Atriat knelt on an umla mat placed in the center of his wood-reinforced yurt, similar to how the structure he occupied sat at the very heart of the hold. The settlement was the first this far West, and he had named it Ereth’Hold to honor his mother. New troops and families continued to filter through its lumber gates, joining the Lesser Host and swelling the walls. Some day it might rival the holds that circled the enormous forest where Life Tribe hid themselves and the Great Host warred, but whether Ereth’Hold achieved such size or not, it would serve the role it had been created for, just as he would.

But not quite yet.

He needed one more influx of troops before he could march on Lercel, and the last messages had put them two days out. So, while his physical body waited, his senses were miles distant, split six ways in the bodies of those he trusted more than any soldier under his command. He could not see or hear, but he could smell the musk of those around him, taste pine on the air, and feel the gentle nip of teeth as the hounds played with one another, frolicking this way and that. Experiencing the event from multiple points, Atriat didn’t need vision to track the pack’s movement or know how boisterous their game had become. Of course, it helped that he could sense their emotions, too, and the joy of the tussle washing over him from half a dozen sources lifted his heart.

As pleasant as the escape was though, it wasn’t one he could afford to linger in. So, without any of the dogs being aware of it, Atriat pulled himself back through the tethers he had attached to each of them. Thankfully, traveling along ris took little longer than thought, so only a moment later he had returned to his own skin, where he felt nothing at all.

The lack was comforting in a different way, grounding, and it reminded him of the tasks set before him.

He opened his eyes and breathed out, making sure that the thick tethers that ran from him to the twenty-two members of the pack connected him in spirit only, no more emotion. He much preferred visiting them in person, but the most senior of his generals had convinced him otherwise, saying that having such an important repository so close could pose a significant risk. So, Atriat’s bondees were stationed at far off Tralan’Hold, which sat on the Western edge of Life’s Canopy.

He hoped they continued to enjoy the forest air and free space, and he said goodbye to them as he cut off the last of that sensation.

His return complete, Atriat shifted his awareness to the cluster of thinner, non-bonding tethers that connected him to much closer targets. There were four in total, one for each of the leaders of the host. One of them, the head of the Seekers, was approaching his yurt, which was why Atriat had cut short his time with the pack. Through the tether, he could tell that this man, Oliak, was worried and ashamed. Having delved Oliak when first meeting him, Atriat knew him to be quite capable, which meant that the cause of issue must be a significant one.

He had a guess what--or specifically who--might be the culprit, but he resisted checking his last tether, one that stretched even farther away than to his dogs. He would find out soon enough, and there was no reason to chase after that which was already coming to you.

Oliak stopped in front of the yurt but didn’t bother making any sounds to announce his arrival, knowing full well that someone of Atriat’s skill could already sense him.

“Enter,” Atriat called through the thick, sheep-woolen fabric.

The seeker did so, ducking under a section of cloth that hung from a horizontal beam of wood above. Seeing Atriat crouched on the ground, he immediately did the same. Being a big man, he was still a head taller than Atriat, and a younger Atriat would have hardly given the difference a thought. Yet, ever since he had been sent on this mission, like an arrow loosed from a bow, he had studied each and every report on the Mountain City his people had available. He had started with the earlier histories before departing, when centuries before the Tribes of Gold and Death had traded peaceably with one another. But on his journey, Atriat had consumed all the most recent spy reports, of which there were many. He knew the same horrors that any child who attended school in the holds did, that the inhabitants of Lercel valued metal above all things, and let those without starve or live in sickness even though there was more than enough food and shelter to be found. But that was only the beginning of the Gold Tribe’s twisted thinking: they attached gold to all things under the sun, calling it a price, and ranked their populace, not just in skill for particular tasks, but--as far as Atriat could tell--in terms of their right to exist. Height was apparently quite valued, by keshe especially, even though it served little purpose in their lives. Knowing this made Atriat wonder, If we had both been born in Lercel, would I be following him instead of the other way around?

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This type of thinking had been happening to him more frequently of late and it made him eager for the day that Aspects like Gold would be gone. Clearly, even becoming aware of how their followers behaved could infect others.

The pause on Atriat’s part took only a few more breaths than his trip back from Tralan’Hold, hardly enough to be noticed.

“What troubles you, Captain?”

“Kal’Sha’Chon,” Oliak replied, dipping his head in formal respect.

Only the seekers called him this, after the name “Sek’Kal,” which was given to the seeker general. It was because he had been a seeker before he had been raised to Chon by the Matron herself in Haldorae. He knew the reason, and he did not mind the association or the name. In fact, his grandfather--whose sacrifice had given him his first seal and the ris upon his left leg--had also been a seeker, and Atriat thought he would approve.

Oliak lifted his gaze. “Neither myself or my charges have been able to find the spy or her companion.”

The flight of the girl who called herself Tif had caused quite the stir in Ereth’Hold. A spidra warrior, Dalia, had alerted her superiors of her suspicions, but not before Tif had been spirited over the twenty foot walls by none other than a cyclops. The pairing seemed to defy logic, especially since Atriat had received no reports about an alliance between the people of Bheroth and Lercel, or any others. Multiple accounts had confirmed the sight though, so there was no denying it, and the ability to scale walls was, he knew, one of the blessings that Blood seals bestowed.

The oddity, however, had not relieved the guilt many in the hold felt for not having realized who the girl truly was. Out of the people he had spoken to, those most affected were the soldier who had initially delved her, the mender who had seen to her, the spidra warrior, and Oliak who now sat in front of him.

“As I told you before, it does not matter,” Atriat said, and he meant it, just as he had meant it when he had spoken to the girl. “I only allowed you to try so that your seekers would have the opportunity to practice their trade.” He did not bother adding that he hoped the spy somehow managed to convince her people to surrender. Last he had checked his tether to her she was far to the south instead of north as she should be, which meant the only people she might be convincing of something were those in Sah’Sah, who all knew to be cowards.

“As you say,” Oliak replied, though the emotion that thrummed through the connection between them told Atriat that he had not assuaged the man’s honor any more than the first time they had spoken of it.

It was not his people’s way to wish after things, unlike Lercelians and their constant quest for more metal, but Atriat knew that he did not have as much experience leading the hearts of men and spidra as was ideal for the leader of a host. He had been chosen by the Matron not for his age or battle record but because of his mastery of the first and second Seals, both of which were crucial for utilizing the power of the fifth.

He was here to kill, not inspire.

Yet, if he could, he would. So, using the fourth seal, he sent the feeling of respect back toward the commander through the tether. The effect was immediate: the large man jerked, his eyes widening slightly and then he bowed his head again.

“The Kal’Sha’Chon is too kind.”

“He is honest,” Atriat said. “You taught her our ways. What shame can there be in that? Perhaps--” and Atriat thought again of the strange path the spy was following--“you inspired her to change. To renounce her people.”

Oliak lifted his head, forehead creased. “Is such a thing possible?”

“It will need to be,” Atriat said. “For when their Aspects are gone, the people of Lercel will be bereft, and it will be up to us to show them the path forward.”

The large seeker didn’t reply, but doubt quavered through the connection between them.

“Speak, Commander.”

“General Zarr,” Oliak said, looking nervous for the first time in their conversation, “he…”

Wants to kill them all, Atriat finished for him.

“I am the zumai, Oliak, as well as the hand. I will decide who--”

“Wooooo!” sounded through the air, piercing the wool of the yurt. Atriat tensed, reflexively checking the emotions of the other people he was tethered to nearby. All four were like him, waiting for--“Wooooo!”

Atriat was up on two unfeeling legs, dashing toward the flap with Oliak close behind.

Twin horn blasts from the watchtower could only mean one thing: the hold was being invaded.