In Tul’s jaws, memories rend,
Flesh and mind, they both descend.
Lovers’ faces, names consumed.
Tul feast and Tul subsume.
Silent cries, the hunted’s plight,
Caught in darkness, no escape in sight.
TulBane’s bite, the only peace,
Swiftest death, their prey’s release.
Tul’s gaze cuts, a butcher’s thrill,
Stalking shadows, closing to kill.
In their hunt, the mind they grind,
Leaving bones, memory entwined.
– Rise of the First Bane by Caelum Vindicare
Creation: The Tenth Month in the Twenty-Third Year in the Reign of Golden Harvests
The echoes of ancient fear lingered in Astalia’s mind as she gazed across the shadowed valleys of the Tul lands. Beside her, Ryaldon, ever the cautious strategist, now spoke of pushing forward. This was their first journey across the mighty river—a scouting mission intended as a rite of passage for them as second-year scouts, led by one of the [Venerate]. Only three miles in and the air felt charged following the recent news.
The advanced scouts of the Tulunganar, the mercenary company they were working under, had given them the report mere minutes ago: at least three mounted Tul raiders, their course set to pass north of their group on a path towards the rivers ford. Astalia knew that the guards of the ford would be able to handle the Tul ogres, but not without casualties, not if the Tul were mounted on those beasts of theirs.
Ryaldon’s voice cracked under the weight of his plea, the usually steady cadence now threaded with a palpable urgency. “Astalia, we can’t let them cross. My father died to their raids. If I fail, it’s not just my command—it’s my honor. Not again.”
Astalia’s gaze lingered on him, noting the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides—a mirror to the turmoil brewing within her. “And what of the others, Ryaldon? Do Alvain and Telvar share your eagerness to dance with oblivion?” Astalia shuddered at the thought, her voice tightening. “The Tul… They devour more than flesh, Ryaldon. They steal our very meaning. Do you truly grasp what that means?”
He swallowed hard. “I . . . we may not be ready to face them in open combat, but… an ambush could tilt the scales in our favor. If we can get in front of the riders, ambush them from a hilltop where their mounts will struggle to pursue . . .” Ryaldon’s gaze hardened with resolve, a stark contrast to the vulnerability flashing in his eyes moments before. “I’m leading this ambush, with or without your blessing. You are our mentor, but this is our choice not yours. Not unless you are invoking your right of return.”
“I’ve stood against the Tul, and it is never something to do lightly. Yet,” she paused, her gaze distant, “I won’t invoke the right, not on your first command.” She glanced at him. “We tread carefully, engaging only in ambush. Three Tul might be within our capabilities from a hilltop ambush.” Her voice, usually so steady, carried a tremor of uncertainty as she broached the next query, “Your Tulbane—still active?”
“Of course it’s active; we got them installed by the Tulunganar less than a fortnight ago and they know their work.” His gaze softened. “Astalia, we know the protocol, but we won’t need to use them. Ancestors know that the poison is a last resort, it’s just an ambush, like we have done on the plains hundreds of times.”
But the Tul… They are not the same as beasts. We learned that lesson long ago, we paid for that ignorance in blood and bone.
With a hesitant nod, she gave her approval. “We need to regroup now,” Astalia said, her voice firm. “They’re heading north, and we know their pace. If we move fast, we can still catch them off guard. But we need to be invisible. Secrecy is our only shield.”
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As they ascended the ridge the world seemed to tilt into silence, save for the unsettling harmony of their mounts’ hooves against the earth. A piercing scream erupted from Astalia’s horse, shattering the eerie calm. The animal reared violently, eyes wide with terror, hooves flailing as if battling unseen foes. Around her, the other horses bucked and whinnied, the air thick with panic. Astalia fought to regain control, her heart pounding as she scanned the darkening horizon for the source of their fear.
In the eerie dance of their shadows against the burnt orange of the grasses, Astalia’s heart sank. “They sense them,” she whispered, a chill of realization creeping along her spine. The Tul were near, perhaps nearer than they should ever have been able to get.
Astalia’s heart raced, the air growing thick with unease. The breeze, once a gentle caress, now carried a scent—something sharp and rancid, like decay. Her skin prickled, the unspoken dread of the Tul seeping into her bones. “They are upwind,” she murmured, realization dawning with chilling clarity. Her voice, though strained with panic, commanded, “Ride hard! The ambush is lost to us. Our only hope is to cross the ford. Ride!”
Urging her mount forward, she felt its muscles tense beneath her, its breaths coming in ragged gasps. Nothing in the world would panic a horse of the empire faster than one of the Tul Horsebeasts. Astalia could understand that. The thought of the Tul, those mountains of rippling flesh, their jaws, just slightly too large and filled with two rows of sharpened teeth. She shivered.
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Her horse surged forward, muscles straining beneath her, as they overtook Alvain. Alvain’s expression was a tapestry of fear and determination, her usual companion, her fogwood bow, tied to the saddle behind her as she scrambled to retrieve it. Her mare, drenched in sweat and fear, barely kept pace with the group, its flanks heaving with each labored breath. Astalia’s breath caught as she noticed her steed’s faltering steps.
The horse’s sides heaved, sweat darkening its flanks, its pace slowing with every stride. Panic clawed at her throat. This wasn’t normal exhaustion—it was something far worse, something unnatural. A skill? She knew the Tul could bear skills, but it was rare, not something she would ever expect this close to the Diontel.
Behind her, a roar shattered the tense silence, wrenching her attention backward. Memories, as numerous and varied as the stars, flooded her mind—battles fought, lives saved, and too many lost to the savagery of the Tul. Despite decades of combat, the raw, visceral fear they inspired never dulled; it clawed at her insides. In the face of the Tul, all were prey.
The first Tul crested the ridge, a giant astride a nightmare steed darker than the void; a cold shiver traced Astalia’s spine. Her hands trembled on the reins, not from the chill in the air, but from an ancient fear resurfacing. The sight of them—monstrosities of flesh, bigger than any human—was a harsh reminder of their reality. Size was but a fraction of their terror; it was the cold intelligence in their eyes paired with grinning smiles that truly chilled her to the bone.
Why didn’t I force them to stay? The right of return was mine—I should have invoked it, saved them from this. But I hesitated. I wanted them to see me as more than just a mentor, more than just a relic of old battles. I wanted them to succeed on their terms, but now… Now I’ve led them into death’s jaws. No skill is worth this.
As her horse surged forward, Astalia caught a fleeting glimpse of Telvar. The young warrior, determination etched into his features, gripped an emerald-bladed longsword—a stark contrast against the fear that shadowed his movements. His words, carried by the wind, were a desperate mantra against the encroaching fear, an invocation of his ancestors’ wisdom and protection.
Then, the horizon birthed more nightmares. Two additional Tul, their forms a blur of menace, joined the hunt, their mounts’ hooves thundering a relentless rhythm against the earth. Astalia felt each beat as a hammer against her chest, the distance between them closing with every heartbeat.
Three, we might be able to handle three.
The Tul began to close on Alvain. Their mounts’ long legs eating the distance. Astalia was sure she could feel her mount’s frantic heartbeat through the saddle as she leaned forward, dropping the reins, and began guiding the warhorse with her knees. Only one chance.
Astalia’s fingers danced over the familiar weave of her spellstring, each touch sending a tremor of power through her. Her voice, low and urgent, threaded the air with the ancient words. As she chanted, the grasses before them began to shift, their soft blades hardening, sharpening. The spell took hold, binding the land to her will. She breathed a sigh of relief—their ambush might just succeed.
The Horsebeasts hit the affected grasses and collapsed. The patches of grass had become the swordgrass of the deep south. Hard as iron and sharp as its namesake, the blades bit deep enough to hit bone, crippling the beasts. She inhaled, a breath of triumph rising within her.
She heard the cries of the Tul as they were tossed from their mounts, tumbling into the sharpened grasses. They were going to make it. Her heart fluttered, relief buoyant, stronger than the anchor of fear that had weighed her down in their desperate ride.
“Gwooooh-gwooooh.” Warhorns sounded from the hills to their sides. She flinched at the sound, grabbing her reins once more. A whole war party?
Her team slowed their horses, knowing without having to be told that they needed to circle closer. That they needed to stay together. “The Tul-”
“Meat. Oh, such juicy, primed meat. We have found our first meat this night, brothers.” A Tul spoke in the broken, jarring speech of his people, as though their sharpened rows of teeth cut the very words coming from their mouths. The words echoed through the hillside, their source obscured. “A feast of lowlanders for us and a feast of the lowlander horses for our own.”
“Astalia,” Ryaldon turned, the panic evident in his voice, “What did they say?”
It is better not to know. Her voice raised, catching the attention of the others as she wove enough meaning into her words to pierce the panic. “It’s time… The Tulbane is our duty. They cannot consume us, our memories, they cannot be severed. This is about more than us now.”
She saw the others hesitate; she knew the Tul were closing in, getting closer every moment. A voice echoed down from the opposite hillside as the first. “Did the Meat hope to catch us, slay us one by one as they did in the old days? It is as Thar Nol Grak said.” The broken speech was mocking, its tone cruel.
Alvain drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and shot it up the hill towards the location of the voice. “Astalia, what did they say?” Her voice cracked, the panic clear as her arrow vanished over the hill.
“I just love when the meat struggles before the feast.” The third rasping, chuckling voice echoed from behind them. “This one is going to be a treat.”
Ryaldon lurched to her right. She spun, saw a black arrow, long as her arm, piercing his chest. He fell from his horse. Gone. It was too late for him. He was lost.
I cannot wait any longer. We cannot wait any longer.
“The Tulbane,” Astalia’s voice cracked, her hand already moving to her mouth. The sharp crunch of the molar-cap split the chaos, and the bitter powder flooded her senses. Darkness swallowed her vision as she toppled from the saddle, a single thought haunting her as the world faded—too late.
All three taken by arrows? Did any of them take the poison? Her thoughts slowed as her soul began its return to the empire. She knew she had only seconds left before she would wake once again.
Her body hit the ground with a dull thud, her horse fleeing in blind terror. As her vision blurred, she caught sight of movement on the hills—dozens of dark shapes, swarming down like a living tide. Rats, monstrous and unnatural, their eyes gleaming with a malevolent intelligence. Have the Tul bred new horrors? The thought flickered and faded as darkness claimed her, pulling her back into the cold embrace of the shrines.