23 of Voidor

Year of 1273 of the Sixteenth Cycle

Outskirts of Edgehaven

’To behold the Titans of Hid is to behold the pooled strength of the Hidi. They may be a small race, it is true, but their collective power has built some of the largest moving constructs in the world. Each city of the Hidi has a Guardian, named after the town (or perhaps the town is named after the titan?); taller than the tallest building (Truly! There is a law against such!) and stronger than the strongest man in the world. When the Sorcerer-King came knocking, the Hidian Titans answered the door.”

— And So I Shall Wander, p. 4

I wake to smouldering embers, lifting myself up off the ground. I still feel weak, but far better than yesterday. So much has happened. The Gods sent me a message. Of that, I’m sure. I should go north, to the lands of Eight Holds — to Koltor. The greater question is how. I use the log to pull me up until I can use the main strength of my arms to lift myself fully to my feet. The man from before watches, silently. It doesn’t look like he’s even moved other than to give me a cover in the night. I don’t feel cold despite being two thirds of the way through autumn, no doubt in no small part to the cloak that seems to have grown thicker underneath me. All those who have lived a night out in the open know that the ground, not the air, is that which steals the most warmth.

The man shuffles, reaching behind him and pulling out the gambeson. “I warmed it near the fire for most of the night. Made sure it didn’t get singed, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “If I was sent after you, others will be too.”

I take the gambeson, feeling the fibres. Whatever he did to pull the sludge out of it, he did it well. The blue feathers interlaced within are still with sheen, same as the day my Father gave them to me. Supposedly, he had this made with the last Bluefeather Raven still in the roost atop Ravenwatch after it passed away. I put it on, pulling the heavy cloth over my legs first, then tying my boots. The top goes on like any other shirt or tunic, but the leather bracers and shoulderpads need extra fitting, a simple tying of the straps. The high collar stops the wind from stealing the warmth from my neck, the feathers around the bracers keep my forearms warm and ready. The cloak fits seamlessly around my armour, warping itself to fit correctly. I take a good look at the man, now that he’s helmet-less. He’s definitely… rugged, in a way even my Father wasn’t. A thick, unkempt beard dyed brown by mud — though I think his hair is blonde, just incredibly dirty. His blueish-grey eyes watch the embers glowing hot. To even begin to count the scars on his face and arms would be no small task. He’s not as muscular as my Father, and quite a bit shorter — but that obviously has no effect on his wider fighting skill. I wonder… if he could have beaten my Father in a fight.

“I never got a name.” I say, prompting him. He doesn’t say anything. “So be it. I shall be on my way.”

I walk over the log, picking my canteen. His eyes snap to it. “I wouldn’t drink the river water around here. Sekkha is not a clean mistress.”

I don’t respond, and soon his breathing becomes inaudible as I walk northwards. Ideally, I would find a road. A pity I don’t have a horse. From what I can tell, the barn he found was abandoned, no doubt a result of the Tyrnn raids after the War of Rebellion. It wouldn’t lead to a road. Soon, I escape the thin trees, finding a man-made path. About an hour after that, a fork in the road takes me north. Road-signs are apparently not something that House Daraas considers important — the fact that most trade now travels oversea, despite the Tyrnn, no doubt having something to do with it.

I keep an eye on the road behind me, checking every now and again; I still expect the man from before to run up on horseback. He had talked of following me, training me; but no doubt the reality of the situation had found him in the night. He does not want to be pursued, to be constantly unsure of his surroundings. It was all talk.

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It wouldn’t take him long to catch me. I’m not even sure I could escape — most of my strength seems to have already passed and I’ve barely walked for an hour. I stop when I find a ruined shine on the side of the road, complete with a small shelter for prayer. Father told me once that he used to stop at one of these every time he came for the Das’en’uei; but then the Razor-hail broke them apart, even cutting through the stone. It would seem only dawnstone resists the damage. That and whatever the glass of the Sunbathing room is made from.

The altar is intact, the surrounding stone must have shielded it. I put my hand on it, feeling the cold of the stone even through the thick cloth of my gloves. Its wet, too, a small dripping from above. The trees around seem to have sheltered this place better than most.

I hear a voice, and press myself against the stone, willing my breathing to slow, making sure I’m not making any noise. Someone — a girl by the sound of it — shouts ’No!’ Her tone is frightened. I peer through the cracks in the stone, trying to find the source. I see a blur in the trees, two stocky men, then a flash of crimson and an eye looking into the shelter, right at me; a big orb of red so close I can see the small hexagons in their eye like those of a fly or or a wasp. Her eye widens and she runs away, her footsteps so light I can barely hear them. I follow her through the cracks. She couldn’t be an assassin… surely?

A look from further away tells me what she is; a Motari — the red wings and multiple arms make that obvious. As she runs through the forest, two men follow — both with dirks nearly as long as short-swords Conjured in their hand. I watch as she trips, fluttering the short red wings behind her enough that she doesn’t smash her face into a tree. She tries to get back up, to run, to escape — but one of them grabs her by the wing and pulls her into his arms, locking one across the throat.

“Naw stop fackin’ runnin’” he shouts, directly into her ear. She’s crying, wet tears running down her face, clutching some kind of long wooden board. I can barely see through the thinnest cracks. “Bloody slave — giv ya this, you got far. If ain’ta been red as roses, we’da lost you.” He laughs, eliciting a follow from his other man. “Lord Thorne put down your Mother for that little act. You’ll be the next breeder — or you’ll be sold off wholesale to one of the Daraas boys, they seem to love you little squealers.”

She sobs. I step out from the little sanctum, creeping my way towards their turned backs. I see her lock her eyes to me, and then look away. Smart. I stab forwards, aiming for the liver, Conjuring the blade in the same motion to ensure there’s as little time as possible for them to react. I lunge upwards, the dagger going straight through the man, and I Enhance my legs, pushing it further and ramming into the other man. He topples over, then pushes himself off and dances behind a tree. I wrench the dagger out the man’s back and bring it to the hilt in his neck, then push off and stare down the man who still has the Motari in his arms. He’s tall enough that she’s lifted off the ground, a shield of meat between him and me. He backing off, I’m following. He’s got his hand behind his back, no doubt Conjuring — but what? A blade, spear, what?

He pulls it out, puts it to his lip — and blows. A horn, no doubt telling others about me. I throw a dagger at the horn, but he swings around and continues to blow. I hear shouts from a decent distance away. I wanted to take from House Daraas, but its quickly becoming unlikely.

I hear the clop of hooves, and look for their direction only to see the man holding the Motari girl to be suddenly wrenched away by a man holding a spear, impaled and dragged along writhing, his guts trailing behind him until the rider lets it pierce deep into a tree. I rush over to the girl, now unconscious, and hoist her onto my shoulders, running into the trees. My cloak rises up, covering her whole body, making the sight of red a rare one. The horseman swings around, and I duck behind a tree onto to hear a familiar voice.

“Boy! Get on!” says the man from before, swaying the rump of his horse around so that I have a clear path to climb up onto the saddle. A man breaks through a thicket, his face scratched from the myriad sharp thorns, swinging a Conjured blade at the neck of the horse only to have his blade deflected upwards and a dagger, thrown by the man, embedded deep into his neck. I climb up the horse, planting myself securely on it’s back, gripping on the man’s side for stability, my vision swimming. As he takes off, riding the horse down the path as fast as it will go, it’s all I can do to keep my grip both on him and the girl. Her breath is shallow in my ear, but I hear her repeating a word over and over.

’Lumine, Lumine, Lumine.’ Until she no longer does.