and felt a faint and cool rush of air pass through his fingers as the fragrance came to him again. Clever work, indeed, he thought.
Looking around at the others through the glass lenses, he saw them react in much the same way as he had. Handor sat motionless aside from the slow undulation of his shoulders as he inhaled the cleansed air. To his right, Troíde had both hands along the beak of her mask, as though cradling its warmth or feeling the mixture contained within. Once Jynge had finished with the masks of others, she quickly did the same with her own that lay beside her, and without a moment of hesitation, placed it upon her head, fixing it to her comfort. Dákk was the last besides Jynge to place the bird-like visage over his head, but in the end, he conceded and joined the flock of solemn wanderers.
“Do not worry about the embers going out any time soon.” Jynge’s voice was muffled from behind her mask. “The poultice will burn for several days and leave little remains. It won’t hurt you if you accidentally breathe any in. However,” her tone changed, and she began to speak more slowly. “If there is something you should be aware and mindful of, it is this. Within these masks is the bark from the Stékkr. The same Stékkr you saw the seers perform divination under, actually. Beneficial this potion may be, and perhaps our lives may be saved by it, but never forget the origin of its key component…Please treat it with respect.”
“If you find that the embers have diminished,” she continued after a moment’s pause, “Sift the ash and stoke them. If all of the embers have gone away, then fetch me and I will set it alight again. Don’t try to use ordinary fire.” She said the last words in a flat tone.
With all newly-garbed in their strange headpieces, Jynge set about stowing her belongings back into the packs, and Górin turned to look back out towards the hills. He had felt apprehension from his first sight of the distant fog bank, but with the impressive feat of craftsmanship and witchcraft now upon him, his anxieties eased slightly. Only slightly.
Just one more day, he said to himself.
To his great thanks, Troíde had not said anything about the dark clouds that day, and he wished not to be reminded any more of it than was needed. As time went on, he found that it seemed to be moving in a southeastern direction, away from them, but still in the same general direction they moved. There were no hesitations about his navigation; everything seemed in order. Once they properly passed into the Silver Hills, it would be even easier, for they were recorded well in the maps. Yet, seeing the lands before them did nothing to lessen his nervous desire to reach the tower of High Ridge and take shelter from the first stretch of the journey.
Once everything was packed away and Jynge mounted the mare once more, Górin’s four companions looked to him and then amongst themselves when the leader made no sign of moving. When at last he heaved a sigh, withdrew a roll of papers from his satchel, selected and examined one for a brief time, and then set out without a word, they followed in a single line. Marching forth like a brigade of mourners, the group stepped forward into the lands beneath a darkening sky, beyond which stood the Silver Hills like endless piles of bones.
Since getting up from where Jynge had prepared their masks, they walked hastily and without rest. Although the party was not quite within the true boundaries of the Silver Hills just yet, they were awfully close. The flat lands and foothills they had hitherto been traversing were soon becoming high and low mounds that required careful consideration of route, lest they be forced to turn around and find some other way the beasts of burden could traverse. If ever the path was uncertain or Górin needed some better view from atop a nearby ascent, he sprinted forward, not wanting to leave the party waiting and unmoving. Climbing up to the peak, he surveyed the land, consulted the map, and led his companions onward.
It was upon one of these ascents that Górin made the first sight of whither he wished to go. Reaching the peak of a rather tall hill, he found himself above nearly all obstructions east of where he stood for many miles. While he was looking for a path to lead them around two steep inclines, he instead felt his heart rise slightly as he could now clearly see a long line of high ground in the distance, bordered on the near side with thin woodland. Crested atop the southern end of the ridge was an ancient tower, dark against the clouds of evening. It couldn’t have been more than ten miles away, or even seven as the crow flew. Yes, he thought, Just one more day.
Even the sharp eyes of a ranger are not those of eagles, and all he could make out of it was a small dot, but it was right where he had figured it would be. A well-chosen location, based on the lands. High Ridge had been watchtower in its lifetime, or so it was said, just along the borders of a lord’s domain. Partly to keep a good watch over his lands and partly to keep a watchful eye over the less-tamed woodlands that lay to the east.
He took a slow breath as he stared out, letting the gentle air from the poultice rise up and fill his nose. Gazing at nothing in particular for a moment, he suddenly spotted movement against the distant landscape. From a little outcrop of trees, perhaps a mile away, a family of roe emerged and began to tread northwest. Their paths would not cross, he was certain, but in this region at this time of year, there were bound to be more in the area. Perhaps if Jynge was not in a rush, one of the rangers could bring down a buck. If there was one good thing about the blight, he had learned, it was that beasts were hardly affected by it except in the worst circumstances, and their meat was still quite safe to eat. Thinking fondly of a hot meal of fresh venison plus much more for the days to come, he awaited his companions as they made their way up the hill to where he stood.
He looked at hard as he could into the distance, but the glass lenses of the mask were not perfect. Well-crafted as they were, his vision was distorted ever so slightly. After a moment of thought, he reached up to the mask, pulled the cowl over his head, and untied the straps. With his nose and mouth now exposed to the air for the first time since they had resumed their pace, the strange qualities of the air suddenly hit him once more. Carrion, he thought, Carrion and...Something else? If there had been a smile upon his face, hidden beneath the mask's protection, it was gone when he let himself become exposed to the blight. In exchange, his sight was no longer impeded, and he put up with the smell as he squinted ahead.
Seeing the ridge more clearly now, the tower atop became much sharper against the grey horizon. As did the dark fog bank that loomed nearby. It still remained far in the distance, dark and looming, but thankfully no closer than expected. Being between many hills for quite some time, there had not been many chances to see so far to the southeast, and in the time since he had seen it last, the storm had continued along its course, further south of High Ridge. Now, however, as Górin squinted his keen eyes, he found that it seemed to have taken on a stronger eastern direction, towards the opposite side of the ridge. I suppose I should be grateful of that, he grumbled to himself.
Seeing what there was to be seen, and having no further desire to have the stench of death in his nose, no matter how faint, Górin raised the cowl once more to fix it to his head. As he did so, however, he was suddenly stopped in surprise.
A distant howling broke through the otherwise silent land, briefly shaking him from his thoughts. A wolf? A dog? A wounded bird? All three, it seemed like. It was difficult to tell from the odd tone made from so far away. The sound echoed throughout the land many times, and it seemed to come from many miles away to the southeast. He had heard a hundred different beasts, and each one had hundreds of different calls. He frowned as he failed to recognize the sound of the beast.
Not wanting to be disheartened again, he went to return the mask to his head. Whatever had made the sound did not do so again, even as he stood in stillness, waiting for it to call out again.
It was no use getting worked up over, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned back to his approaching companions. An unseen half-smile came to him as he thought of sharing the news of the closeness to their first destination. When he descended down the hill to give them a report, they laughed and gave light cheers. Even Górin's spirits were raised now that he was within their company again and the dark thoughts had little place in good talk.
Even the low rumble of distant thunder and a faint repeated howling of the unknown beast were soon forgotten and laughed over as the group made their way deeper through the hills towards High Ridge.