The Behemoths weren’t made for carrying passengers. Their cramped, hot cabins had just enough space for the crew that was operating them. Every inch of space was utilized for function, leaving minimal room for comfort. The air itself was tinged with the scent of oil, sweat, and a faint metallic tang.
Fawkes was more than glad to ride on top of the old metal vehicle. One of Blacktalon’s riders - a squat young woman with intricate face tattoos - helped her wear what the other’s called a child’s harness, a piece of intricate knotwork crafted from thick, rough hemp rope.
“We don’t want you falling down, do we, sai?” the woman told her with a smile as she tightened the harness around Fawke’s torso and fastened it to an anchor point welded on the vehicle’s roof. “Plug your ears with these, too. It’s going to get loud as soon as we start moving. Won’t be long, now.” She handed Fawkes two pieces of some kind or rubbery putty, which made for surprisingly effective earplugs, then she disappeared down the hatch and took her place in the belly of the Behemoth.
Fawkes had to give it to Elder Rook, the man ran a tight ship. She found herself wondering whether Elder Wroth’s own Behemoth crew were as well-organized and disciplined. If she’d had to bet, she’d bet against it. Elder Rook was a man carved from stone; sharp-gazed, strict, unyielding, always composed. His presence alone demanded respect. His sharp gaze and precise movements spoke of a mind that valued efficiency above all else. Fawkes’s old master would have approved of that. From whispers she’d gathered here and there, some among the Brennai found his leadership harsh, though undeniably effective. Fawkes’s old master would have approved of that, too.
Elder Wroth, on the other hand, was a bear of a man, his voice booming with the remnants of past glories, or whatever passed as glories in this coarse and unrefined land. He carried himself with the swagger of a warrior-hero, but Fawkes still wasn’t certain whether he lived up to his reputation. His once-great muscles were now starting to soften by the passage of time. Sooner rather than later, younger men would overtake him, the next generation of Brennai braves. That would be the true test for Elder Wroth’s mettle.
She knew, deep down, that her feelings toward the Brennai were more than just mistrust born out of her instincts of self-preservation. They were tainted by a prejudice she couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but it lingered in the back of her mind, coloring her thoughts and reactions. She told herself it was just caution, that years of dealing with people had taught her to be wary. But if she was honest, she’d admit that she looked down on them, saw them as backward and stubborn. Primitive, in a way.
Again, her old master would have approved.
Another passenger climbed atop the Behemoth, strapped in a hemp harness just like hers. It was Elder Rook’s Transient. Fawkes had spied the man a couple of times before, never more than a stone’s throw away from Rook. The Elder had him on a short leash, it looked like.
He was Reiner’s age, more or less, no more than a few years older than Hunter. His skin was a warm olive tone, the skin of a man touched by distant, sunlit lands. He was of medium height, built like a warrior, and clad in practical traveling gear, weathered but well-maintained. He had a sturdy jaw and high cheekbones, and a five o’clock shadow gave his otherwise friendly-looking face a touch of ruggedness.
The man was dressed like a Behemoth nation rider, more or less, but he was not armed like one. Strapped to his back he carried a simply forged, one-and-a-half hand sword with a well-worn handle. Fawkes knew the kind - it was what every two-bit mercenary carried from here to Quortain. It had probably been mass-produced in the lands further down south from the Weald, then looted from some old battlefield.
He sat down next to Fawkes and attached his harness to another anchor point. Then turned to her, flashed her a wide smile, and offered what must have been a greeting..
“Can't hear you,” Fawkes said, and unplugged one of her ears.
“Oh, right, right. Sorry. I said, my name’s Muirden. Great to meet you.”
“Fawkes.” She shook the hand he offered her. He had a firm handshake, an honest one.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Muirden went on. “You’re the one the Hawk nation roped in to train their Aspirants, right?”
“No, I’m not,” Fawkes said. “And yes, I am.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Wroth’s ecstatic. Not only is he getting to train a Transient, but he’s getting, and I quote, ‘that hard-bitten swordstress witch from out west’ as his assistant.”
“Assistant?” Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man chuckled. “The man’s got a gift for blowing things out of proportion, especially if it fits his boasting.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Wroth and Elder Rook kind of have a friendly rivalry going on,” Muirden explained, leaning a bit closer as if trying to avoid being heard. “Elder Rook will say the whole thing is totally one-sided, but I think deep down he enjoys getting under the big old boy’s skin.”
As if summoned, Elder Rook popped his head out of the Behemoth’s commander’s hatch. When he saw the two of them chatting, he pursed his lips in disapproval.
“Prepare yourselves. We’re about to set off. Try not to fall over the side, if you please.”
Fawkes and the Transient tightened their harnesses for a last time and plugged their ears. With a low rumble Fawkes felt in her bones, the great metal beast came to life, cogs and crankshafts and pistons and all, and they were off.
She found the ride neither long nor unpleasant. To a woman who’d grown up riding on horseback for days on end, just sitting on an ancient, roaring metal vehicle for a half-hour was nothing. The only thing she disliked was how loud it was. She and this new Transient had to cut their discussion short. And while Fawkes disliked small-talk, she also disliked the idea of missing the opportunity to learn more about Elder Rook and his crew of Behemoth riders.
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Plus, getting to know another Transient a bit might prove to be a good way to understand Hunter better.
Not to worry, she thought. She’d have ample opportunities to interrogate the young man later in the following days.
Their destination was a clearing of sorts, as deep in the Weald as the Behemoth was able to go - which was not very deep, truth be told. Elder Rook had shared his plan with her earlier in the day, when he’d suggested that she come along. They were to set up a forward camp, then use it to scout deeper in the Weald. Fawkes was the only person that had seen the carnage left behind by what monster slew the Brennai with her own eyes. Or at least she was the only person among the eye-witnesses of the slaughter that Elder Rook seemed to have a smidgen of respect for. As such, Elder Rook wanted her along in his reconnaissance.
Rook’s braves worked with practiced efficiency. Not five minutes after the Behemoth’s huge wheels first trampled the grass and shrubbery of the clearing, tents were being set up, firepits and latrines were being dug, guard duties were being assigned. Fawkes had never really been a part of a larger group herself, but she knew enough to tell that this was how the free companies and mercenary groups of the Wessmar Marches were trained to operate - a far cry from what she’d expect from a bunch of, well, Brennai.
The Transient, Muirden, was helping too. In fact, were it not for the fact that his complexion and bone structure were decidedly unlike that of the Brennai folken, she could have easily mistaken him for just any other of Rook’s crew. She liked that. In her experience, there was nothing like having a common cause and facing adversity side by side to iron out any silly preconceptions about gender, bloodline, station, or whatever gods-forsaken superstitions people clung to. When death was staring you in the face, none of those things mattered a damn. All that counted was the steel in your hand, the grit in your soul, and the trust you could place in the person fighting beside you.
Or at least that’s what she liked to think, what she’d been taught to think. Her master never encumbered himself with such trivial preconceptions, save for the purity of áeld blood running in one’s veins - and the lack thereof.
Not one to sit idle when others toiled, Fawkes walked up to the Elder, who himself was helping a couple of his riders set up a tent.
“What should I do?”
Elder Rook looked up, frowned, took a look at the toiling throng of crewmen and women around them.
“You!” he called to the squat young woman who had helped Fawkes put on her harness. She was carrying an armload of dry sticks and branches to a firepit that was still being dug. “Follow the outlander, make sure there’s nothing of note a bowshot away from the camp.”
“Yes, Elder!”
Another crew member rushed to relieve her from her load, and the young woman went straight to Fawkes’s side. Elder Rook, still frowning, went back to helping with the tent.
“Greetings to you, outlander,” she said, placing a fist over her heart and bowing her head a bit. “I am Haleth, of the crew of Blacktalon, of the Clan Awanatu, of the Behemoth Nation. It is an honor to walk with you.”
“Fawkes of the Lodge, of the Foreign West,” Fawkes replied, mimicking the girl’s overly formal manner. “Likewise. Thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re welcome, sai!” Haleth brightened, then threw a wary glance at the stringent Elder. “Come, let us be off. Time frittered away is a crop unplanted, or so my mother used to say.”
They circled the perimeter of the camp, making sure the area was safe and secure. The young woman moved swiftly through the dense underbrush in a quiet, practiced manner, her eyes scanning every shadow and flicker of movement. She paused every few paces, listening intently for any unusual sounds, checking for any signs of lurking predators or hidden threats, covering every angle. Again, Fawkes was impressed. The more she saw of Blacktalon’s crew, the more the better she liked them.
Following the younger woman’s example, she let her own senses attune to the forest’s rhythm and its subtle shifts. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The ground beneath their feet was soft, cushioned by layers of fallen leaves. The canopy above filtered the fading light into dappled patches that slowly danced across the forest floor. A faint breeze whispered through the branches, stirring the leaves with a soft, sighing sound, interrupted only by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush.
Her mind adrift, Fawkes found herself wishing Reiner was there with her. How many times had they done this exact same thing, the two of them? How many times had they set up camp, how many forests had they combed for threats, how many leagues of road had they traveled? Too many to count. She felt her heart sink again, she felt the fingers of despair pull at the fraying edges of her psyche.
That fool.
That thrice-damned fool.
“You saw the site of one of the killings, right, sai?” Haleth asked Fawkes a few minutes later, mercifully pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts. “One of the worst ones?”
“It was bad, yes.”
“Could you tell me what you saw, so that I better know what signs to look for?”
Fawkes thought about whether she should consult with the Elder first, then she decided she didn’t care.
“There are low-dwellers sneaking about in the Weald,” she told the younger woman. “That’s the first thing you should be looking out for. Know what they are?”
“The Misbegotten,” said Haleth, not looking very certain about her answer. “Yes, I know of them. Wicked beasts made from warped flesh and bone, servants of the Skaarn witches.”
“Ever seen one?”
“Uh… no.”
“They’re primarily scavengers,” Fawkes explained, “preying on the weak and feasting on corpses. They’re big as men. They hunt in packs and fight with fang and claw. They're vicious, savage, but not too bright. Just don’t let them surround you or pin you down. Their tracks look somewhat human, but they walk on all fours, like badgers. You will know they are around from the smell of their spoor. Imagine a mix of rot, decay, and the pungent stench of festering wounds.”
The young Behemoth rider was hanging to her every word, probably trying not to miss any minute detail. She would be sharing that information with her fellow crewfolk as soon as possible, Fawkes guessed.
“Is that what you think is killing the Brennai, then?” Haleth asked once she made sure Fawkes was done talking. “The Misbegotten?”
“Oh, no, no. There is definitely something else out here. Something big, strong. Unnatural. Intelligent. Evil.” Fawkes wasn’t trying to scare the woman. She was speaking in the most flat, matter-of-fact way she could - because those were all facts. If Elder Rook’s crew wanted to go out in the Weald looking for the thing, they should at least know what they were dealing with.
“It’s strong enough to pull people apart limb by limb with brute force alone,” she went on. “Big enough to string them up on branches like sweetmeats on a Yule tree. Intelligent and evil enough to arrange the corpses in profane ways. Sometimes it leaves footprints, somewhat human-like, but bigger than any print you’ve seen. Sometimes it does not. And there’s more still. It can probably hypnotize people, have them follow it to their death as if sleep-walking.”
Haleth had gone pale. She was looking at Fawkes with a mixture of disbelief and caution, as if trying to gauge whether she was being truly serious.
“Does Elder Rook know all that?”
“I imagine he does,” Fawkes shrugged.
“If what you say is true, sai,” the young woman said, “then Ancestors help us.”
“Yes,” Fawkes said and let her gaze drift at the treeline. “I reckon they better.”