“Forgive me for asking, but I can't shake the question—are you named after Hordur, the Hammer of the North, the knight from the time of the Hundred Years' War?” Moira asked casually, though she vividly recalled the carved sarcophagus. Looking at the young dwarven trader, one could say many things, but he certainly bore little resemblance to his namesake.
“I am,” he admitted, slightly surprised. “In my dear mother’s youth, there was a ballad about him that was still occasionally sung, and as you might guess, she was particularly fond of it.” He nodded. “But I must admit these days, few remember that figure. Are you interested in history, miss?”
“You could say that,” she replied evasively, reluctant to share the memory of her journey to the crypt. “It’s still a fine name—your mother made a good choice,” she concluded politely.
She was riding with him on the second wagon from the front, the most comfortable one. The brothers were nearby on either side of the caravan, while Ashan moved back and forth between the front and the rear of the column, scanning the terrain for any signs of danger.
The precautions were justified—many of the crystals that summoned wraiths to act against all outsiders had yet to be removed from the region. Moreover, the Last Tribe had scattered from Iskev, and there was no certainty whether they intended to retreat further north or simply operate outside the city itself.
At the first rest stop, Moira rode her favorite mare, borrowed from Kardum, up to the front to join Ashan. He had moved ahead to a small rise, surveying the area from a better vantage point. They stood there in silence for a while as he meticulously scanned the surroundings, ensuring nothing was overlooked. Once satisfied, he broke the silence, speaking to her in a somewhat confidential tone.
"I know you're determined to see this mess through to the end, but once word about you spreads among the Last Tribe cultists, we’ll need to be even more vigilant. I imagine the Elder might want to take you out of the equation."
“Yes, I know. Look directly above us,” she said, pointing discreetly upward.
Ashan had to use his enhanced vision spell to focus on the area she indicated, but soon he spotted her ominous flying constructs. "So... since that evening?" he left the question hanging.
“Exactly. I haven’t dismissed them. They’ve been keeping an eye on me the entire time. I don’t like keeping them active longer than necessary, but these are unusual circumstances,” she said with a casual shrug, though the tension in her voice hinted at her unease.
“Just as you’re helping us, I and the others will help you. You won’t be alone in this fight. The Last Tribe will fall, and we’ll help shove it into the abyss,” he said firmly.
She smiled in thanks, somewhat reassured but still troubled. For a fleeting moment, an uncomfortable yet undeniable thought crossed her mind, furrowing her brow. She understood all too well that now, with the cultists aware of her, the stakes had shifted. She’d be forced into harsher actions. Few, apart from her mentor, could comprehend the true problem with necromancy—not its repulsive nature or the utilitarian approach to the mortal remains of living beings, but the ease with which it escalated.
She could almost imagine the cursed Elder’s descent as he delved into necromantic runic magic. Assuming he was indeed the one behind it all, it likely began innocuously. But the possibilities it opened had led him to this point: raising his ancestors to fight against southern intruders and terrorizing cities unwilling to submit to his revolution, aided by enchanted sea beasts. In a word: escalation.
Moira knew she wasn’t immune to that temptation. To protect herself, the northern inhabitants who wished to live peacefully in the modern world rather than a twisted parody of the past—or to prove that necromancy wasn’t about overthrowing governments or redrawing borders—she was prepared to go far. And every subsequent step in such a scenario would come increasingly easily.
Of course, she enjoyed herbalism and took delight in the gratitude of those for whom she prepared remedies. It was far more pleasant than the fear or disgust her previous work often elicited. But what terrified her most was what she might become, caught in the spiral of rejection and fear. She could give people exactly what they feared. And that was the thought that frightened her the most.
Still, she rarely allowed herself to dwell on it, let alone discuss it with someone like Ashan. So, she sighed, forced a smile, and, after an awkward moment of silence, replied, “True, I’m a little worried, but you’re right—we’ll handle them. Let’s head back to the others.” She clicked her tongue at her mare, and they returned to the main column to grab a quick meal, stretch their legs, and prepare for the next leg of the journey.
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Fortunately, the rest of the day passed uneventfully, with no unexpected incidents. That evening, everyone was finally able to enjoy a warm meal, thanks to one of the caravan members, who turned out to be quite a skilled camp cook—much to the delight of the rest of the group.
As night fell, tents were set up, as there wasn’t enough space on the wagons for everyone, turning the camp into a lively and organized site. Watches were kept throughout the night, ensuring that nothing was left to chance.
In the so-called hour of the wolf, at the center of a distant mass grave, a dozen wraiths swirled and writhed, accompanied by a three-person squad from the Last Tribe. The group was locked in debate, deliberating whether to attack such a large caravan.
On the one hand, they were certain the caravan would include Southerners—the very people they were supposed to get out of their lands. On the other hand, it consisted of five wagons, and that meant a significant number of potentially armed adversaries. Wraiths or not, that was a formidable group to take on. None of the three seemed eager to make the call to proceed, but they also understood why they had been sent there in the first place.
The eldest of the group proposed what seemed like an effective yet safe approach. "Let’s use the wraiths as cover, fire flaming arrows at their wagons, and retreat. They’ll lose their belongings and flee from our lands, likely swearing never to return after such a harrowing night."
The other two quickly agreed to the plan. They were confident that no one would dare chase them into the dark of night, especially amidst the chaos of the wraiths. “Quick strike, and then we regroup here. If we get separated, we’ll meet back at the village of Four Winds and report our success to the Elder’s apprentice. Our place in the Last Tribe will be as high as we deserve, brothers," he continued enthusiastically.
They clasped hands in agreement, packed their bows and remaining gear, and clumsily convinced the wraiths to move there, pointing toward the camp with vague commands about "the Southerners that must be driven out."
With this eerie procession—wraiths gliding ominously ahead and the three cultists lurking cautiously behind—they began their approach toward the camp, keeping a safe distance in case anything went awry.
Still half-asleep, Moira climbed down from the wagon, roused moments ago by a young traveler on watch. Otan, one of the brothers, was with her, and the rest of the camp was stirring as well. The girl, clearly frightened but trying to maintain a brave facade, led them to the left side of the camp. There, they saw an approaching procession of wraiths—fearsome apparitions resembling warriors from a distant past.
Moira instinctively reached for her magic, preparing a spell to calm the wraiths, when a flaming arrow streaked toward them from the shadows. Without thinking, her still-groggy mind reacted on impulse. With a sharp pull, she conjured a hastily woven spell—a plague wind in the shape of a broad cone radiating from her. The gust struck the arrow, extinguishing the flame and reducing its metal tip to rust and its shaft to rotted splinters.
The wave pushed the wraiths back, and everything in its path withered. Grass and shrubs shrank into lifeless husks, and the three men who had fired the arrow—visible in the distance—froze. Within two heartbeats, their eyes hollowed into empty sockets, and their lifeless bodies collapsed into the dirt.
Otan stood motionless, overwhelmed by shock and fear. The girl tried to scream, but no sound emerged, her terror silencing her. Moira realized, belatedly, that her three shadowy birds had instinctively shielded her with their outstretched wings. Even if she had done nothing, the arrow wouldn’t have reached her. It dawned on her that the shot wasn’t even aimed directly at her—it had simply been meant for the camp.
Her throat dry, Moira thought quickly, But it could have hit someone in the camp, even if not me. Besides, I acted on instinct—it was all just that.
She dismissed the birds with a nod, and they ascended into the sky. But the young traveler couldn’t take her tear-filled eyes off them, trembling with fear.
“Leave,” Moira commanded the wraiths in a voice trembling with both anger and bitter frustration. They obeyed, retreating one by one to the place they had come from.
Not everyone had witnessed the full scene, but enough had. Otan eventually found his composure and comforted the frightened girl, leading her back to the fire. Where Moira had stood, the air remained icy cold, a chilling reminder of what had transpired.
There was no going back to sleep that night. For the rest of the journey, Moira chose to patrol alongside Ashan instead of riding in the wagons. No one openly voiced their thoughts, but she could feel the shift in the group’s mood acutely.
The week-long remainder of the journey was marked by unease. Moira spoke candidly with Otan, and his kind heart reassured her. “The sight might’ve shaken me,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t change what I think of you—not one bit. You’re a brave woman, a staunch ally of Kardum, and a good friend to us.” She wanted to believe him.
The young girl, however, kept her distance, avoiding Moira as much as possible. She was all too familiar with such reactions, but they didn’t sting any less. By the time they finally glimpsed Kardum on the horizon, Moira felt an overwhelming relief. The journey was over, and so was its silent strain.