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Maat made it four, maybe five hours down the southern footpaths before he noticed a pursuer. They were just two dots on the horizon at this point, but when he next looked up they’d gained a great deal of ground.
He wasn’t about to head back to camp. Wasn’t sure if he could fight off two experienced warriors from any Stormheaths clan. But he did have the family war bat with him still, which could buy him some intimidation points.
Noon’s sweltering heatwave baked the surrounding rocks before Maat determined he was going to have to make a stand here rather than hope to disappear in the fumaroles.
Maat hid behind a particularly large boulder. The ground here was beginning to smolder, and haze in the air ought to provide some cover. He peered behind the boulder, but the haze obscured the approaching duo from him as well.
“You can come out now,” came a signature tell-tale sing-song voice.
It was Sara.
“Sara, Lloyd?” Maat emerged from behind the boulder, then stashed his baseball bat.
“Dad sent us,” Lloyd said offhandedly.
“Tell Hector I’m not going back.”
“Dad sent us.” Sara was frowning. “To help. Seriously, what was the plan here?”
“What? Just need to find dad before the Jean’in do.”
The twin’s eyes narrowed, their ears twitched.
“We’ve got a friend there. Or… whatever he is,” Ma’at added. “So, tell your father I’m not going back.”
“He sent us to help you out,” Lloyd said.
“Would’ve gone himself, but dad said a ranking Outlander needs to be on-site to ‘represent our interests’. Rita’s off opening another mine pathway up to bring in some refugees from the Laval lands. She says we can borrow whatever we need from her supply tents though.”
The twins produced a staff with a hook on it (in Sara’s case) and another war-bat (in Lloyd’s case). Maat shrugged; two extra pairs of eyes watching his back couldn’t hurt.
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The return to the fumaroles happened slowly. The transition from plains to rocky chimneys of noxious gas was more subtle and less abrupt than the climb up from the fertile headwaters into the toxic crag. Having followed Rita’s carefully constructed set of walkways and planks up into the highlands before, it was easy enough to find where the path began heading down.
Despite all this, the first yurt nearly evaded them, the tan fabric blending in seamlessly with the environs. Only Sara’s keen eyes caught the tent flap on a second pass.
Plenty of strange cannisters, globules, and doodads awaited within the yurt, having been untouched since their last trip through here. Everything was covered in a spongy fabric, perhaps to protect against the elements.
Most of the artifacts proved too intimidating to risk taking. Maat did borrow one of those strange globules that could summon fireballs. He also took a noisemaker as it could come in handy in more situations than not. There were also enough homemade masks for the three of them.
Now properly equipped, the trio set out through the fumaroles. Masks reduced their vision considerably but kept the noxious smells, eye-searing gas, and coughing fits at bay.
The walk over raised wooden planks shaved an hour off the journey. It was not until the southern edge of the fumaroles, near where the first shrubs and bushes dared to grow, that the group ran into trouble.
Lloyd threw his hand up in a balled fist, urging the group to scrunch down on their knees.
“Anyone hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Maat whispered.
The trio maneuvered behind a bush with stunted branches but plenty of leaves. It would serve as sufficient cover.
Bright, artificial light loomed in the distance, from the direction of the headwaters. In the late-afternoon light and amidst the volcanic haze, it was just a bright splotch on the horizon.
“Keep moving forward at a crawl,” Maat said.
They continued onward, bush by bush. Progress slowed to a crawl until night fell, after which they were far enough out of the fumaroles to ditch the masks and continue by the glow of the moon and the strange light ahead.
Plenty of foliage for cover were up around the headwaters. The trio reconvened behind another, more lively push.
The headwaters were half-surrounded by strange metal rods. A great stake not unlike the ones installed at other temples was sitting horizontal amidst some scaffolding.
“Whatever that is, they must not have fully installed it yet.” Maat pointed at the stake.
A pen of centurion birds was set up to the right of the headwaters. They’d been brought in from the more fertile regions of the Stormheaths. Still no signs of anyone riding them though.
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“No sign of your weird river guardian,” Lloyd said.
“What, Aminia?”
“Yeah. You know him right?”
Maat shrugged. “I don’t know anything about him. He’s definitely weird.”
What was that guy’s deal? Maat hoped he’d be able to ask his father properly if they could reunite here at the headwaters.
As for guards, there were a handful of patrols at a considerable distance. More than a skeleton crew, like at that strange prison camp. Nine out of every ten soldiers were Stormlanders – Laval-clan.
“I guess they really have switched sides.” Maat frowned.
No signs of the Quarterchief either, anywhere on the highland plains.
“So, how to approach this.” Lloyd pondered aloud, then stopped abruptly as if the air had been taken out of him.
“Something wrong?” Maat asked.
“What’s-” Sara began, then froze, eyes gone wide.
Lloyd tried reaching behind him. He turned, revealing a two-foot arrow between his ribs.
“Watch out,” Lloyd managed to rasp. He dived in front of Sara, and took another arrow to the palm, which kept going, embedding itself shallowly on Lloyd’s breastplate.
Sara grabbed her brother and dragged him into the safety of the bush. Maat raised his war club in a futile attempt at covering the pair.
“Been following you since the spire rock,” came a sly voice that felt like a whisper even though it couldn’t be from that close.
“Spent the past week mapping out that volcanic cesspool,” said the Warden. “Never shoulda come back here.”
They were safe from further arrow attacks in the bush, for now.
“I’ll be fine,” Lloyd managed with a wheezing rasp.
“Liar.” Maat peered out at their surroundings. “Don’t take those out. It’ll do more damage.”
There was no sign of anyone out there at all. The shots had come from behind and to their right. The camp further south had not been alerted.
“He’ll want to take us on alone,” Maat continued. “I may have made this personal back at that prison they’d built into the temple.”
Maat prepped the weird noisemaker, then threw it into a clump of bushes to the east. Maybe it would throw the Warden off.
The trio stayed as still as possible. Lloyd bit into his own hand to avoid groans of pain.
A figure slunk out of another thicket to their north, mere arm’s-lengths away. The Warden inched eastward.
Sounds like he’d taken the bait.
Sara pointed at the Warden’s hat, barely visible above the bush. Maat waved her off.
“Wait here,” he mouthed.
Maat snuck through the bush at a crawl. He still had the war bat, that explosive globule, and the Warden’s own knife, claimed in their first encounter. Any one of these, applied properly, could ruin the Warden’s entire day. Still, Maat brought the knife out; it would work best in close quarters and had an ironic component to it that Maat just couldn’t resist.
The branches ahead were moist from bubbling spring waters, not about to betray him by crunching at an inopportune moment.
Maat held the knife in front of him. It dawned only now that he didn’t know how to use this thing. Regardless, he could see the Warden kneeling in the bush ahead. He appeared to have noticed the noisemaker. Maat needed to strike – and now!
With a lunge, Maat thrust the knife towards the Warden’s torso. He burst into the bush, only to immediately be disarmed with a fist to the face.
“Ha!” The Warden picked Maat up by the throat. “Of course, I’ve been following your tracks for hours, boy.”
The Warden punched Maat in the ribs thrice. A sharp piercing pain accompanied each blow, courtesy of a barbed ring on the Warden’s left hand. One last punch with the barbed ring, then the Warden slammed the Outlander to the ground.
“That.” The Warden retrieved the knife, which had embedded itself in the mud. “Is mine.”
Lastly, the Warden aimed a bird-leather boot at Maat’s head and kicked him in the face.
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Discombobulated, Maat rose to unsteady feet. The Warden had marched into the far bush and was currently scuffling with the twins.
Maat still had his bat. He brandished it and leapt forward, only to lose balance and stumble into the bush.
Sara lay on the ground, unconscious but alive. Lloyd lay on his front, arrow shafts broken but still otherwise embedded. The Warden loomed over him, curved knife in one hand and the edge of Lloyd’s right ear in the other.
“Half-breeds fetch less of a bounty.” The Warden’s knife hovered near the base of Lloyd’s ear. “Eh, tripling up; two ears, one scalp each ought to cover expenses.”
Maat leveled a swing right onto the Warden’s jaw. The war-bat shattered on contact, sending the Warden stumbling out of their abode.
The Warden tried to yell out, but his jaw wasn’t working quite right, so he just let out a roar. He still had the knife, and Maat was down to half a bat.
Off to the south there was some sort of war horn sounding near the headwaters.
Maat swung a few more times with the war bat, producing diminishing returns with each hit. Pain in his ribs caught up with him, and Maat collapsed to one knee at the Warden’s feet.
No sooner did the Warden ready his knife than was he struck by a rock upside the face, courtesy of Sara. The Warden fell back, temporarily out of the fight.
“C’mon,” Sara said, her brother on one shoulder.
Maat limped over and picked Lloyd up by his other shoulder. The three continued forward, towards the sounds of a greater battle near the headwaters.
They made it to within sight of the headwaters when they heard the Warden limping along behind them.
A hand gripped Maat by the back of the neck and yanked him away from the twins. The knife sliced at Maat’s vest.
“Fingers!” the Warden growled, then tried slicing up Maat’s arm. “Maximize the bounty.”
The Warden’s boot sat in the headwaters. Just as he was about to stab Maat’s hand, the water came alive and grabbed the Warden by the pants-leg.
Jaw still not cooperating, the Warden let out a surprised “Eh?” and was immediately picked up into the air and whisked at high speed along the edge of the pool, dragged by a viscous tendril of water.
“Maat!” Sara dragged her brother along. “What was that?”
“It sure wasn’t river luck,” Maat said, gasping for air.
Now they were at the edge of the enemy camp, all three of them injured to some degree. Though the Warden was indisposed, there was still the Laval to think of.
Only the turncoat Laval were fleeing south and west. A full squad of ten walked right past the trio. A retreat, but not a terribly urgent one.
“Push them back! Stick to the headwaters!” bellowed a familiar gravelly voice.
The Quarterchief ran out into the headwaters, fighting two Laval and a Jean’in in one of those wide-brimmed hat.
“Fight ‘em in close quarters. The foreigners don’t fight half as well once they can’t use the guns.”
The Jean’in broke ranks and ran away first. A Laval found himself picked up and thrown into the headwaters. Only then did the third one run away.
A cheer went out as the enemy abandoned the headwaters.
“Dad!” Maat waved the Quarterchief down. “We need help.”
“Ma’athiel?” Michael sheathed his war-club and ran over towards the trio.
“He’s hurt bad,” Sara said.
“Come. Bring him into the headwater grove,” Michael ordered. “We’ll never get him to a healer in time. And there’s cavalry in route that will run us down if we try to escape with an injured man. There’s only one way to heal him now.”
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