The night didn’t end, not truly. Only a few strands of Ortus’ tenacious essence penetrated through the thick smokescreen to allow even the smallest iota of visibility to befall the denizens of the land. Animals, understanding time had passed, brayed and crowed in confusion, stirring the city from the restless slumbers into the dim morning.
Elder druids waited on the stone walkways atop the Northern Gate. An assembly formed in piecemeal beneath their view, the agreed upon time no longer possible to identify. Warriors arrived when they could, oftentimes with a couple less in numbers than promised. Comrades that they spoke to before they slumbered did not rise with them. Only the young and the hale and the favored managed to stave off the worst of the toxins and stumble into the columns. Where there were supposed to be one hundred and thirteen, there were eighty four.
Valentin’s deg arrived towards the beginning. Restlessness and discomfort prevented Valentin from sleeping properly. Even the gentlest of disturbances was enough to drive away sleep. His warriors were no different. Hearing their leader stir caused a cascade of opening eyes and activity within the dingy barracks that they rested.
Their march towards the gate was against the tide. A steady flow of refugees fleeing from the scorched lands beyond the walls flooded into the city. While some stopped, relieved that they did not have to walk further, most kept walking south through the gate and into the countryside towards Echavin. Allbost, they quickly realized, would not offer them any relief from the hot, acrid air they sucked into their aching lungs. So they continued to walk in the hopes that there was some place in this world that was not consumed by fire.
It was not just those that possessed nothing that fled the city. People in sooty linens clambered aboard heavily guarded carriages to flee their estates with as much as they could carry. Their warriors, instead of answering the call to arms, were ordered to escort their masters from danger.
Such a brazen lack of patriotism did little to stem the tide of exodus from the able-bodied that survived the night. They carried the infirm on their backs, bodies limp like butchered goats. Children coughed hoarsely into their mother’s chests as they were hastily carried to safety.
Valentin would not have been the only one to view that sight. Warriors loyal to the Tiarna of Allbost and mercenaries that called this place home were, no doubt, preoccupied with the thoughts of their own loved ones. They hoped that their leaders were people worthy of their faith and their families would be taken care of in their absence. For someone that had so much to lose, the complicated looks on their faces reflected the myriad of doubts that stemmed in their minds.
Only the presence of Marshal Flogoran calmed the warriors enough to keep them from fleeing. Her stalwart position at the tip of the spear staved off any feelings of abandonment. Symbolically, it was a message that Tiarna Agren did not abandon them, despite the noble family’s marked absence from this assembly.
The mercenaries with no attachment fared little better. Only the steep reward promised was enough for them to overlook the obvious risks and press on. However, even their resolve was notably thinner than the night prior.
They could not even rely on their armor to offer them protection. All forms of metal armor was banned out of concern of the flames. Instead, most stood in leather or furs with only a small round shield pulled from Allbost’s armory.
Eventually, the druidic leaders determined that they had allowed enough time to elapse and, feeling the same change in energy that all present felt, decided to address the assembly.
“Proud warriors, it brings us great joy and relief to see you all gathered on this morning,” Elder Gorman called out with a booming voice that somehow still sparkled with hope and joy. “Today, we travel in perilous lands for a noble purpose; to rid the lands of the cataclysm that disrupts our people and our way of life. In this grand scheme, there is no group that carries more honor than you.”
Many of the warriors of Allbost stamped their feet on the ground and grunted in approval. Mercenaries and hesitant warriors looked at the display warily, some looked with derision. The warriors had to agree, had to do something even if they forced themselves to.
“There is nobody who will be sung about more than you,” Gorman continued.
More warriors joined in. The ones that remained quiet, the ones that still didn’t quite believe but allowed their concerns to be soothed by the appeal to their legacy. Even if failure, valor can still be celebrated. Oftentimes, it was the more futile acts of bravery that are remembered the longest. If, even in a hopeless moment, they could distinguish themselves, the song would be about them and them alone.
“There is nobody in the realms that are as brave and strong to stand where you are standing,” Gorman complimented once more.
A strong approval rang loudly from below. The grand delusion was completed. Wavering hearts eliminated by all through force. Hesitancy would only lead to death so they had to purge it from their souls by any means necessary.
Valentin, like several others, did not fall into the raucous pride that rumbled through the column. Such is the curse of the leader. Without the attachments and responsibilities that accompanied his role, he would likely have gone along with them to settle his heart, if nothing else. He needed to be careful to prevent his unease from seeping into the souls of his followers.
“Now, we march,” Marshal Flogoran ordered, satisfied with the new atmosphere Elder Gorman created.
More speeches would need to come in the future. All of those words were necessary for the subjugation to take even a single step into this hostile landscape. Further coaxing still would be necessary to move them further still.
Those with horses mounted them and those without marched on foot. Even those with steeds would need to abandon them before reaching their true destination. The temperamental animals would cause far more harm than good during battle. Supply carts that would otherwise be pulled by mules were pulled by the strongest warriors. Cathmor earned that position with little resistance from any other rivals.
Valentin rubbed Vescal’s neck to urge the horse onwards. The mild-mannered horse grunted its discomfort but dutifully moved regardless. He filtered his way towards the front of the assembly along with the Marshal, War Leader Ulthaol, and the Druid Elders. Elders Onora and Carlan, the more able bodied of the temple leaders rode their own horses while the rest packed themselves into a modest carriage.
Through the maw of the gate, the subjugation slipped from the confines of the city. Fields peppered with ash greeted them. Stalks of wheat sloped southwards, a thick coating of accumulated ash ladened it. Sheep, grayed unnaturally, chewed thoughtlessly on sooty grass. With the ability to survive on their own domesticated out of them, shepherds had to constantly brush the grass clean lest the animals would chew on their tainted meal until they vomited the contents back up.
Clumps of straggling evacuees moved off the road in the presence of the warriors. Surviving livestock pulled carts with few, paltry possessions. More often than not, the carts carried bodies of the infirm or deceased, the line between life and death indistinguishable for those in the late throes of the curse. While some faces shimmered with hope that a force mobilized to assault the spirits could succeed, allowing them to return to their normal lives, most looked at them with grim faces. They possessed no desire to force themselves to brighten for the morale of their supposed heroes. Even if this force succeeded, homes were destroyed and farmland was made unusable for cycles.
Leaders of the temple were not immune to the accusatory gazes that assailed the subjugation. For what use were the alms and the taxes? It was not as though everyone was ignorant of the issue until it escalated rapidly. An entire season passed without much urgency. Reports of wildfires and unknown illnesses have been spread since the flowers bloomed without action. Now that everyone and everything outside was gone, that the issue reached their doors, did they sally out as saviors.
“Do not despair,” Marshal Flogoran announced to any that could hear. “Without us, this sight will extend ever further. Our actions are not meaningless.”
While the Marshal said the correct things, it would have been better for her if she was leading a troupe of the blind. The further north they marched, things grew ever worse. The roads became congested with the motionless bodies of the citizens that did not survive the journey. Some had been pushed off the road by living that could not offer them proper rights while others were fresher, perhaps falling just that morning.
However, the remains that they saw were only those that died from the smoke or starved to death. Scorch marks could be seen in the trodden dirt and several torched carts littered the fringes of the road. Without any ways to stop the progression, infirm they carried south would burst into flames, destroying the cart and anything it was carrying.
“We should burn the bodies,” Elder Onora remarked, an empathetic expression crossed her face. “Even if we did not manage to save them in life, we should still endeavor to offer them salvation in death.”
“It will have to wait. We must meet with Prince Ostramir by nightfall,” Marshal Flogoran replied. “Any delays will only worsen the situation for those that still breathe.”
“Then, if nothing else, we should burn them to prevent more spirits from forming,” Carlin spoke up in agreement of his fellow member.
Carlan and Flogoran spoke the same language of pragmatism that Onora’s compassionate words could never overturn. The thought of fighting a deadly spirit only to return home to more could draw paranoia in any of subjugation’s members.
“Very well, figure out how to empty some of the carts and load all the bodies we can carry,” Marshal Flogoran ordered. “We’ll burn them all at nightfall.”
While the order was given, the warriors were not quick to volunteer emptying their supplies in exchange for corpses. Forfeiture of one’s possessions always lead to a few things going missing to adventurous hands and, depending on the condition, corpses would ruin their carts.
“What is the delay?”” Marshal Flogoran barked, her gruff voice echoing over the procession.
A warrior hurriedly moved towards the Marshal’s horse and spoke to her. While they attempted to be somewhat discreet, their voices carried regardless.
“We are not comfortable giving our possessions away to mercenaries,” the warrior spoke.
“They view us a bandits, Deggan Valentin,” War Leader Ulthaol spoke casually to his fellow sellsword.
It was not uncommon for local forces to be wary of those that sold their lives for ill-gotten coins. For those that serve the same liege all their lives, mercenaries were viewed with distrust. History was flooded with stories of warriors for hire secretly switching allegiances mid-battle or fleeing at the first sign of an unfavorable position. Who else would steal the valuables of the garrison of Allbost than the gilded fingers of the mercenary?
“Sometimes we are,” Valentin replied plainly. He was disinterested in any sorts of alliance with the War Leader after the previous meeting.
“In that case,” Ulthaol scowled indignantly. “I see that you have brought such a large cart for such a small group. Surely you can leave your belongings with the rest of us while you bring the bodies.”
Looks of agreement came from those that found a preferable solution. Have someone else shoulder the additional burden; there was enough to be concerned about already.
Valentin sighed to himself. He should have just followed Ulthaol’s lead, even if it did irk him. A united front would have forced Marshal Flogoran to enforce the order on her own forces first. But, if he was going to lose his cart regardless, he need to extract something of value from his losses.
“Elder Carlan,” Valentin called out towards the Elder Druid. “Will the sacrifice of one’s cart be accounted for when you are determining contributions?”
“All contributions will be considered, but cooperation is always more favorable than not,” Elder Carlan answered in a non-committal manner.
“Very well,” Valentin said with a nod. “We will graciously lend our cart to the cause. However, we will only be able to carry fifteen bodies, twenty at most. I fear that it will be insufficient for the amounts we are bound to see.”
“My warriors will consolidate their carts to make up for the rest,” Marshal Flogoran offered without room for refusal from her forces.
With that, Valentin’s deg reluctantly allowed their cart to be emptied into various locations amongst Flogoran and Ulthaol's supply carts. While the senior ranked warriors moved around the supplies, those at the bottom of the hierarchy lifted the corpses from the ground, dropping them unceremoniously into the cart.
They continued northwards collecting corpses that acted as markers to show their progress. A pair embraced in each other’s arms here, a group of unlucky villagers that turned on each other there, a solitary body that gave out elsewhere. Some were fresh while others rapidly began to decompose.
A yell from behind halted the group. A young warrior had tried to lift up a corpse only for it to burst into dust in their hands. They spat as some of the ash swirled into their shocked mouth. Some chuckled at the brief misfortune as they made jokes at their junior’s expense. However, the reality of the situation slowly rose back into prominence, bringing the subjugation back into silence.
It took around three hours to reach where the road bordered the shore of Lake Telgrig. Here, the lands became completely barren. No longer was the wheat and vegetables burdened by debris; it was nearly choked to death. Vegetation had turned from a faded green to gray to black over the course of the day. Food that could have fed the region burned and crumbled to dust. Even once the spirit was expelled from the lands, Allbost would still have much work to be done before it could be considered saved.
Only a stretch of land a few paces wide remained untouched by the expansion. The land immediately around Lake Telgrig, the small portion of the aquatic domain where its liege could lap up on the shores, was protected. To the leaders of the area, whose farmlands smoldered not a hundred paces away, it felt like a slap to the face. Only waterweeds and other inedible creations survived.
They entered one of the villages. The innumerable hovels that made up the once bustling community were left empty. Singular sets of footprints impressed in the ash showed the evacuation of the village.
However, there were homes that did not leave with their neighbors. A couple of elderly men sat on the floor of their wooden hovel, their skin worn from light and water and time. Their faces moved slightly at the appearance of the horsemen that stood at their hovel. Killik himself may have well descended before them and these ones blessed by longevity would have remained as unflappable as they are now.
“You should have left by now,” Marshal Flogoran said gruffly to the pair. “Why do you remain?”
“There is no point in leaving,” one of the men spoke, his lips quivered somewhere between rage and solemnity. “Our lives, just as the lives of our ancestors, were built on this land. Now that it is destroyed, so are our lives.”
Many of the procession possessed the patience to see the pair as more than a delaying nuisance looked on with pity. In them they saw their ancestors, those who tenaciously tended to their land for generations to provide for those to follow. They say their own grandparents and remembered their own youths and thought about their futures that would lead them back to those lands. Would they be so willing to flee and rescind their claims to what was rightfully theirs?
“Tenacious field tender, would it not be better to persist beneath more temperate skies?” Elder Carlan asked the man. “There is no shame in departing your home under such conditions. Your ancestors will not scorn you.”
His partner leaned forwards, his eyes closed before his head snapped back, catching itself from the clutches of sleep. His eyes fluttered, gray pupils lacking the presence to understand what was occurring. His hands trembled as his face looked around helplessly at the vague figures and shapes that surrounded him.
The man reached out and grabbed the shaking hands of the other. His thumb rubbed thoughtfully on the other’s skin. Soothing with touch, the gray-eyed man returned to his idle nodding, small sounds and grunts and wheezes escaping his lips.
“Elder, we are not seeds that can blow on the wind and take root elsewhere,” the man replied. “Our children have been sent away and our remaining lives are so short already. Why would I want my final moments to be in a foreign place, feeling unfamiliar soil in my fingers? I would rather die here. If you have concern to give, give it to those whose candles possess longer wicks and skin with less wrinkles.”
“If you refuse to leave, will you at least have the decency to burn your own corpse?” Marshal Flogoran asked.
“Decency,” the elderly man scoffed contemptuously, a torrent of experience flashing through his steely eyes. “Are you calling upon my decency as a human or my decency as a serf, loyal to his liege?”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“The decency of a person that does not wish to burden his fellows to allow him to entertain his selfish, romantic demise,” Marshal Flogoran replied callously.
Despite the harshness in the Marshal’s tone, the intent of it could not be avoided by the tenacious man. However, it did not appear that he had given up hope. Even if it took cycles for the land to recover to the point that settlers returned to grow crops, they still had the lake. They still had the small strip of land to grow a garden for just the two of them. All they needed were a few seeds.
“Very well,” the man conceded, understanding that agreeing was the only route to remaining. “If it is a living pyre that is required for us to spend our last moments in our homes and maintain our decency as people, then we shall oblige.”
The procession moved forwards, leaving the obstinate survivors to die on their land. Such an encounter would not be their last. Equally stubborn elderly denizens of the lakeshore villages stayed put in their hovels, awaiting their inevitable fate. There were no further debates from the Marshal or the Elders, it would only be a waste of time and breathe. They only delivered the order to die in a way that would not be of inconvenience to the rest. Nods of solemn acknowledgement allowed the subjugation to continue onwards.
Camp was made in the late afternoon where the lakeshore road met with a westerly traveling foot trail that meandered towards their eventual destination. A small contingent of Norzyet warriors had already made camp along the untainted shore of the lakefront. Their hide tents painted with dark blue and gold and black.
The largest of those tents belonged to Prince Ostramir, the royal blue fabric embroidered with golden horses stampeding around its border. The esteemed noble stood before the tent’s entrance, greeting the front of the column with a wide wave.
“Elders, Marshal, it raises my spirits to see your arrival,” Prince Ostramir greeted.
“Prince Ostramir,” Marshal Flogoran answered respectfully. She nodded slightly towards him, not allowing herself to offer a full bow of respect to the foreign royalty. “Forgive our tardiness, there were matters that caused us delay.”
Prince Ostramir’s eyes drifted towards the carts that overflowed with the corpses of villagers. He sighed sympathetically, his face downturned.
“We too, had much to do to ensure the peace of our people’s souls,” Prince Ostramir stated. “Please take your time with your ceremonies, our personal discussion of strategy can wait until afterwards.”
Warriors quickly tracked down their camp supplies and lined the surviving greenery with their own tents. Unsurprisingly, by virtue of forfeiting their equipment to other carts, Valentin’s deg occupied the furthest test from the center. The position was preferable to Valentin as he had little interest in interacting with the other groups. Even his own typically outgoing warriors expressed little interest in mingling with the rest over drinks. The actions prior cooled their vivacious spirits for the time being.
Once the tents were erected, the subjugation began constructing the pyre. With what little kindling and wood they brought themselves, they constructed a meager pyre for the departed. They pulled the bodies from the carts and began to carefully arrange them upon the pile, carefully following the stringent instruction of the druidic elders. Fortunately for Valentin, their corpse bearing cart did not retain stains from the juices of decomposition. However, it would be uncertain whether it would ever be used again.
Norzyet’s detachment quietly watched the construction. It was considered more respectful to not interfere with the dead of other nations; a holdover from the times where the nations did not possess even this uneasy peace.
Instead, they dragged empty buckets through the waters of Lake Telgrig. The murky water spilled into iron cauldrons that glowed beneath the fires made from whatever wood the detachment of Norzyet brought with them. Bubbles and steam gurgled from the boiling water as a zhret spoke sonnets of purification over it.
It was the cooled and cleaned contents of the cauldron that was offered to the sweating warriors. While the amount could not fully quench the aggressive thirst that the heat and exertion created, it was far better than nothing. Any goodwill would be accepted gratefully.
“Elder Onora, since it was your compassion that created this pyre, would you like to be the one to lead the Verse of the Departing for these lost souls?” Elder Gorman asked his compatriot.
“It is the least that I can do to atone for my selfish request,” Elder Onora answered with a short bow.
Elder Onora moved to stand before the pile. She pressed her fingers into a small container and spread a thick coat of soot from temple to temple, darkening her eyes. She widened her stance, pressing her fingers together to create a steeple. She clenched her eyes shut and tilted her head back to point her face directly into the covered sky.
A low hum began to emit from the lips of the elder druids. Though their faces remained passive, the sound that left them was full of grief and remorse. The lesser-lined druids began to follow in, creating a dull harmony.
“Oh Great Spirit, you who is all that was and will be. We humble creations return to you that which you have provided freely. Please give peace in the after to these unfortunate, nameless souls who were denied it now.”
Elder Onora spread her arms apart wide and slammed her hands together to create a loud, sharp clap. The druids and many of the warriors clapped in near sync behind Onora to create an aftershock. Elder Onora lowered her gaze. She slowly raised her left hand to cover her soot-smeared eyes while her right settled over her heart.
“Oh Mother, you who braved the worst fate of all. Your beloved children send mistreated siblings to your empty hearth. May your formless embrace reach out from the void and touch those who suffer from your absence.”
Another powerful clap ensued. This time, the following clap from the audience rung without disharmony. Valentin joined in the response this time, his leather gloves thudding together to keep his hands from stinging from the impact.
One of the druids handed Elder Onora a lit torch. The flame appeared engorged and aggressive in these scorched lands. It danced happily in front of the meal it was to enjoy.
“To you whose fight against the suffering of life has ended, rise from the confines of your flesh and return to the better place from whence we all came and where we all must go. Do not weep or feel anguish that it has ended before you deserved. Leave this place without attachments or regret, such trivialities and trappings are no longer needed. Allow the flames to cleanse your woes and caress your spirit to heights beyond our vision.”
Elder Onora tossed the torch into the pyre. The dry kindling immediately bursting into an inferno. The dried corpses offered little resistance to the flames, crumbling dutifully into insignificant flecks that billowed into the sky.
The burning was watched stoically by the warriors in attendance. It was not the most auspicious or motivating sight to gaze upon a pyre before delving into a realm of burning. Nor did the oppressive heat a dry coughs from the complete theft of moisture bring any comfort. The only solace was that their work would not grow more difficult through the neglect of duty towards these people.
“None of us can die in tomorrow’s fight,” Cathmor joked as they watched the fires carry high into the sky. “There won’t be anything to burn us with.”
“Do you believe that there will be anything left of us to burn if it goes wrong?” Zoe asked morbidly, eliciting a good chuckle from all those that could hear.
It was a quick affair, only taking about ten minutes before there was no spectacle left to be seen and the onlookers dispersed back towards their respective tents to have their meal. Wishing to keep as much potable water as they could, most degs opted to eat dried meat and bread and salted cheese. Cups of weak rationed beer was their only method to wet their mouths of the accumulated dryness that permeated their palates.
Valentin’s deg was no different, their arid mouths gorging themselves on dry food. Each swallow needing a swig of anything drinkable to wash it down else their throats become subjected to a sensation similar to swallowing a knife.
“Everything I eat tastes like campfire,” Cathmor complained. A partially eaten skewer of sheep liver grilled the day before clenched in his right hand.
The expressions on the rest of the deg was not much better. There were no ingredients that could manage to escape a healthy dusting of ash. Even a rinse from their ration of beer could not overcome the strong, invasive flavor.
Valentin, still possessing rations of preserved vegetables, dined on the brine infused meal to combat the dry sensation of his smoked venison and cheese. The salty vinegar-based juice only caused further dehydration, leaving his mouth with sharp abrasions on his tongue and cheeks. Healthy swigs of weak beer valiantly tried to stave off the unpleasant feeling in his mouth, however, it would ultimately fall short of brining true relief.
Despite all that, it was still preferable to the experiences of the rest.
“I’m surprised the ash hasn’t made it more palatable for you, Cathmor,” Guain jested. “You make a face whenever you eat liver. It puzzles me why you bother to buy it at all.”
“It is the texture I hate,” Cathmor explained. “Now, there is nothing pleasant remaining.”
“Why eat it at all?” Zoe asked with a puzzled tone. “You’re just wasting your coin when there are cheaper parts for sale.”
“Liver, onions, and bread,” Cathmor listed, raising a finger for each ingredient. “This is the diet of my famed ancestor who was said to be able to lift boulders. It was prescribed to him of one of the premiere scholars and historians of Vessaire, Kegan. One meal of liver, onions, and bread every day is required to grow to one’s peak strength and size. A little texture is nothing if it makes me the strongest.”
Cathmor rolled up his sleeve to reveal his beastly musculature. A solid slab of muscle flexed from his braggadocios movements. His physique, better proof than any words could provide, rippled and danced to Cathmor’s orchestration. He took another bite of liver and gave a smug smile.
“It also makes you reek dreadfully,” Caera piped in, unable to abide her comrade’s uncontested pride. “You will only ever have a lover if they lack their sense of smell entirely.”
“Your words of envy ring hollow, bitter woman,” Cathmor dismissed before stealthily attempting to sniff himself. “Even if I do, I won’t hear any of your naysaying until you can best me in a feat of strength. And that goes to all of you.”
Ears that were not fully paying attention perked up at Cathmor’s challenge. The soft sounds of chewing stopped and eyes moved towards the confident warrior. All seemed more than eager to knock Cathmor down a peg and raise their own status in the process.
“The responsibility of humbling you lies with me,” Zoe announced. She placed her bowl on the ground and rotated her shoulders, stretching the muscles and loosening her posture.
“You?” Caera replied with a scoff, feeling that her confrontation with Cathmor had been invaded by an unwelcome presence. She hopped from foot to foot and narrowed her arms to her chest. “Have these spiritual vapors finally destroyed your mind and robbed you of your common sense? Should we call for an apothecary?”
“And you are better suited than me?” Zoe snapped back. “Fine, I’ll just have to show you your place first.”
Valentin watched silently as the playful bickering devolved into a wrestling match on the lake shore. Furtive glances from his warriors drifted his way in preparation for their leader to step in and stop it. However, when he remained stoic, they took it as permission to cheer for their respective champion.
Dust and ash kicked up and the two drove each other to the ground. Quickly, the skirmish became fully cloaked by the debris. Cathmor, his triumphant moment fizzling out as the warriors cheered for the combatants, somberly went back to eating his meal. His face twisted bitterly from the flavor of his meal, the attention that he was receiving no longer able to make the food more palatable.
Warriors from other degs, both stormblood and iceblood, attracted by the sudden commotion, moved closer to the fight. Once they determined that it was a friendly brawl instead of something more concerning, they joined in with the shouts. Inspired, some of warriors engaged in their own physical duels, attracting interest from their comrades.
Only the garrison of Allbost hung around the perimeter. Their hierarchy was far more rigid than the mercurial nature of the mercenary’s pecking order. Their battles were far fewer and their ranks more susceptible to be manipulated by clan names than combat prowess. However, that did not prevent them from joining in on the cheering. Domesticated or not, a warrior knows how to appreciate a proper fight.
Alongside the warriors of Allbost, druids stood around the perimeter of the sparring, anxiously looking to see if any injuries formed in the tussle. Anyone that was rendered unable to participate in tomorrow’s subjugation would be one less person available to protect them.
“What is going on?” Elder Carlan shouted. “Stop this immediately.”
The druidic leader was flanked on either side by Elders Onora and Gorman. Despite his calls to cease, his words did not pierce the melee. He stopped short of the cloud of dust that settled over the engagement, choosing to issue orders from the outside.
War Leader Ulthaol’s arrival was not much further behind. He briskly exited his tent and strode with hastened steps to reach Elder Carlan.
“War Leader, why are they fighting?” Elder Carlan demanded.
“It could be for any reason, Elder,” War Leader Ulthaol replied plainly.
Unlike the confusion and annoyance on Elder Carlan’s face, War Leader Ulthaol seemed entirely unsurprised by the actions that occurred before him. As a fellow warrior, Ulthaol knew that as long as nobody was using weapons or favor, there was little to be concerned of. All he did was cover his mouth to stop from choking on the dust.
“They’re bored and anxious, Elder Carlan,” Prince Ostramir explained, sauntering over from his personal vantage point. “It’s far better than them moping about.”
The druids looked back towards the scuffle. Eyes that lacked understanding watched as allies clashed with each other. The well-read druid elders knew academically that the culture of the mercenary was perpetually aggressive and violent, even to their occasional detriment. However, it was a different matter entirely to watch it unfold.
“What if one of them gets injured?” Elder Onora asked with concern.
“Then they will be punished accordingly,” War Leader Ulthaol answered. “They may be strong, but that does not mean that they lack intelligence. They know better than to harm our chances of victory.”
“Get them to stop, now,” Elder Carlan ordered. “Or I will have to get Marshal Flogoran to do it for you.”
A look of displeasure crossed War Leader Ulthaol’s face at Elder Carlan’s forceful request. The reward from his employer helped salve his ego. He cleared his throat. A slight shimmer spread from his chest into his neck. As his mouth opened, a few errant sparks exited like sparkling flecks of dust.
“Stop!” War Leader Ulthaol boomed with empowered voice.
The sound rippled the dust cloud, piercing any of the noise from the frenzy. Those that recognized it as the voice of their leader stopped instantly. The rest, only temporarily concussed by the voice, continued with their scuffles.
“Well, mine stopped,” War Leader Ulthaol informed dispassionately.
“Prince Ostramir,” Elder Carlan began speaking with diplomatic trepidation. “Would you please show your graciousness and end the remaining conflicts? They are our protection from whatever comes tomorrow.”
Prince Ostramir rubbed his chin with his right hand and pursed his lips in contemplation. The lights of amusement in his eyes at watching the sparring faded at Elder Carlan’s begging. While some joy moved the corner of his mouth into a brief smirk, the embers of his joy were already doused.
“Just as we suffer if we are not all physically healthy, we will suffer far more if our anxieties consume our heads and render us dumb,” Prince Ostramir replied. “I will allow them to tire themselves and sweat out their fears. It is the only way that they will sleep at all.”
Elder Carlan sighed in defeat. There was nothing more that he could to influence the foreign prince’s decision. He retreated back towards his tent to rest himself.
Upon watching the Elder leave and the fighting continue, the warriors of the Cosantóirí Aibhneacha looked towards their leader with questioning expressions. If the rest were allowed to fight, why was it only them that needed to abstain?
“You may continue,” War Leader Ulthaol permitted. “If any of you are too injured to fight tomorrow, both you and the one you were sparring with will be lashed.”
As the melee recommenced, Valentin felt the presence of someone standing behind him. He took one more bite of his meal before turning to look behind him. Elder Onora lingered after Elder Carlan departed, slowly migrating towards Valentin’s deg. She stood behind him but did not look at him, instead, it appeared she was searching the area for someone else.
Eventually, Elder Onora’s eyes drifted back towards Valentin’s. When they met eyes, Elder Onora raised a hand in greeting.
“Sorry if I disturbed you,” Elder Onora apologized. “I was going to wait until you finished your meal.”
“I’ve eaten enough,” Valentin replied, storing the remainder of his meal. “Is there something that you needed from me?”
“I would like to discuss tomorrow’s strategy with you and Maeve, if she is available,” Elder Onora answered.
Elder Onora returned to looking quickly around. Valentin stood up and glanced around the deg in the hopes of spotting Maeve. He recalled standing by her during the burning but not during dinner.
“Elder Kalene is making offerings to Lake Telgrig in exchange for its water,” Elder Onora informed Valentin, offering a potential explanation for Maeve’s absence. “Perhaps we should go look for her there.”
Valentin nodded and allowed the Elder to take the lead. She moved northwards, first heading inland to avoid the puffs of dust that emitted from the joyous sparring. Elder Onora covered her mouth despite the wide berth that she gave the scuffle. Yet that did not spare her from a handful of small coughs.
They walked by the Norzyet tents. Zhrets sat cross-legged in a circle with their hands clasped together. Their heads were bent forwards towards a small bundle of burning incense. The powerful odor pierced the scents of fire before quickly disappearing.
Up the shore, a short walk away from the main camp, a gathering of druids stood ankle deep in the water. The slender form of Elder Kalene stood at the front of the gathering several paces ahead of the rest. She had stripped down to only the thinnest of her clothing and had waded out to waist deep water. She held a stick in one hand, tracing invisible patterns into the water as she intoned. In her other hand glimmered the metal of a knife.
“-support us in this as you support us in our daily lives,” Elder Kalene requested, sharp movements of the stick kicking up splashes of water. “Assist us, Telgrig, and you will be venerated.”
Elder Kalene took her knife and pricked her finger with the tip. A trickle of blood flowed from her finger and onto the stick. When she was satisfied with the amount that she bled, she drove the stick into the water, her forearm became fully submerged as she drove the stick into the sands beneath the waves. As her arms rose from the waves, the stick did not re-emerge.
“Now, the offering,” Elder Kalene ordered.
Two druids walked forwards, holding buckets high above the water. When they reached the same place that Elder Kalene stood, they emptied their contents into the water.
The offerings were paltry, some grain and butchered fish, partially to show how dire their stores were and partially to insult the spirit of the lake for remaining dormant in face of the existential danger. However, Lake Telgrig remained dormant. The waves did not swell with rage nor did the sea life stir in aggravation.
“You may begin filling your buckets,” Elder Kalene said, turning away from the lake and wading towards shore.
Each of the druids submerged their buckets, filling it with murky water until it spilled over the brim. With a wide gait, they drug the ladened buckets back towards the shore where they dumped the contents into iron-banded barrels.
“Maeve,” Valentin hailed to the druid.
Valentin and Elder Onora managed to intercept Maeve before she made her return trip into the water. Her eyes were tired and sunken and her cheeks were flushed from the exertion. Though she attempted to hide it, she appreciated the opportunity to catch her breath without feeling guilt for lagging behind.
“You cannot help, Valentin,” Maeve responded, drawing her own conclusions about his appearance. “Only lined druids may take water from the lake.”
“Elder Onora wishes to speak to you about tomorrow’s battle,” Valentin corrected.
Maeve placed her bucket on the sand and bowed towards Elder Onora. The Elder, wishing to skip the expected decorum, placed her hand out to cut the gesture short and motioned for Maeve to return standing.
“The Elders have been discussing amongst ourselves how we would like to be partnered with for tomorrow,” Elder Onora explained to the pair, absentmindedly shaking her sandal free of some errant grains of sand. “As you know, the druids and zhrets have the largest part to play in the subjugation and that you warriors will be our line of defense against whatever the spirit attempts to throw at us.”
“I do,” Valentin replied.
“To cut to the quick, we all wished to bolster our groups by adding Maeve to our ranks as she has proven herself to be sensitive when it comes to the spiritual side of druidic practices,” Elder Onora continued. “However, as Elder Carlan will be joining Prince Ostramir, I was the only other elder willing to work alongside your deg, Deggan Valentin. I have come to ask whether this arrangement is agreeable to you.”
“I will do as I am asked,” Maeve answered plainly.
Without anything else to say, she politely nodded at Elder Onora and lugged her bucket back into the lake. Unlike Valentin, who had grown accustomed to Maeve’s abrupt exits from conversations, Elder Onora seemed to be taken slightly aback.
“Odd,” Elder Onora remarked to nobody in particular before turning towards Valentin. “Is everything fine with you as well?”
“An order would have sufficed to obtain our presence,” Valentin answered. “We will go with at daybreak.”
“Yes, an order would have gotten me your participation,” Elder Onora said with a knowing smile. “But a request has given me far more of your loyalty than any of my fellows could have mustered with any amount of bluster and bribes. A good night to you, Deggan Valentin.”
As Elder Onora walked away, Valentin stayed for a moment. He turned his eyes towards Lake Telgrig. Ortus’ decent was to Valentin’s back and bathed the lake in shimmering light. His thoughts turned towards the impending confrontation. He found the plan weak as their intelligence was weak. No scouts had managed to make contact with the spirit. Nobody knew of its disposition nor its weaknesses. Morning may bring an amicable resolution or a violent end. What Valentin did know for certain was that he would not be the last to fall. He would retreat with everyone that he had a responsibility towards as soon as victory became infeasible. Fortunately for Elder Onora, she had just joined that list.