Clara woke the next day feeling, if not entirely refreshed after even just a half day riding at full gallop, at least optimistic about the rest of the journey passing with the same speed. After breakfasting at the inn she left the village and resummoned her Nightmare once she felt she was far enough for safety, and resumed her travel.
The countryside passed by in a blur, but Clara was still surprised when she spotted the castle in the distance only a few hours after her day had started. Going over the route in her head, she realized that - from what she had gathered of a horse’s speed at a full gallop - the short time she had ridden the previous day had covered more than half the total distance on its own.
Aside from the dilapidated keep where the King of the Forest had dwelled, she had never seen such a fortification before - Almerra was too far from any borders for outside threats to be much of a consideration, and the walls had long been enough of a deterrent to the monsters and bandits in the surrounding countryside. That woodland ruin paled in comparison to what lay before her, as much as this castle paled in comparison to the walls of Calador. The land had been cleared to bare earth for some distance in all directions around it; to deny attackers any concealment as they approached, Clara surmised. A great ditch had been dug around the castle’s perimeter and its constituent dirt piled into a mound on which the castle sat, leaving the structure slightly elevated from its surrounds. Beyond that rose the first layer of grand stone walls, all but impenetrable to Clara’s eyes with their whitewashed stone and circular towers at regular intervals. Still past them was an inner set of walls, even taller than the first and somehow more sturdy-looking. Even at a distance, the imposing stone construction left Clara feeling terribly small as she looked upon it.
Though she was still perhaps an hour’s travel away from the castle, Clara climbed out of the saddle; better that she not give the castle’s inhabitants any chance to see the Nightmare. After fishing around in the saddlebags for the signet ring Holden had mentioned - a heavy band of gold with the Haford family crest engraved into its raised face - she dismissed the demon and continued down the road.
An hour or so later, Clara was approaching the drawbridge that spanned the dry moat - thankfully lowered, which initially surprised her. She’d always had the impression that the thing would be raised most of the time; but then, lowering it every time someone needed to enter or exit seemed like a great hassle once she gave it a moment’s thought.
She had been noticed well in advance of approaching the castle, or so she assumed - she had seen some movement atop the walls and heard some distant voices as she neared. A small gatehouse stood in defense of the bridge, and a guard loosely holding a long spear leaned against the wall just outside the open gate, his chin resting on his chest despite the relatively early hour. “Hail,” Clara called to him, raising her hand in greeting.
He jolted out of his half-dozing state, tightly gripping his spear and looking wildly around for a moment before gathering himself. “Oh, just a visitor? State your name and business, if you want in.”
Clara held up the signet ring. “Lady Cecily Haford. I am here to speak with the castellan on behalf of Count Haford.”
The guard leaned a bit closer to get a good look at the ring. “Huh. Looks real enough, but… why are you out here alone and on foot?”
“I had a mount and an escort when I set out, but we were waylaid by bandits on the road, several days ago. The Angels must have guided me,” Clara replied, making the sign of the wings, “for I alone escaped, and managed to make it the rest of the way here.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a rough time of things, milady” the guard said, apparently believing the story. “Marcus!” he called up to the gatehouse, and another guard poked his head out the window. “Take my shift for a few minutes - got an important person to escort into the castle. Right this way, milady.” The guard motioned for her to follow and turned to cross the drawbridge, and Clara walked along behind him.
She was guided into the depths of the castle without any further stops - some of the soldiers they passed saluting her escort with the wings, and him saluting others, though she couldn’t tell exactly what the distinction was that determined who salute who. There was less of a garrison than she had expected, but then, she remembered Arthur saying that a castle could be held against a superior force by a bare handful of men in one of the rare times he had taught her about his area of expertise, instead of the other way around.
Once they passed the small gap between the the outer walls and into the inner she saw more activity, though most of it was domestic - servants and officials, by their clothing, rather than fighting men. They crossed a well-tended courtyard and through the grand doors of the keep, a striking building that rose several stories into the air, almost to the height of the walls. Inside Clara was greeted by a grand hall, decorated with rich tapestries and banners hanging from the wall, the floor beautifully tiled. It was pleasantly warmed by the great hearth, and a fair number of people interspersed throughout the room, talking amongst each other in small groups.
She didn’t have very long to observe the grandeur of the hall, as her still-nameless guide turned towards a large set of stairs and led her up to the top level and down a small hallway, stopping in front of a door - flanked by another guard, who he nodded to - and knocked. “Sir, there’s a Lady Cecily Haford here to meet with you, apparently on behalf of Count Haford.”
“Send her in,” came a muffled voice from behind the door, and the guard beside it reached over to open it, revealing an office that was at least as well-decorated as the hall below. The door-guard waved her inside, then shut the door behind her.
“There’s no Cecily Haford that I know of,” the sole figure in the chamber said once the door had closed - a man well into his years, with strands of gray shot through his mostly-brown hair and the build of a soldier despite that. “So you must either be a terrible spy, or else another one of Holden’s get.”
“The latter; my name is Clara Elwin. Holden told me that you would have some information on the whereabouts of a cambion settlement in the vicinity.”
“As I expected. I am Leopold Henderson, the humble castellan of this grand fortification - and, yes, one of Holden’s acquaintances,” he introduced with a wry smile. “The last sighting we had of the cambions was in the woods to the north and west, some eight miles out.”
“May I ask why Holden saw fit to send me here with all of this deception, rather than simply tell me where my quarry lies?”
“They’re a nomadic sort, so they don’t stay in one place for too long - even pull up those flowers I expect you’re after and replant them as they go.”
“How did you know that the flowers are what I seek?” Clara asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Ah, well,” Henderson started, spreading his arms. “I don’t mean to scare you with this information, but you should probably know that you’re not the first of your fellows to come seeking them. Most of them haven’t come back - those that have, half-mad from whatever the cambions did to them. Whether from torture, some spell, or something else altogether, I’ve no idea.”
An involuntary shudder passed through Clara at this new knowledge, and despite the castellan’s small attempt at reassurance, it did scare her. How did she end up trotting across the kingdom, facing danger at every turn? The thought still bounced around in her head as she made her thanks and farewells to Henderson, declining his offer to provide her a room overnight - with it only being midday, she still had time enough to travel, particularly with the unnatural pace of the Nightmare, and she didn’t want to invite any chance for someone not in Holden’s confidence to question the veracity of Cecily Haford.
Before getting involved with infernal magic, she had always imagined spending her days studying and practicing magic in the safety of her home, not going on these harrowing adventures; once she had enough of a grasp of the arcane, at least, though those ideas all seemed like such foolish dreams now. The thought chased her all the way out of the castle - leaving her somewhat distracted in reassuring the as of yet unnamed guard that her business with the castellan had only needed a few minutes to resolve as he escorted her back to the gatehouse.
She didn’t need to continue going along with Holden’s wishes, she thought for a moment as she resummoned her Nightmare. He had lied to her, or at the least withheld information such as the previous attempts to acquire the cambion’s flowers, in addition to continuously putting her in danger with his orders. She had gained a fair enough grasp of infernalism to strike out on her own and return to her initial plan of making her fortune adventuring, and Holden had given her a fair amount of coin to begin that, besides. But then she remembered that he still, more than likely, had a few of the talons that could be used to track her, and she’d no idea what sort of retribution he might visit upon her should she try to break away. She knew she wasn’t yet experienced to fend for herself if she made an enemy of his coven - which she knew not the full extent of - and the Church. So, with some trepidation, she pulled herself into the saddle and set off back down the road.
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Not the greatest judge of distance, Clara turned her horse into the thick undergrowth of the woods after what she thought was eight miles or so - a quarter of an hour or so at a gallop. Though more surefooted than any mortal beast, the infernal steed still had trouble picking through the roots and shrubbery that littered the forest floor. She was forced to proceed at little faster than a walk, questing branches whipping against her with every few steps. After a few minutes of this, she decided to just start scything them from the trees ahead of her with razor-sharp tendrils of shadow.
She was almost relieved when, after another hour, she heard a voice from somewhere in the surrounding greenery - difficult to even tell what direction it came from, echoing such that it could have originated anywhere - called out in the kingdom’s tongue, though heavily accented: “Halt, human.” She obliged, mentally commanding the Nightmare to come to a stop at the same time that she glanced around to see if the speaker was visible, but she ultimately saw nothing - or rather, she saw what could have been something in every shadow cast or movement of the vegetation.
“No mortal horse you ride. Be you another of the Sealbreaker’s whelps, sent to steal our treasures?” the voice continued.
“I know of none that calls themselves Sealbreaker. I come on behalf of a warlock named Holden, to acquire a flower that your people are said to have.”
“That is who we know by the title Sealbreaker. You are not the first, and you will find us difficult to rob - just ask your brethren.”
“I’ve not come for a fight,” Clara said, holding up her hands in what she hoped they would understand as a sign of peace. “I was not even aware that others were sent, before today. Is there any possibility of us reaching a peaceful understanding?”
A snort issued from the undergrowth. “Your kind lies as easily as they breathe - and you infernalists in particular. But… we do not shed blood needlessly. If you are false, then that will be determined.” The speaker stepped from the woods and into Clara’s vision, surprisingly close - perhaps only ten feet away. It was a humanoid figure, though only vaguely. A pair of uneven horns sprouted from the top of its head, and its skin was red - or at least it was where it wasn’t daubed with swirls of green and brown paint, likely for camouflage. Its garb was primitive, consisting of only simply stitched animal furs, also dappled with foresty colours and with bits of branch and leaf strewn across it. The cambion held a strangely curved shortbow, trained lazily on Clara with an arrow nocked but not yet drawn, and had a small brace of spears in a leather container on its back.
“Come. I will show you to the chief, and you can present your case to him,” it - he? - said with a motion of its arrow-hand, then turned and melted back into the forest. Clara set her Nightmare back into motion, trusting its demonic senses to follow the cambion better than she could, considering how easily she had let it disappear from her vision.
After another quarter hour of traveling in a relatively straight line - bar some small detours around particularly large trees or impenetrable thickets - the forest opened into a small clearing with obvious signs of habitation, if more than a little primitive. The only dwellings in sight were a number of small tents constructed of the same untanned animal hides that made up her guide’s clothes. A small cookfire roared in the middle of the clearing with a whole skinned boar turning on a spit over it. A handful of other cambions populated the camp, each of them unique aside from the near-universal fur clothing: some had bright crimson skin, others almost coal black, and the rest were every tone in between. Clara saw horns, spaded tails, legs that ended in hooves, scaled skin, and bony protrusions in every combination. The only thing that could be said collectively about the cambions was that they were obviously inhuman.
And they all noticed Clara when she entered the clearing, the only one that obviously didn’t belong, and mounted atop her demonic steed besides. She saw some of the cambions put their heads together in whispered conversations, pointing at her with a mix of inquiry and fear apparent in their demeanours.
The one guiding her led her without pause to the largest tent in the small camp - embroidered with bright colours where the others were plain, and the entrance flanked by the two biggest cambions she had seen, spears at the ready and pointed menacingly at Clara as she approached.
After some words between the three cambions in a language Clara didn’t understand - though it sounded similar to that which her imp chittered with - the guards stepped back and took a slightly more restful stance; still wary, but they didn’t look like they were going to stab her if she made a move they didn’t agree with anymore.
“Stay here,” her guide told her, then slipped inside the large tent. So Clara stood outside and did her best to meet the gaze of the door-guards without letting her expression betray any fear. Though, if it did come down to a fight, she figured that she stood a pretty good chance of escaping the camp, as the cambions’ only defenses seemed to be a handful of spearmen and hunters. That made her wonder what exactly they had done to the previous emissaries Holden had sent to collect the flowers, and she had to suppress her unease anew at the unknown possibilities.
After a few minutes of staring down the guards, her guide reappeared at the tent’s entrance. “Come. The chief will hear your case,” he said, and Clara dismounted and dismissed her hellhound and followed him inside.
The inside of the tent was handsomely decorated, for all that it was still just a tent. The canvas floor had been brightened up with a colourful rug, while the walls held a small number of tapestries, and hanging from the ceiling were ribbons dyed all different ways - most of it looked like it had been pilfered from humans, given the primitive level of craftsmanship the cambions seemed to possess.
The chief himself lounged in an elaborate chair at the far end of the tent, as large and powerful a specimen as his honour guard and bedecked in vibrant ornaments; brightly coloured feathers, roughly cut gemstones, and bits of metal were strewn about his clothing without much consideration beyond how well they might catch the eye.
Also in the tent was a cambion woman in a dress of patchwork cloth rather than the animal hides that seemed ubiquitous in the camp - though her adornments were even more elaborate than the chief’s, covering every inch of scarlet skin that the daring cut of her dress would have revealed in an eclectic rainbow of trinkets that made Clara’s eyes swim to look at - and a hunched old creature in an outfit as drab as the woman’s was garish but for the gnarled staff that he held, baubles dangling from its knobby end.
“Zhaanam has told me something of your intentions, witch, but I would hear it from your own mouth. Why have you come seeking us?”
“I was told by my mentor, Holden, to seek your people out and acquire a flower that you cultivate. I was also told that you were a primitive people, which I see was a rather false description, and fully expected to have to take the flower by force,” Clara said, hoping that the honesty would endear the chief to her.
Instead, he snorted. “Sealbreaker has always been a duplicitous one. His followers, I have found, are just the same. This makes the third time now we have been approached by your ilk with honeyed words and dark hearts. Twice we have been betrayed, and I will not suffer a third.”
“Wait,” Clara said as the chief started to raise his hand, presumably to signal to his guards. “I cannot make excuses for those who came before me - I was not even aware that there had been others until just now - but surely there is some way to prove my good intent.”
“You speak of good intent, but have nothing to show for it. You come empty-handed, without any tribute to prove yourself a friend-.”
“I like her clothes. They would make a fine gift,” the cambion woman chimed in, before drawing away from a harsh look from the chief.
The old cambion rapped his staff against the floor, silencing the room and setting the trinkets atop it jangling against each other. “The beast,” he said in a raspy voice, drawing surprised looks from the cambions and a confused one from Clara.
The chief’s face quickly turned from surprise to calculation. “An excellent idea, Pagnam. You will face a trial, human, to earn the boon of our cinderleaf. A great beast stalks this wood, rendering its vast territory too dangerous for both our peoples to venture. Zhaanam will guide you to its domain and help you slay it. When you return with the deed done you will be free to return to your master with your prize. Is this agreeable?”
“I don’t see that I have any other alternatives.”
“If you lack the mettle, you may leave our camp empty-handed and do not bother us again. Or… we can deal with you as we have dealt with the rest of your ilk.”
Recalling what Henderson had said about the state of the last of those who had visited the cambions, Clara hoped that the sudden stab of fear that she felt didn’t show on her face. “What more can you tell me about this great beast?”
“It is as large as an aurochs and swift and deadly as a lion, with a breath of fire and a poisoned bite that kills in seconds. It stays within the bounds of its territory, but such a prodigious creature demands an area befitting its majesty - leaving us cut off from all of that precious land. None of our warriors have managed the deed, but perhaps with the might of an infernalist it can be done.”
“You’ve none of your own who might have done it?”
“Pagnam and his apprentice. An old man and a child. Did Sealbreaker really tell you nothing of us?”
Clara shook her head. “He used to live among us,” the chief continued. “One of the ancestors brought him in, more than a decade ago, and ordered us to teach him. Pagnam had never seen such a dedicated student before, and he soon outstripped his mentor. We thought he might replace Pagnam as our mystic, but his ambition was greater than our humble tribe could ever offer him. So he turned his back on us, and now he sends his underlings to lie to and steal from us. You are very lucky that we need your strength more than I wish to flay you alive.” The cambion’s tone became more and more venomous as he recalled his past with Holden, and he was clenching the arm of his chair by the end. “Leave me. Slay the beast, or die trying,” the chief finished with a dismissive wave.