The north was the most obvious direction requiring urgent observation and control, so Moira’s team moved steadily in that direction. They avoided the main road to remain less conspicuous. Midway through the first day, they veered onto a smaller path leading to a modest village known as Clay Hill, a settlement where clay was quarried and crafted into artisanal goods. The area remained within the jurisdiction of Kardum and had been previously cleansed of spirits by Ashan and Moira, which was one less concern for the group.
The village consisted of perhaps two dozen households. The locals recognized the road guards, if not personally, then by reputation. The group made a brief stop to water their horses while Tex took the opportunity to question the villagers about the situation.
When she returned to the group, she reported that aside from the influx of refugees, the villagers hadn’t observed anything unusual. They did, however, express concerns about how the entire situation might disrupt trade and whether the accursed Last Tribe might try to assert itself here as well.
Tex summarized their mood: angry, irritable, and frightened—a reaction the group found understandable. However, the villagers took some comfort in knowing that Kardum was sending out patrols to protect and survey the surrounding area. Tex used this sentiment to explain their presence, framing the team’s patrol as reassurance and support.
The villagers were willing to host them for the night, offering space in a barn. However, with several hours of daylight remaining, it seemed wasteful to stop for such questionable comfort. So, they continued heading north. Ashan, as much as his abilities allowed, periodically used far-sight to survey the terrain. This was one of the few skills he had managed to develop as a novice practitioner. It required focus and drawing upon the currents of magic, unlike his ability to sense magic, which he could perform almost effortlessly. The initiation ritual into the ranks of the Seers had, in essence, opened their eyes to magic.
During one such instance, as dusk began to fall, Ashan spotted something unusual: someone was riding swiftly on horseback from the direction of the village they had passed earlier, heading northwest. The rider was still behind them but caught his attention for two reasons. First, there were no settlements for many long hours of travel in the direction the rider was heading. Second, no one typically traveled at dusk unless it was absolutely necessary.
The villagers were willing to host them for the night, offering space in a barn. However, with several hours of daylight remaining, it seemed wasteful to stop for such questionable comfort. So, they continued heading north. Ashan, as much as his abilities allowed, periodically used far-sight to survey the terrain. This was one of the few skills he had managed to develop as a novice practitioner. It required focus and drawing upon the currents of magic, unlike his ability to sense magic, which he could perform almost effortlessly. The initiation ritual into the ranks of the Seers had, in essence, opened his eyes to magic.
During one such instance, as dusk began to fall, Ashan spotted something unusual: someone was riding swiftly on horseback from the direction of the village they had passed earlier, heading northwest. The rider was still behind them but caught his attention for two reasons. First, there were no settlements for many long hours of travel in the direction the rider was heading. Second, no one typically traveled at dusk unless it was absolutely necessary.
“It might be nothing, but not long after we left Clay Hill, someone clearly left the village in a hurry, heading northwest—more or less into the middle of nowhere,” Ashan shared his observation with the group, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I suggest we investigate. That rider is going too far for a casual evening errand, and there’s no nearby settlement in that direction. I don’t like it,” he explained his reasoning.
The group agreed to this approach. Thanks to Ashan, they could track the rider even as darkness fell, keeping a safe distance so he wouldn't hear or spot them. The unknown rider stopped after two hours of riding, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. However, it soon became clear that he had reached a small nomadic camp, hidden from the main trail behind a hill but visible from the direction they had come. Once they were close enough, Ashan provided a more detailed description to the group.
There were about five tents in the camp. The rider had entered one of them. A single man armed with a spear patrolled the camp, while the rest—however many there were—must have been inside the temporary shelters. There were no horses except the one the rider had arrived on.
The group comprised nine seasoned roadwardens, all mounted, well-armed, and with full quivers for their reflex bows. They also had Moira, who was certainly capable of handling herself. At this point, though, they couldn’t be sure whether they were dealing with an enemy. This might not be a detachment of the Last Tribe.
“They’ve posted a guard, but who wouldn’t, given what’s happening in the region?” Otan observed, and his younger brother, Berk, nodded in agreement.
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Tex, however, sensed a problem. “Why would someone ride like mad in the middle of the night to visit random nomads?” Her question was met with nods and murmurs of agreement.
“He’s been inside for a while now,” Ashan added. “Even if he delivered a message, he might prefer to wait until morning to return. I doubt we’ll have a chance to intercept him before then.”
“And what if I *pluck* that sentry for you?” Moira asked.
Everyone looked at her with some hesitation. After a brief silence, Berk squinted and asked, “*Pluck*, like you did with that guy on the backstairs in Iskev?” clearly convinced that causing someone to scream they didn’t want to die was not what they needed right now.
“Ah, no, absolutely not,” Moira quickly denied. “Quietly and painlessly. He’ll just come here, lured by a will-o’-the-wisp. It’s easy to resist the spell if someone physically holds you back or calls out loudly,” she explained, gesturing as she spoke. “But a lone sentry in the dead of night? Well, that’s an easy target.”
Tex lit up. “Perfect, and once he’s here, we’ll question him!” The rest of the group agreed with the plan. Moira summoned it, putting particular focus on the spell's luring aspect. They decided on the wisp’s path and prepared to capture the sentry for questioning if the spell would break. The necromancer sent the faintly glowing spirit toward the unsuspecting guard.
Led by a vision of his long-deceased aunt beckoning him home to enjoy a slice of his favorite apple tart, the sentry walked for a while, his gaze foggy and unfocused. When he finally noticed other people, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: Did they come for the tart too?
“I just have a few questions for you, dear,” Tex said, standing before him. The man's gaze was slowly sharpening, though the spell’s dazing effect still lingered. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his spear. Tilting his head, he studied Tex, though his eyes kept darting back toward the will-o’-the-wisp.
“Do you belong to the Last Tribe?” she asked.
“Yes,” he admitted after a pause, nodding. “I’ll need to get back to my watch as soon as we finish the pie.”
Moira subtly manipulated the wisp, reinforcing its mesmerizing allure.
“That’s very responsible of you. How many friends can rest easy thanks to your watchfulness?” Tex asked gently.
“Fourteen... though our brother came from the Clay Hills, so now it’s fifteen. But don’t call them; there won’t be enough for everyone,” he said, frowning slightly with concern.
“Don’t worry, dear. And how is your mission going?” she asked with a caring tone.
“It’s tough,” he admitted, pausing as his gaze drifted back to the will-o’-the-wisp. “In this region, we have to operate quietly. Our few brothers and sisters let us know what’s happening, but it’s not easy to convince the people here to join our cause. They live too close to the Southerners, but we haven’t lost hope.”
“What if not enough Gray Nomads from here join?” Tex continued gently, probing further.
“We are to gather as many as we can and retreat north with the Blue New Moon. To join the liberation army. Every soul matters. We don’t need to convince everyone. The Elder will triumph regardless, and these lands will be ours—all of them. Every city, every village…” he listed, before falling silent, captivated by a vision only he could see.
The Blue New Moon was just two and a half moon cycles away. Quiet murmurs spread among the group. The man had turned completely toward the will-o’-the-wisp, reaching out his hands as if to grasp it. Tex had no more questions. With a swift motion, she struck his temple with the pommel of her dagger. He collapsed like a felled tree.
Everyone exchanged somber glances, their moods darkening. Moira called the will-o'-the-wisp back to her and cradled it gently in her hands until it vanished from this world. For her, the time for negotiations was over. In Forgdom and Hooren, the Elder could afford to appear magnanimous because he had to release unharmed members of powerful families deeply invested in the mines there. He had driven out the Grey Nomads who refused to bend the knee because the wave of refugees served his purposes. Besides, sparing the Southerners while slaughtering the disobedient Nomads might not sit well with his followers. But here it would be different.
All the people from the south and other lands who could leave were already fleeing. The Grey Nomads of Kardum had nowhere to retreat. The Elder could claim that he had no choice but to use force, that they could have surrendered. Moira could see this scenario playing out in her mind. But these were not her people and it was not her place to decide their fate.
A hushed but heated debate broke out among the group. Tex, angered, hissed through clenched teeth, "I don't like this one bit, but the time for locking them in dungeons has passed. By showing them mercy, you're endangering every good soul who will stand against this so-called liberation army."
The protests gave way to reluctant acceptance. To demonstrate her resolve and take responsibility for her words, Tex drew her misericorde, its blade as thin as grass, and pierced the man's heart with a single, precise thrust. He sighed mournfully before falling silent for good. None of them were proud of what happened next, but they believed that it had to be done.
After they had mounted their horses and surrounded the camp, one of them threw kindling into the campfire. It came to life. The first figures stirred, probably coming out to calm the horse that had whinnied at the group's presence. Arrows flew from the shadows, swift and merciless. Nomads in the camp tried to organize themselves, to resist and fight back. In vain. They were met with precision and relentless volleys. One by one they fell until none were left and only the whinnying of the horse, unaccustomed to the smell of blood, carried into the dark night.