The hunter led her to a tent by the central fire, the boy, who she assumed was his son, ran ahead. They passed hundreds of pilgrims, many children and elderly, hunched in makeshift lean-tos or improvised shelters throughout the community. The few able bodied moved about in an organized, routine manner - distributing food, collecting laundry, helping with repairs. Val felt concern growing for their mission, the relaxed familiarity with the work implied that this community was not new. She was also pleasantly shocked to see numerous Fae-touched moving about. One man had furred ears like a cat, another a wild mane of fur-like hair on her head, neck, shoulders and wrists. Did the Vigil have some relation with Fae she did not know? She’d generally avoided their houses, the music they regularly played within the Vigil chambers during their rites made her uncomfortable. Her ears buzzed at the reminder of music, the feeling was not dissimilar now she thought of it.
Lifting the flap of the tent for her, a gesture entirely useless as she still had to duck, the hunter beckoned her in. The tent was generously appointed for their situation, a small coffee table, chairs and several desks had been set up. A noticeboard had also been propped up against the leg of a table, names scribbled on it with assignments for the day. It appeared to have drawn its design from a labor union.
Seeing the boy come running in, a robust blonde haired woman gave the boy a familiar hug, and rose from her position at one of the desks in greeting.
“More pilgrims,” explained the hunter, gesturing for Val to sit, “These ones seem useful though, they’ve got two bulls with them.”
The woman seemed tired, but she busied herself filling a cup with ladles of water from a barrel in the corner of the room.
“Can you hunt?” she asked, “Or if not can you help cook or clean? We’ve plenty of mouths to feed here.”
Val hummed and admitted, “I’d be better lifting heavy things.”
“That she can certainly do,” admitted the hunter, scratching the back of his head.
“I can hunt,” it was Bastian, followed by Dorius and another one of the hunters entering the tent. The woman gave Bastian a skeptical look, and handed Val the cup, before returning to make more.
“I am Clara,” introduced the woman, “My father ran a union back in Greyhold, I have the reluctant honor of running our little settlement.”
“Bastian, Dorn, Val,” returned Bastian, gesturing to each member as he listed names, “We were not expecting to find the gate barred, what is happening?”
Clara handed them each a cup to drink, and took a seat, Bastian and Dorius following suit. Val hesitated, used to protectively keeping close to Dorius, but chose a table to lean against instead.
“We’d all like to know. Gate to High Haven has been shut since it should have opened in the early spring. Merchants and traders have given up waiting, and taken their wares elsewhere. Us pilgrims have been waiting since then as well, slowly growing our community in hope the gates will open. We’ll be in trouble if we are still out here for much longer and cold starts coming,” she explained.
“The Vigilants declared an intruder broke the seal of the sacred valleys and disturbed a god, the gates were barred to outsiders,” added the hunter, “I am Gail, normally the Mayor of High Haven, but I’ve been coming daily to do my best for the pilgrims in the meantime.”
“You can come and go?” asked Bastian.
Gail nodded, “They open the gate at dawn and dusk to let caravans from within come and go with goods from Kal’Fall. The Vigilants have refused any outsider though, even the sick, weak and elderly, so we have been doing what we can during the day. Usually we’d welcome pilgrims seeking to speak with the Prime Vigilant.”
“Is that what pilgrims usually come for?” asked Dorius, Bastian looked uncomfortable.
Clara narrowed her eyes, “That is usually the purpose of most pilgrims, yes. You had a question that your local Vigilants had no records of or could not answer? They deemed the question important enough to send you with a token to ask the Prime?”
Bastian flashed the token from his pocket, “Yes, of course.” He gave Dorius a subtle look that insisted he do the speaking. Clara seemed to relax on seeing the dark token.
“Have you tried to reason with the Vigilants, we’d very much like to speak with the Prime?” continued Bastian.
Gail shook his head sadly, “It has been useless. Nothing we have said, not pleas or bribes or bargains, will get through to them. We ask what can be done to fix things? If they are angry or if there is some sort of retribution needed? And get no answers except silence. I don’t think even they know what they are waiting for, some sign maybe?”
“You can try to plead your case to the Vigilants when they open the gate tonight, I doubt it will get you very far. You’ll see what I mean when the caravan returns,” added Clara, “In the meantime you are welcome to join us. If you can hunt we need to bring food in daily for the community to eat. Some muscle around to help with construction would also be welcome. We hold a morning meeting where work is assigned.”
“We will help where we can,” offered Bastian, “I assume we are free to pitch our tents and graze our bulls?”
The hunter that had guided Dorius and Bastian to the tent nodded, “The spot I showed you is flat, further down the slopes of the meadow has too much debris.”
“Stay clear of the other camp,” Clara added, “The guards struck a girl that got too close to the herds. They’ve also started fights almost daily with the Vigilants and caravans as well. We’ve had a rough time trying to keep things peaceful. Pilgrims are tired and angry, they want something to blame but they would all die if it came to a fight with trained soldiers, even with the advantage of numbers.”
“You called him the snake earlier?” asked Bastian.
Gail nodded, “The Citrine Snake Prince and a small retinue. His older brother, the Carmine Prince, was here just before the gates were closed.”
The snake, in actuality a giant sea serpent, was the sigil of the Second Pentarchy.
—
Val sensed the change in the encampments' air well before she realized what was happening. A tension had begun to build, as if the air pressure was dropping before a storm. The low buzzing that had plagued her thoughts grew in anticipation, now on the verge of giving her a headache.
There was a slow stream of people, making their way towards the center of the two encampments where the road bisected them. Not just workers, but also the despondent pilgrims who huddled in their shelters. The sick and injured rolled from their cots, and with or without the help of peers, joined the growing mass.
Val lowered the firewood she was carrying, hauled from the forest on a brace across her back, and followed the direction of the bodies with her eyes as they assembled. Their attention faced down the slope along the road. From the forest had emerged a convoy of wagons and carts, pulled by fell bulls. These must be the returning natives of High Haven from the day’s round trip to Kal’Fall. The convoy was mostly unremarkable to her eyes, except for two Fae-touched walking near the rear, with horns not unlike her own.
Val wiped the sweat from her brow. She hesitated, considering going to grab her axe, then discarded her brace and rose to follow the next pilgrim who walked by.
The crowd was gathering at the road, blocking the way to the gate for the wagon convoy. Guards further down the road at the convoy were assembling at the fore, arming themselves with shields and simple clubs. Val stood at the back and watched over the crowd, nervously scanning the back of heads for Dorius’ familiar cap or white-blonde hair.
There seemed to be an organized resistance within the front of the pilgrims on the road, led by the hunters from earlier in the day. They jostled with the crowd, waving arms, pointing. Urging them back, that this assembling was futile. This continued for several minutes as the convoy behind began to prepare for the push to the gate.
“Ho, stand down!” came the single authoritative cry, seeming to echo unnaturally in the valley. Val winced as the buzzing shrieked high pitch for a moment in accompaniment. The crowd as one turned to the source. Then the convoy guard began a march, shoulder to shoulder across the road, shields raised. The wagons had pulled in tight behind them.
The tension in the pilgrims mounted. Pleas and cries began as the guards drew close, men and women fell to their knees on the road grasping at shields only to be dragged to their feet again by the hunters and urged on. The crowd pushed forward as one, growing denser.
A scream split the tension as the guards made contact with the mass and began to push them back. Voices raised, pleas turned to fury, fists in the air. Val felt a panic rise in her chest, and began to plow her way through the bodies, desperately grabbing shoulders and wheeling her head about now in the search for Dorius or Bastian. Bodies pressed against her as she beelined for the center of the chaos.
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A groan foreshadowed the great gate beginning to open. From the town, a bell tower tolled. As the sound of the lonely peal faded into the mountains, Val felt the buzzing in the back of her mind threaten to burst.
The crowd shifted again, pulling back towards the gate in anticipation. A second scream of pain came, muffled by the growing cacophony of voices. Val passed a child, and instinctively pulled their body behind her, careful hands keeping them on their feet, and she continued forward into the bodies still. Her chest was tight. Panic only built between the tension of the buzzing and the cacophony of anger and fear around her.
“Clear the way!” another voice this time from the gateway, with a similar quality to the first. It echoed unnaturally in the air - cutting clean through the cacophony of pleas from the mass. A similar shield wall was being mounted from inside the gate. As it opened and the guards pushed outwards clearing the path, Val spied a single bald figure supervising - dressed in heavy robes of purple so deep they could have been black.
The bell tolled a second time, and others joined the song now.
As Val neared the center of the crowd, she got the first clear view of the front. The convoy guards continued their shield wall’s progress. Arms locked with each other, they slowly pressed forward, clearing a path for the wagons and bulls behind them. The hunters, led by Gail and Clara, were intervening in the slim gap between the shield wall and pilgrim mass. They pulled desperate crying men and women back from the wall to clear the path, or swooped to quickly right bodies who stumbled before they were crushed underfoot. Desperately, through it all, they pleaded for peace and were only met with angry fists. Val spied Bastian among them, gesturing to the hunters as he hoisted a limp body away from the shield wall and passed them back into the crowd. Dorius was still nowhere to be seen. The gap they occupied was slim and only growing tighter.
A second commotion began at that point, the encampment on the other side of the road had formed a wedge of shields on their own, and was pushing through the pilgrims towards the gate. Without the hunters managing the new front, bodies who went down did not get to their feet again.
Val burst through then to join the hunters, taking her cue from Bastian supporting them she lowered her shoulders, spread her arms, and pushed back the crowd from the shield wall in an effort to create more space. The melody of the bells swelled, the buzzing yielding to the new song.
The wall of bodies yielded to her, and with slow careful steps she eased the convoy through as anger continued to build. Hands flailed against her head and horns, raining her with blows. She tucked her shoulders tighter in response, and listened to the bells. Instinctively hunters gathered behind her, helping gather pilgrims to their feet that fell beneath her steady march and the returning press of the masses, passing them sideways away from the danger of the crush. Bastian drew close, helping fish yet another body to their feet underneath her and passing them along to a hunter.
“Where is Dorn?” she asked him, turning her head to shield her face from pleading hands.
“Safe,” was the only reply he had time for.
They were drawing close to the gate now, a circular shield wall formed there to keep pilgrims from pressing through the gate. Sensing their loss, the pilgrims were beginning to pull back - easing the press of bodies at the fronts. Both shield walls then met and opened, separating to the sides to clear a pathway for the convoy to pass through. Val stepped back, contained within the pathway created by the shields. The robed figure watched her catch her breath, bells ringing.
The hunters seemed to gather up to join the convoy then, Gail patted Clara on the back and she withdrew to watch them pass, her face dirtied and downcast with disappointment. They seamlessly blended into the convoy and passed through the gates. The robed figure watched every face that entered. In short moments, the group was almost through.
The two horned Fae had the back of the convoy, pushing pilgrims back roughly from the tail. Val intently watched, Fae-touched were all a little different, she had never seen anything so like herself. They were just as tall as her, but slightly slimmer in the body. They each had only two black horns, like her head ones, but lacked the pair on each side of her jawline. One, the older of the pair, had his right horn broken, snapped several inches from the tip with layers of keratin peeling from the edge. He wore a waistband made of wolf’s pelt. Both had the sides of their heads shaved, a mohawk of dark hair between the horns, and had painted their faces with black dirt or ashes.
The younger one noticed Val as they passed, his mouth falling open in shock. He tapped his broken horned companion’s arm, who looked around then stopped eyes on Val. His brows instead drew tight in concern, cutting short Val’s hesitant motion to raise her hand in greeting. He rushed his companion around, throwing her another glance over his shoulder as they turned. Then the convoy was through and they slipped past the gates with it.
“Priest!” yelled a demanding voice over the scattering pilgrims. The robed figure paused for a moment, as the gates continued to shut behind them. The ringing of the bells ceased, but the metallic notes reverberated through the mountain valley still.
“You will let us pass!” The source of the voice was a dark skinned man, dressed in black, standing at the center of the encampment guard that had successfully pierced through the crowd. He pushed aside the shoulder of one of his men, then suddenly had his curved sword drawn and was stalking up to the robed figure. On his chest was an ornate broach in yellow crystal, a figure of a coiling snake.
The robed figure seemed unimpressed and folded their arms, standing back to the gate in confrontation. “There will be no passage to the town nor the Vigil Chapel,” the voice was distinctly feminine, with a dark, husky tone.
“You cannot deny me,” the Citrine Prince raised his blade. Several of his retinue were behind him, trying to pull him back bodily by the shoulder. He shook them off, and pressed his sword menacingly at the Vigilant’s chest.
“Friend, no bloodshed please.” It was Bastian, he took a tentative step towards the two figures. The Prince snapped his head around, scowl growing. He turned his blade towards Bastian… and Val surged.
In the silence between heartbeats, the bells still tolled for her, great clappers crashing against bronze. Each peal rang concordant and true. Like strikes of iron in the forge fire. Bright sparks swelled within her and flames leapt, barely contained.
Within a few steps she was next to Bastian, one handed she reached out and grasped the back of the blade. With a twist of her wrist she wrenched the sword from the Prince’s grip.
His retinue drew their swords as one. Val turned on them. Legs planted wide she lowered her shoulders, throwing the Prince’s blade to the ground in warning, and bellowed like a bull. Fire swelled within her, threatening to burst forth, almost as if her bellow would belch it free to consume her foes. Bastian tried to go around her, but she held out one arm and kept him firmly back. The Vigilant watched her with curious eyes.
“You would threaten me!” snarled the Prince. His guard were on the edge of breaking from formation, waiting for the slightest movement from Val to surge forward.
“Val!” insisted Bastian, pushing her arm aside, and with it her growing irrationality. Hands out, fingers wide, he gestured a surrender, “No threats.”
“You have touched a Prince of the Serpent, I should have that Fae slaughtered!”
“And you threatened a Vigilant and injured a small village of innocents on your march here!” Bastian returned righteously. He gestured to the crowd of pilgrims drawing away from them now, many limping or nursing wounds from the riot. “This is no way for a Prince to act in Free State land.”
The Prince narrowed his eyes and turned on the Vigilant, “I am not at fault! You deny these people not me! You have barred this gate for months, I demand no longer!”
The Vigilant shrugged their shoulders, “Our sacred duties trump your inconvenience. Entry is denied to all.”
“What must we do?” begged Bastian, turning to confront the Vigilant too, “This is madness!? Have you seen how many lay injured today?”
“Injured due to your indifference!” accused the Prince.
Bastian wheeled his head back round and held a finger in accusation, “Injured due to your negligence too!” Val punctuated his rebuke with a snort. The Prince’s guards shifted nervously.
The Vigilant held their hands wide in a gesture of innocence, but their face softened, “We regret the plight of the pilgrims, and the necessity of our actions. The townsfolk within are innocents too. Until the Prime orders it, no outsider will pass,” and with that they turned to slip through the gate.
“No!” yelped Bastian, fingers grasping after the Vigilant’s sleeve and just missing. The gate was shut. He growled and punched the wall in frustration, shaking his hand as he hissed at the pain from the futile gesture. With a great sigh he turned, “What a fucking mess.”
“It has been like this for months, only growing more desperate and chaotic each day,” added the Citrine Prince, approaching Bastian. Val snarled, interposing herself between them. Bastian grabbed her by the shoulder and she let him pull her back. Ducking slightly, he retrieved the Prince’s curved blade and offered it to him hilt first in truce.
The Prince narrowed his eyes, glancing at Val, then grasped the hilt.
After a moment, as if to say he was in control of this situation, Bastian let go of the blade then raised his hands again in surrender, “My companion is protective. Let’s end this and try conversation instead of accusation,” he offered.
Tension seemed to unwind as moments passed. The Prince looked at his guard and the dissipating pilgrims, then sheathed his sword and rubbed tired eyes. His guard relaxed, and several retainers approached. Val sniffed, brows still furrowed, the flame within her had no outlet and simmered in her chest, but at least her head was clear of buzzing for the first time in days.
Bastian, hands on hips, scanned the pilgrims. Despite the screams and chaos earlier, there did not seem to be significant injuries. Many would be nursing bruises or strains, but no lives were lost. Clara hovered on the edge of the encampment, shepherding the masses back, ordering beds and recovery.
The Prince looked the pair of them up and down in study. “You speak rather casually to a Prince,” he commented.
Bastian shrugged. “I am not unused to handling nobility,” he hinted. He rubbed his chin a moment, then considered the Prince. “I think we could be of benefit to each other here, would you be willing to meet with us?”
The Prince laughed at the offer, “Us? And what benefit exactly would peasants offer me?”
“Meet with me and see for yourself,” Bastian clapped Val on the shoulder, bidding her to relax and follow him, “I will come to you.”
Val growled in warning one last time, and followed Bastian back into the pilgrim camp, leaving the Citrine Prince to his retinue. The feeling of fire in her chest smoldered.