Chapter 35: The Plains of Ashara

The wind had the stench of salt and rot, whispering across the plains of Ashara, where the earth itself seemed to sag under the weight of a long-forgotten grief. Kael Voryn did not flinch. His eyes, bloodshot and empty of all but purpose, scanned the horizon—a horizon that stretched to nothing, as though even the land itself had abandoned this place. Behind him, the Servants of Basidin trudged, their every footfall an echo of the inevitable destruction they were about to unleash.

Kael’s gaze flicked to his companions, the Servants of Basidin. They were like him in so many ways—empty husks before they had been filled with the will of their dark master. Yet even as they marched, the madness that simmered within each of them was already beginning to surface, like fissures in a cracked skull. The pendant—always the pendant—warmed their skin, the twisted, gnarled tree engraved upon it writhing with power, each of its crooked roots pulling at their souls.

Although Akar was no longer with the group, he appeared every so often from lofty vantage points atop his black destrier. Overlooking from atop a foothill, at the crest of a peak, or even atop buildings or the ruins of a tower, in one instance. He was Basidin’s High Servant, and appointed to watch over Basidin’s Servants, who now marched towards their destinations. Although they all marched wearily toward the Plains of Ashara, all but Kael had different destinations.

Breen Slate was the first to slip from the path. He had been walking steadily beside Festal Crowe, but now his footsteps grew erratic, stumbling as if something unseen had taken hold of his mind.Without a word, Breen veered off course, his heavy boots dragging through the dead grass toward the distant village.

"Stay focused, Breen," Kael muttered under his breath, his voice a low command, but it was no use. Breen was lost already. Like the others, he had been marked, and now he was drawn toward whatever whispering call the pendant offered. Kael could hear the whispers. Festal heard them too, Kael knew.

They would each seek out a town, a village, a helpless settlement, and bring them to their knees—feeding them to the endless hunger of Windem’s royal army. But Kael had no need to worry about them. Basidin had preferred this way--Akar had assured him. The people wouldn’t be able to resist the draw of the pendant. People were starving. The land was dying. Those who hadn’t already defected to Solaria or Brantley in search of refuge and sanctuary would gladly take up the call of Basidin and King Tarren if it meant food and water.

Mildred was developing a reputation amongst the capitol as Mother of Windem--willingly leading and teaching all the children of Windem who came to the capitol for rescue. Men and women were being recruited for other things--like war and service. The Knights of Windem had disbanded, but the Royal Army was regrowing now. And Basidn’s Servants only helped to bloat their numbers.

Marsh Geral, ever the opportunist, glanced at the others, his eyes sharp and calculating. He'd been one of the more stable ones, more cunning than the rest. But now his lips quivered, his body twitching as though some unseen tether was pulling him to the east. Without hesitation, he reached for his pendant, clutched it tight, and followed Breen into the distance.

Fed Moltec, the one-eyed, three-toothed wretch, grinned a half-crazed grin, already muttering to himself. His lone eye flickered between the others and the symbol of the twisted tree hanging at his neck. The madness was always present in him, but now it was louder, more tangible. He let out a guttural laugh and fell into line behind Marsh, his remaining teeth gnashing as though he were already tearing into something unseen.

Festal Crowe, second in command and the most disciplined of the Servants, took a slow breath, his dark eyes narrowing. He had always been Kael’s right hand, the one who kept the others in line when they teetered too close to madness. But now, even he could feel the pull of the pendant—the irresistible draw of Basidin’s power—and he faltered. It was as though something in him had broken.

Kael clenched the reins of the Cropkiller tighter, urging the beast forward. Alone now, he would carry the Rot to Windem’s most fertile croplands—the heart of its food supply—and with it, he would drain the land itself of life, leaving only decay in his wake. The Cropkiller’s hooves clattered against the cracked earth, the sound echoing like a death knell as the Veracifer slithered silently beside him. The other Veracifer that had begun the campaign with Basidin’s Servants had gotten lost a few days prior. They’d only found out where it had went when they stumbled upon the chaotic remains of a tiny village where people without any of their five senses were crawling through the streets and wailing as though dead already. That had been pitiful, and Kael had seen to it that the village folk were put out of their misery. Fed Moltec had taken particular pleasure in that command, brandishing a rusted stave he found laying in the grass and plummeting the pointed end of the stave into anyone he found laying without any sense.

A brief flicker of thought passed through Kael's mind—Tristan Blackthorn and his companions. Akar had predicted they would come for them. Kael allowed himself a small, twisted smile. It had been foreseen. They would play their part, but in the end, the Rot would not be stopped. Not this time. Basidin had revealed the face of the one whom he’d marked. His name was Kenton, kissed by wolves as his dream had shown him. The Rot was in him already, and no amount of medicine would heal it. Kenton and Kael, the two commanders of Basidin’s armies. Former Lord Commander Elric Drakonstone had taken up as Castellan and Lord over Stormhold, a prize from Basidin for Elric’s loyalty. Kael wondered if he’d be rewarded with some land or perhaps a castle if he did his part as a commander in the battle to come. He clicked his teeth, urging the Cropkiller along.

Kael’s eyes hardened as he stared toward the horizon. Ashara stretched before him, vast and empty, like the rest of the world would soon become. He could already feel the weight of Basidin’s presence pulling him, guiding him. The pendant burned hot against his skin. Kael clutched it in his hand, kissed it.

It would begin here. In the heart of Windem’s most fertile fields. And by the time Tristan and his companions arrived, it would be far too late.

The Rot was coming. And nothing would stop it.

* * *

The sky over the Plains of Ashara was an endless expanse of pale gray, the sun a faint, sickly disk that barely pierced the thick cloud cover. The land stretched out before them like a vast, unbroken ocean of dust and cracked earth, where the wind whispered with a dry, biting hunger that seemed to gnaw at the bones of the weary travelers. The group had been walking for days. Days that had blurred together into a haze of exhaustion, hunger, and frustration. With every mile they traveled, the wind howled louder, and the land grew darker despite the ever-present sun.

As night fell, they made camp in a small hollow, the ground hard and uneven beneath them. There would be no fire tonight, as there was no wood, no fuel, and nothing left to burn. They huddled together in silence, the weight of the endless march settling on their shoulders like an oppressive fog.

The loss of Eamon had been something that hadn't been talked about, nor did anyone have any interest in doing so. Tristan felt the weight of Eamon’s death on his shoulders, as the assassin had been sent for him. Asherin felt guilty too, knowing perhaps she could have done better to ward off the assassin. He’d broken her nose in two places, although it hadn’t needed to be pushed back into place, thankfully. Her whole face still throbbed, though it had been three days since they had crossed the Granite Ford.

The second day was the luckiest. The wind died for a time, which allowed them to make significant progress across the Plains even on foot. They were not yet at the great croplands that had been the contributor to much rich trade through Windem’s busiest roads, but they were encroaching on its southern tip. Not much lived out this way, and the group had counted their lucky stars when they came upon a couple of hares that were munching on a clove of grass not two feet from where they had set up a brief camp during the middle of the day to rest their weary feet.

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Nothelm had killed them. He was quick with his dagger, stalking through the tall grasses on his belly like a snake. It would have been comical weren’t it for the fact that they were hungry beyond anything they could ever imagine. Loren had stuffed her face with grass and a few sticks, testing them in her mouth for a few seconds before gagging and then spitting it out in a forceful lurch. It nearly landed in Tristan’s lap, who heaved a few exhausted shutters of laughter before clutching at his stomach sensitively to try and abate the hunger pangs that plagued him.

They had lost their packs at the stonebridge. Tristan had merely slipped off his pack and watched it fall off the ledge during their scrap with the assassin. Nothelm had not remembered what happened to his, and Loren, Asherin, and Kenton had surrendered their packs to the Knights manning the toll in exchange for a generous portion of the meats that they were roasting in a spit over the fire.

It all seemed so foolish now. Kenton’s scars had worsened even further since they had no longer administered the medication.

The days blurred together. The relentless landscape offered no respite. They had no map, no landmarks to guide them, only the vague hope that somewhere beyond the horizon there was an oasis or a village that could offer them food and water.

By the fourth day, they’d lost track of the hours. Time felt as if it were slipping through their fingers, carried away by the harsh wind. The sun, a distant, hazy ball of light, was little more than a reminder of their thirst. Loren kept a steady rhythm in her steps, and when she would glance back at the others, her expression would soften ever so slightly. She kept the group together, urging them onward with quiet words of encouragement.

“We’re not far,” she would say. "Just a little further. We can make it.”

On the fifth day, the group began to show the true strain of the journey. Asherin’s back ached from the weight of her armor, her shoulders bruised where the straps had worn against her skin. Kenton’s limp had worsened, his wounds leaking more and more black liquid, staining his clothing and making each step a trial of endurance. He didn’t speak of it, but the others could see the way his eyes shifted between them, searching for any ounce of help or respite one of them might be able to offer him. Unfortunately, they had none.

Tristan’s mind often wandered back to what had started this all. He thought of Twin Hills and of Sesten. Of his little hut and the old days when he’d grown up with Ma and waited patiently for the next visit of his Uncle Bodry. He wondered what Bodry was doing now, supposedly still being held captive in Sesten with the Denderrikans. He hoped Bodry had managed to escape, or at least evade further suffer and torture. He was unlikely to yield any information to whoever was questioning him, Tristan knew that for fact. The only problem was that Bodry’s resistance to their methods and his loyalty to the cause of Windem could only result in his own detriment. Tristan wondered if Bodry would keep up his same stoicism if only he knew that state that Windem had fallen into. If he knew of the shadow that had engulfed Windem, and covered all of its land like huge black cloak.

He wondered where his Ma was, and if she was still with Elric Drakonstone. Was she being held prisoner? Were they mistreating her? Or had Elric propped her up like a queen, having her at his side in all his endeavors. Tristan gaped at the thought of his Ma enjoying life inside the castle like a noble--doing all the things that she had always wished Gareth would do for her. Tristan’s father had always been more protective of her, keeping her separate from his life as Lord Commander.

It was their sixth day of travel, and the exhaustion was beginning to sap the group of any remaining will to carry onward. Nothelm was the first to acknowledge it. His gruff voice broke the silence as he spoke up, his tone strained with exhaustion.

“We’ll rest here. Just for a while,” he said, though it was clear from the way his shoulders sagged that he was pushing through his own limits.

Loren glanced at Tristan. Her eyes were filled with silent questions, but she said nothing. Tristan nodded, his lips tight. “Alright. We’ll rest. But not for long.”

They dropped their packs and sank to the ground, the harsh earth pressing into their bones. There was no real shelter here, no trees to hide under, no shade to offer comfort. The wind blew relentlessly across their faces, carrying with it the smell of the Rot. The Rot had taken hold of the wind, but land itself was still okay. That gave Tristan hope. Surely that meant the Servants of Basidin hadn’t reached Ashara yet. The Rot would have spread like wildfire and reached their current location by now.

The next day was more of the same. A slow, miserable trudge across the land culminated in a long rest just as the sun was beginning to set. The sun had barely set when the an unusually strong gust of wind swept across the plains, signaling the beginning of what should have been another ordinary evening in the midst of Low Winter. The plains of Ashara were known for their biting winds during this phase of winter. Bitter, cold gusts that rattled the bones and whipped at the skin, but nothing too unusual. The sky, heavy and leaden with clouds, hung low above the barren land, yet the storm had not yet made its presence known.

Loren, who had been scanning the horizon, narrowed her eyes and glanced back at the others. “Something’s not right,” she muttered, the wind snatching her words before they could fully escape her lips.

Nothelm, ever the pragmatist, grunted. “It’s just the Low Winter, the winds get worse this time of year. Nothing new.”

“What--a Brantish man is going to bring us news of the weather this far north? When have you ever lived through a Low Winter?” asked Tristan, chuckling lightly to himself.

The gusts began to howl louder, swirling in tight circles around them like a hungry beast. The temperature dropped rapidly, far colder than it had any right to be for Low Winter. Tristan could see his breath turning to vapor in the air, the chill creeping up his spine, a gnawing, biting cold that cut through their layers of clothing like a blade.

Kenton shivered involuntarily, and Asherin’s usually steady steps faltered as the wind hit them like a physical force. “It’s not just Low Winter,” she said, voice rising above the howling gusts. “This feels like a storm.”

Before they could react, the storm fully unfurled. The wind roared to life, its momentum gathering strength in a matter of moments. The gusts tore across the plains, sending the dust swirling so thickly that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. A strange, violent chill gripped the air, the temperature plunging far beyond what they could’ve expected.

“We must find shelter!” Tristan shouted, his voice barely audible. “Now!”

Tristan pointed, spotting a massive rock formation just ahead, an enormous piece of rock rising out of the flat, barren land. It had been carved by years of wind and strange weather, with a jagged opening wide enough for all of them to fit inside.

Tristan made his way toward it, leading the group and ushering them to hurry with his arm. The group scrambled inside the opening, breathless and wide-eyed, as the storm’s force intensified behind them.

The moment they were inside, Nothelm immediately set to work gathering the last of their dry firewood, which they had been carefully rationing. Loren helped him quickly arrange the logs while the others huddled near the back of the stone shelter, clutching their cloaks tightly against the unnatural cold that had settled in their bones. The wind howled like a maddened beast outside, the sound bending and twisting around the rocks as though it were trying to break through.

Nothelm, his face grim but determined, struck his flint against a stone, sending sparks onto the pile of dry wood. The fire caught quickly, crackling to life with a sudden burst of heat that pushed back against the cold that clung to their skin. The light of the fire danced across the rock walls, casting long, flickering shadows in the small shelter.

Once the flames had settled into a warm blaze, Asherin helped wedge a large rock across the opening, sealing it as best as they could. It wasn’t perfect, but it blocked most of the wind. The warmth from the fire seeped into the air, though it was not enough to entirely fend off the chill still pressing at the edges of the rocky shelter.

When morning finally arrived, the storm had finally eased up. They emerged from their shelter cautiously, their faces pale from the cold and the exhaustion. Loren’s face suddenly lit up, unable to believe what she was seeing.

The plains were dotted with frozen carcasses. Dozens of animals and wild game that had once roamed the land freely lay scattered across the ground. Deer, wolves, even smaller creatures, all lifeless and stiff as if the storm had claimed them in an instant. Their bodies were encased in layers of frost, frozen solid by the bitter cold. The group immediately began dragging the carcasses of the nearest animals back to their hidden shelter where they skinned them and got busy roasting the animals over a fire. They filled their stomachs until they couldn’t fit another bit, and then topped it off with cold, refreshing water made of the thin layer of snow and frost that had coated the land overnight.

Once they had finished eating and hydrating themselves, they packed up their camp and prepared for the final leg of their trip.

“I think we’re close,” said Tristan as he led the way again. Small sprouts of vegetation began to pop up underfoot.

“Look,” said Nothelm, laughing. He kneeled down and picked a flower. It was a beautiful purple peddled flower he’d never seen before.

“The Croplands are near,” said Loren, smiling. “And it looks like we might just make it in time after all,” her last words trailed off as realization dawned on the group. They would soon be face to face with Basidin’s Servants. And that was not a thought which made their legs any lighter as they journeyed onward toward the Cropland of Ashara.