I galloped further along the lonely pass with the despondent hope of finding them. I screamed, their names, ignoring all needs of secrecy. Only a host of phantom listeners responded in utter silence. Even the chirping of birds was unheard. The habitual furry woodland creatures have abandoned the forsaken landscape.

As the morning sun rose, the rays of the sun struggled to pierce the unnatural mist. In the faint light dispersed through the haze, the solitary pass opened before me, challenging me to explore its hidden secrets.

I rode the destrier all through the morning hoping to catch any signs left by Karlienne. My search ended in vain.

No signs of bloodshed or battle either.

If Karlienne rode through, she would have left clues.

If they were attacked, there would have been obvious signs. Syrune was no battlemage but the bookish scholar would not have given up without a fight. Moreover, I am convinced that Karlienne would have reserved some alchemical fire or acid for emergencies. All along, there was no sign of conflagration or acidic erosion.

Almost as if they were spirited away.

My thoughts kept degenerating into a spiral of despair. The cadaverous strides of the eldritch knight as he whisked the unconscious Celerim still remained vivid in my memory. The vision taunted me with my own ineptitude.

The only reason that there might be hope to save him kept me in some semblance of control over the overwhelming surge of emotions.

I let the destrier wander further down the pass towards Arlond, mentally auditing the scene that we passed through. Late in the midday, I came across the fresh remains of a campsite. Examining them, I found them to be not older than three or four days. A lot of leftovers or abandoned dried meat, two wineskins containing a strongly alcoholic brew that definitely did not qualify as wine, crude and heavy fur bedrolls and even a pair of sturdy rough boots marked the abandoned campsite.

Definitely Orcs.

They camped and disappeared. Or were forced to leave in a hurry, without bothering to pack their bedrolls or even wear boots. At the corner of my eyes, half-buried in the dust, an obsidian knife gleamed. I dug through and gingerly lifted the knife. It was heavy and robust, but also unbalanced and impractical. Evidently a ritualistic object.

Carved in a groove along the blade, a shaved tooth lay embedded. I no longer had to ponder the identity of the orcs. This was a Dusk Reavers camp or a site where the Dusk Reavers camped before whatever unfathomable event presented itself.

Any capable general would confirm, the orcs make for good shock troops and the Dusk Reavers are their elites. Their ferocity unmatched even by a Justiciar or a Conciliator. It is inconceivable that a party of Dusk Reavers would be captured without a struggle and it is equally unimaginable that a Dusk Reaver would willingly part with the tusk of the forefather.

I cast one more glance, checking for obvious signs of conflict or skirmish. No signs of any.

A small critter hurriedly scurried away with a small chunk of the dried meat. Dragging its precious trophy beneath. Presuming that meat to be not poisoned based on the actions of the critter, I sated the ravenous growls of my belly with the leftover dried meat.

Before leaving, for a single fleeting moment, I flirted with the idea of carrying the tusk of the forefather. Plenty of tales about orcs, pledging an oath of friendship to the returners of their treasured mark but then cast that thought aside. If the luck of my previous days were to hold true, I would most likely find myself being hunted by an elite orc hunting party for slaying their kin.

I mounted my destrier and continued further on my path to Arlond, leaving the desolate campsite behind.

*****

The haunted pass and the still night were my only companions as I rode through. Even the occasional howls from the ravenous dire wolves, that pierced the silence of the night, kept their distance. Almost as if something predatory from the apex stalked the pass.

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I prayed for something to relieve me of the solitude mangling me. Close to daybreak, another lone campsite answered my prayers.

More scattered remains of items of clothing, compact bedrolls, weather-resistant blankets, even some small trinkets and backpacks lay abandoned. Slight metallic runes of gold and silver embedded on the blankets still vibrantly pulsated, giving the blankets a lively sheen.

Trinkets with ivory enamelled gold and some minor insignia denoting ranks were all that I found after rummaging into the backpacks. I fished more the contents and found, wrapped in a velvet cloth, another small object, heavy for its size, with a circular center and thin tendrils of rays emanating to the periphery. Belongings of some high-elven cleric or paladin.

Judging by the leftover oddities, it was difficult to infer the exact time of the exploration group but it should have been years, if not decades.

“Whenever you gain new intelligence, rework on your initial assumption rather than trying to fit the new information to your presumptions,” the first piece of useful advice I received from general Savvas echoed.

I knelt down by the forsaken campsite, removed The Sentinel and laid it before me. Even in the low light of the dawn, its blade glinted, radiating courage.

Arlond, the city or rather, its inhabitants mysteriously disappeared in a single day. Most search parties sent were lost. The few who returned claimed that the city was abandoned, bereft of its inhabitants and the explorers.

After Asterlund, I would have sworn it was daemonic or otherworldly in nature, but the disappearance of the Dusk Reavers and the elven exploration party leads to an evident conclusion. Whatever happened or dwells in Arlond, is still active.

In order to anchor breaches of that scale over an extended period of time would propagate significant ruction of the arcane sort, one that would not fly under the scrutiny from the multitude of mage organisations.

Ruling out extraplanar invasion leads me to necromancy as the plausible approach. After all, deserted towns are a necromancer’s haven. Except, before me, lies the deserted campsite with relics of the Paladins.

Dusk Reavers leaving behind their memento, their only connection to their clan, to their ancestors and High-elven paladins abandoning their faith. A task neither would do willingly.

The only other logical conclusion, I could infer, ignoring even the absurdity of the claim, is either a large scale ensnarement spell or a mass mind-altering illusion cast over large area and maintained over an extended period of time.

Minor illusion and conjuration spells are the parlour trick for most mages, but lasting spells over a large region, only a few mythical or specialised creatures have been known to possess such prowess.

Some obscure serpent guardians have been recorded to cast such spells but never in these parts. Spectral Ungoliants might have been able to cast spells of such a magnitude by weaving them into their web. The Viridian Dawn Ranger confirmed a lack of spider infestations. Even affected by the spell, the dire wolves bore no sign of spider venom outside the region, that strikes giant spiders from the list of suspects.

The Viridian Dawn Rangers commented about the woods being vibrant. I entertained the idea of dryads having a hand or a branch in the ploy. The more I ruminated on the theory, the more plausible and yet absurd it became. The dryads would have the necessary skills, if co-ordinated, to cast a mass spell over a region. Except their spells would resort to using hallucinogenic pollens and Karlienne, consummate as a herbalist and the Fool-Who-Seeks are sensitive to potent pollens in the air. This leaves me with the most ridiculous theory that I could conjure. Some other fae enclave’s design at play.

With firm resolve, I grabbed the hunting knife and freed it from its sheath. The cruel blade of the knife flashed twice issuing a cautionary warning to what I was about to do. Almost as if the blade wanted me to reconsider my option.

I liberated my left hand from the confines of the dark riding gloves and faced it palm upwards. Summoning hard grit, I pierced my left palm with the sharp tip of the hunting knife and drew across, parting the skin and exposing the flesh beneath.

Excessive concentrated pain or pleasure is the only way to break a strong fae enchantment. Pleasure was a ridiculous notion and I scoffed at the implication of it. Pain is my only option and deep down I held a sliver of hope for the pain to break me free.

I bit my teeth as the first wave of pain issued from my left hand. As the blood oozed from the open maw, I balled my fist, squeezing tightly. Eventually, the pain subsided, or rather, my honed ability to ignore pain kicked in.

I yoked my mind and concentrated on my left palm, on the open wound, on the blood spilling from it, on the waves of agony that palpitated from it. I needed to focus on the pain. The pain is my relief. The pain is my salvation.

Finding the pain gradually slipping away, I gripped the hilt of The Sentinel with my left palm. The corporeal feel of something metallic to grab with my wounded palm increased the pain. Blood flowed from the cut and trickled down the blade of The Sentinel.

I closed my eyes to converge my fleeting sense to the pain emanating from my left hand, the pulsating wave of agony, that throbbed and spread through my body. In a delinquent manner, like an unpunctual truant, finally came the cold from the loss of blood.

It was time to reveal the broken spell.

I slowly opened my eyes and stared directly into the slitted iris of the Knight of Ash and Smoke. A shiver of unnatural cold passed through my spine.