We are not far now,” reported Huslen as the sun began to dip below the horizon of the woods. “Tosont should be no more than three miles off.”

“Good riddance,” sniffed Dagun, taking a swig from a wineskin before continuing. “A man my age should not be sleeping out in the wild.”

The fact the Khormchak envoy spoke from within a great horse-drawn palanquin of silver and silks seemed to be lost on him, and Huslen gave a small smile when he was sure Dagun-noyan was not looking. Even in the darkening hours the midsummer woods about them were oppressively humid, and with the coming dark the flies that fell upon those not riding in the palanquin were unending in number and spitefulness. The tail of Huslen’s horse swished to and fro, slapping away handfuls of the wretched biters, but all the keshik bodyguard riding it could do was grit his teeth and uselessly wave his hand before his face.

“I dislike this country - more so at dark,” complained Baiju, who rode at the head of the column. “Who did that noyan think he was, ordering us out like that? We should scale his walls and cut that pig’s throat when we return.”

Huslen shared the lancer’s sentiment, and saw Dagun nodding along, entertaining the idea. The horsehair banner that Baiju held stiff in his stirrup should have set all men on their journey to their knees in respect for the Great Khan’s envoy - such was the case, until they had come to the city of Bayan. There, the local noyan - a man of the Quanli tribe - had barred the gates of the settlement and set archers along the walls. And so such time that they should have spent drinking and feasting as guests of honor, they now spent hurriedly making their way across the border towards the next town along their path before dark, at Dagun’s request.

The Quanli tribe and their noyans could afford to be defiant, but the subject Klyazmite peoples certainly could not - if a boyar turned their band away, then the entire country would bleed white just as it had twenty years ago. Even the bandits who were endemic along the forest roads knew better and scattered before the white banner - for besides the looming threat of the Great Khan’s wrath, the envoy Dagun was in the company of thirty keshiks, the khan’s own bodyguards. Iron and leather-clad was each man, with a lance at his side and a bow holstered close by - they were all veterans of a hundred battles, and they feared nothing beneath the Eternal Sky.

Until now. Something felt strange to Huslen, tromping through the darkening woods of the Klyazmite borderland. A chilling breeze blew along the tops of the trees, and when their branches rustled it sounded as though they were whispering, calling to something beyond. Ever since they had left the native steppe, it felt as though a heavy pall were hanging over their heads - or perhaps a sword, dangling from a fraying string.

No one else in the company seemed put off; but then again, none of them had the blood of the forest people running through their veins as Huslen had. None of them could see the world as he did, especially not the spirits who lingered in every clump of soil and every blade of grass. Yet the spirits were strangely silent all through their ride - it was as though they had fled…or died. And worse than the silence of the earth, Huslen felt that he, and everyone in their column, was being watched.

It was not the spirits - their eyes looked kindly upon Huslen, and were indifferent to the others in his band. The presence that Huslen felt was a terrible force that loomed suffocatingly vast, yet was unseen - still, he felt it, like a giant predator lurking just out of sight. His head was on a swivel all through their ride in the woods, and while he could bring himself to forget about it for a time, it always came back, creeping in from the corners of his mind.

A darkness. A terrible, drowning darkness, lingering in places cold and unkind to men.

The sudden sound of thundering hooves set him on guard, and a dim splash of color came up around a bend in the forest trail. Huslen only let his breath loose when he saw it was the plume of the herald they’d sent on to announce that illustrious Dagun-noyan, envoy of the Horde and tax-collector of the Klyazmites, was in a foul mood and expected wine, a bed, and a girl to warm the latter - and that any delay would be punished by steeper tithe. But the look on the messenger’s face as he rode up to the palanquin was not that of a man who’d been sent kindly on his way.

Both messenger and horse were exhausted, and there was a look of fear in the man’s eyes as he pulled up beside Dagun. “My lord…something is amiss at Tosont.”

The old noyan poked his head out from the palanquin window, scowling. “Speak up, man! What’s wrong now?”

“Everything’s…silent, my lord,” spoke the messenger, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Everything’s…dark. It’s all strange, dark as night, and I heard no voices, saw no men on the walls. The gates were left swinging open, my lord.”

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Huslen felt his blood run cold, and the aged leather of his gloves creaked as he gripped the reins of his horse. He did not bother to hide his fear now, but Dagun took no notice.

“Feh,” sneered the envoy as he shifted in his seat. “Does the sight of an empty village unman a keshik? The rats are probably hiding - their lord probably fled.”

The envoy made to take another swig from his wineskin, then frowned as it came up empty. Scowling again, Dagun tossed it aside. “Either way, I tire of making camp beneath the stars. We ride on - and if there are any Klyazmite rats we can scare up, there will be hell to pay.”

Huslen set his mouth in a hard line as the messenger fell back into line with the column. They had all served under Dagun-noyan long enough to know he was not a man that listened to the counsel of those beneath him. There was nothing they could say - the order was given, and the blood-sworn of the Great Khan were bound to follow.

As they went on, what little light remained quickly died away. The clear sky turned a deep purple, and was nearly black by the time they rode into view of the waiting town. Huslen loosened his sabre in its sheath as they drew closer, and the silhouette of the wooden ringwall came into view. His heart stood still as he and the company saw the gates, creaking loudly on their iron hinges as they swayed.

“What’s going on?” came the call from within the palanquin as Dagun poked his head out once more. “Why have we stopped?”

One of the keshiks further up ahead called back, “My lord…something’s wrong!”

Dagun tilted his head up to look at the walls, the swaying gates. Neither words nor defending arrows came down from the battlements - there was just…silence.

Huslen dismounted from his steed, patting it on its muscled neck as he pulled his bow and quiver free from their holsters. Ten other keshiks followed suit, donning their shields and drawing sabres, maces, and axes to the ready. He signaled for them to walk by his lead, and then treaded carefully towards the open gates, squinting in the looming dark. The ten of them passed by the gates without a sound, and Huslen tilted his head up to look into the guard towers on either side. Empty.

A chill came upon the keshik as a breeze blew against him, but even when the wind had passed, the cold lingered. The wind blew with it a rank smell, one the warriors were all familiar with - the smell of death, though no corpses could be seen, yet. The streets of the town were empty, and Huslen spied no lights, not even a candle, flickering in any of the windows. All was dark against the horizon, the buildings all blending into a single gloomy mass. Only one shape broke the silhouette of the empty town - that of a tall, sharp spire that loomed menacingly over the rest of the peasant hovels.

No - there were no great towers in Tosont.

The hairs on Huslen’s arms and neck stood up as his heart thudded in his chest - the wardrum of fear beating so strongly it felt as though his chest would break apart. Dagun-noyan was calling, but his voice suddenly sounded muffled, as if he were many miles away.

The flies had disappeared.

“Everyone!” hissed Huslen, shouldering his bow and drawing his sword. “To me! Now!”

There was the slither of iron plates and the creak of leather as the keshiks drew ranks together, their shields raised all about them as their eyes darted everywhere. They all felt it now, he saw it in their eyes. There was a heaviness over them - the darkness about them was not of nature’s will, else the stars should have shone in the clear skies above.

The darkness pressed in closer about them. The whole world suddenly shrank down to the space just a few feet in front of Huslen, and he slowly shuffled backwards to the gates, squinting all the way. There was something there, drawing closer to them…the darkness itself was advancing, pushing them back. The silence was pressing in about them as well - he could hardly hear the sound of his own panicked breathing, but he heard the call of his fellow keshik well enough when the voice piped up from behind him.

“Huslen," his comrade called - the great warrior’s voice sounding small and scared. “The gates are closed.”

Huslen spun around to look upon the town gates, and he saw the iron-banded doors were barred shut behind them. Closed, he saw that in his fear he had not spotted the symbol that was smeared on the doors. A great serpent was curled over their only escape - and its painted eyes flashed suddenly, casting them all in a flare of pale light.

As the flare of light faded away, Huslen saw for a brief moment the stars above. They had never seemed so cold, so close as they were now. They were legion in the night sky - thousands and thousands of pinpricks of light, watching them all down below.

He was so transfixed by the stars, it took him a moment to realize he had turned his back to the advancing darkness. The heavy shadow that pressed about them pounced, falling on the gathered warriors like a wave, and then Huslen saw nothing more.

The keshik closed his eyes, and he prayed.

“Spirits, protect me.”