Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Blight

“Wherever the servants of Al’Ashar walked, the land withered. The grass dried and crumbled into dust, the trees shrunk into shrivelled husks, the sky itself became black like the desolate wastelands of Nephilheim.”

—Aedrasil and the Three Kings

Despite the steep price of his service, Marc was true to his word. He had the ride ready and was sitting in the driver’s seat in a matter of minutes, as fresh and alert as if he’d just woken from a full night’s sleep. The carriage clearly wasn’t meant for more than four passengers at once, but no one complained. Ein squeezed in after Bran and Evaine, and then they were off.

It took a while for his heart to settle down, and when it finally did a wave of exhaustion hit him. He fell asleep upright, wedged between Rhinne and Garax, the smell of blood and sweat permeating through the confines of the carriage, and it felt like only a minute had passed when he opened his eyes again and it was morning.

“Rise and shine,” Marc said from the front seat.

Ein craned his neck out the window. They were racing through the countryside up a gentle incline, following the Royal Road as it carved a path through the snow-covered plains. Evaine and Bran slept peacefully on the other side of the carriage, Alend between them. Garax snored to Ein’s left while Rhinne crossed her arms and stared out the window to his right.

“Have we been moving for the entire night?” he asked.

Marc gave him a crooked grin. “You bet. Take a look behind you, lad.”

Ein swivelled around, trying not to wake Garax. The horizon behind them was flat. Nothing remained of Caerlon but the faint smell of smoke in the air, already fading.

“Incredible,” he said, turning back to the driver. “Did you sleep at all?”

Marc nodded. “Of course. Fire and Frost can run for days on end, and they’re smart enough to follow a road that only has one direction.” The two horses grunted. “The carriage can practically drive itself.”

“We can slow down now,” Alend said. “I think we’ve put enough distance behind us.”

“Are you sure? My darlings can keep going for a while longer.”

“It would be best if they saved their energy.”

Marc shrugged. “Alright, you heard him,” he said, tugging on the reins. “Fire! Frost! Steady now. Let’s take it to a canter.”

Trunks and crates slid along the wooden floor as the horses decelerated. The blurring landscape disseminated into snow and dirt.

“Do you think Angramar will be able to catch us?” Ein asked his father.

“It’s hard to say,” Alend replied. “There’s no telling how fast he can ride. If he hounded us all the way from the Sleeping Twins, what’s to say he won’t continue to hound us now? We can only hope that Talberon bought us some time by staying behind.”

Ein shuddered at the memory of the Urudain under the moonlight, shadowy tendrils erupting from its back. Although the druids were powerful, so were the generals of Al’Ashar. Who would win in a battle between legends?

“Did Talberon get around to making more charms for you?” Alend asked.

Ein shook his head. “I don’t think he had time.”

“Damnation.” Alend turned Talberon’s signet ring over his finger. “We can’t let down our guard. Even if Angramar is detained, any Celadon can still track our scent.”

“I sure hope we don’t run into any relicts,” Ein said. “That would be very bad luck indeed.”

“I doubt we will,” Marc spoke. “Haven’t seen a soul on the Royal Road these past few weeks. Normally you wouldn’t be able to travel a mile without running into a merchant or a guarded caravan, but as of late even the hardy peddlers are gone. This is the most snow I’ve seen on the road in a fair bit—usually it’s worn to the dirt from travel.”

“I wouldn’t be so complacent if I were you,” Rhinne said, looking away from the window. “Especially if Ein and Evaine really are Tel’rahn, the relicts will have a reason to come after us.”

Marc shrugged.

The road went up and down through undulating terrain, curving around snow-covered ridges and small copses of trees that sprang up here and there. It was straight for the most part, a worn, commanding stretch of dirt that continued with no end in sight, forcing the land to give way to it. Ein sat quietly in the carriage with Bran and Evaine, staring into space. Occasionally they fell in and out of sleep. Ein tried to strike up a conversation with Rhinne, but she didn’t seem to want to talk.

At some point they reached a small spring next to a scattering of barren trees, and it was then that Marc pulled them to a halt.

“How far are we from Aldoran?” Evaine asked, stifling a yawn.

“Shouldn’t be too far. Three days at this speed, maybe?” Marc said.

Ein stripped off his gloves and splashed the water onto his face. His behind was sore from sitting for so long and his neck felt as stiff as a board. Everyone else had gathered around the pool as well, rinsing the dirt and sweat from the exposed parts of their bodies, trying to wash away the smell of blood and smoke. Evaine tried using the Soulsong to move the water, but Garax quickly stopped her.

“Be careful who you use your magic in front of,” he said, eyeing Marc as the man tended to his horses by the trees. Evaine breathed sharply and nodded, going back to using her hands.

Once they’d washed themselves as best they could, Ein and Alend searched around the carriage for their bags before realizing they’d left without packing anything. With some coins changing hands, Marc agreed to lend them his spare waterskins for the duration of the trip. The father and son duo returned to the waterhole to fill them up.

Meanwhile, Bran had wandered back to the carriage, stretching his arms and legs. After some hesitation, he circled around to where the horses waited and eyed them.

“These aren’t horses, are they?” he asked.

Fire and Frost stared back at him with intelligent eyes. Marc laughed.

“It took you long enough to realize,” he said. “Not even a Horse of the Wind can run for as long or fast as my darlings.”

At first glance Fire and Frost appeared to be ordinary beasts of burden, albeit slightly smaller and sleeker. They had thicker necks and longer legs in proportion to the rest of their body, and their tails were about half the length Ein expected them to be. Fire had a mane of russet hair while Frost was pure white with clear blue eyes. As he continued to study them however, it quickly became apparent what placed them above normal mounts.

“They have six legs,” Ein said in wonder.

“Orstreds,” said Alend. He drew his face close to Fire without fear. The beast flicked its tail as if to challenge him. “How did you ever manage to get your hands on these beauties?”

“Heh.” Marc petted Frost’s mane. “I used to be a city guard, you know. Picked up these two babies from a drunken night up in Siraph after a game of Hall of Heroes gone right and never looked back ever since. Your Talberon is a smart man, traveller. He knows quality when he sees it.”

“What’s an Orstred?” asked Bran.

“They’re distant relatives of horses,” Garax said. “However, as you can clearly see, they have an extra pair of legs. More legs makes for less effort on each leg and faster, more efficient running. Orstreds were quite abundant a long time ago, though after the recent changes in climate their population has shrunk to a fraction of the size it once was.”

“Their coats aren’t as thick as horses,” Ein noted, examining the two creatures. “And their hairs are also finer and more widely spaced apart.”

“They’re not winter animals,” Marc nodded. “I’ll probably be using that coin you paid me to buy them some well-earned vests to protect them from the weather.”

Fire snorted appreciatively.

“Rhinne, don’t you want to have a look?” Ein asked. “Are there Orstreds from where you come from?”

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Rhinne had been leaning against a tree the whole time, staring into space. She looked up towards them, startled, and then stared at the two Orstreds.

“I think it would be better if I didn’t,” she said with a shake of her head. “Most animals tend to get nervous around me.”

“Why on earth would that be?” Marc asked.

“Animals tend to have sharper instincts than people. Maybe there’s something about me they don’t like.”

They can sense her true nature, Ein realized.

Once the Felhaveners had had their moment with the beasts, they broke away and resumed their duties. Bran came to help Ein and Alend while Garax, Evaine and Marc sifted through the supplies in the carriage, making sure everything was still there. Ein noticed Rhinne staring at the two horses every time he turned around, even going as far as to approach them when she thought no one was watching. Her eyes burned with the curiosity of a small child.

But every time she drew near, the two beasts turned their backs to her and she would walk away awkwardly, head hung low.

#

The next few days flew by and before long the land was changing, the grass growing longer, stronger and taller, the clouds thinning. At one point they even caught a glimpse of the sun. Its warmth was a familiar touch on Ein’s skin. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it, even if it was dull and half-hidden behind the clouds.

However, just as he was beginning to grow hopeful, the Blight dashed those hopes and buried them back into the cold earth.

It stained the land like the blackened limb of an amputee-to-be, a single splotch on a field of grassy green. Trees and shrubs jutted from the ground, withered husks worn completely bare. Even the animal carcasses were barren, devoid of the teeming masses of maggots and blowflies that usually accompanied them.

It came as somewhat of a shock to Ein as he and the rest of the party came across the first patch along the side of the road. For miles they’d seen nothing but life, frail as it was, and now they were met with a scene of death and decay from the deepest depths of a nightmare.

“We should be careful,” Rhinne said. “Blight means relicts have been this way.”

“Oh no,” Marc groaned. “Not now, when we’ve had such a good run.”

“There was never any Blight when they attacked our village,” Bran pointed out. “Why is there Blight now?”

“Songweavers,” Garax said. “The relicts have them, too. They’re a lot less averse to drawing Spirit from the earth.”

They dismounted—the land was far too unstable for the Orstreds to race through—and picked their way through the black earth, leaving behind cracked footprints in their wake. Ein pulled a stalk of grass from the ground. It crumbled in his hand, drifting away like a trail of ashes in the wind. The land had been steadily recovering as they’d neared Aldoran, and now it was suddenly dead again.

“It’s called siphoning,” the storyteller continued as they walked alongside the Orstreds. “When you draw upon the land rather than your own Spirit. What most people don’t know is that siphoning weakens the fabric between dimensions. It’s never been a problem before, but during times like these… an accidental siphon could well open up a portal between our world and Nephilheim.”

More patches began appearing, dotting the land like a deathpox rash, like a series of black and blue blood-drops splattered across the ground. They passed an abandoned farm, the house razed to the ground, the withered corpses of livestock strewn around the paddock. Evaine came to a halt before one of the bodies, a young piglet fallen to one side. There wasn’t a single wound on its skin.

“So this is what happens when an animal has all the Spirit siphoned from it,” she murmured.

The piglet was shrivelled like a prune, its once-pink skin now a dark violet tinge. Ein could count all the bones in its rib cage—it was as if a hole had been made in its body and all the muscle and fluid sucked out.

The piglet gave a sudden shudder of breath, startling them. Rhinne dropped down next to it, a soft hand against its face.

“It’s still alive,” she murmured. It let out a weak cry, flinching at her touch. She spun to Ein and Evaine, eyes wild. “Is there a way to fix it? Can we restore it?”

“Rhinne,” said Ein, exchanging glances with Bran and Evaine, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“It might be, theoretically,” Garax murmured. “If we can draw Spirit from life, we should be able to give it back… but…”

“It’s too dangerous,” Bran interrupted. “You weren’t there when Evaine tried to siphon from Ein. She nearly collapsed.”

Evaine nodded at the memory. “We don’t know what it’s like trying to form a link with an animal. It’s hard enough trying to draw energy from one—it might instinctively try to push us away. Worst case, we might get hurt.”

She’d experienced it first hand, the wolves inside Ein’s mind when she’d tried to invade him. Rhinne bit her lip and turned her attention back to the animal. It shuddered again.

“Rhinne,” Alend said softly. “We should go. The sun will set soon.”

Rhinne gave them a pained look and then drew her knife from her waist. Closing her eyes, she brought it to the pig’s throat and slashed it, hard and fast. The animal fell still, blood gurgling across the ground.

She wiped her blade on the blackened grass and stood up. Her golden eyes gleamed with a silent fury.

Rhinne spoke even less after that, staring glumly outside as the carriage picked its way along the Royal Road. Ein wanted to talk to her, but with everyone packed so tightly together it was nigh impossible. He couldn’t talk to anyone. Any topic of a sensitive nature was immediately out of the question, and Marc’s presence stopped them discussing any important matters. The Blight had dampened their mood—even Evaine, who was usually so bright and lively, had fallen silent.

It wasn’t until they reached the relict camp that people started to talk again.

It lay at the heart of an enormous patch of Blight, complete with a pool of blackened water in the centre. Rough tents lined the premises, scattered chaotically in clusters of five to ten. Worgals roamed about, some wearing crude leather, some naked, speaking to each other in barks and growls as they went about their duties.

There was a fenced off section for the Celadons—a pen with equally spaced stakes driven into the ground, a dozen or so of the beasts tethered to each. Bloodmanes monitored their respective squads. There were also Slazaads, giant lizards with heads shaped like battering rams and tails that ended in vicious bulbs of spines. The party stayed low, sticking to the curve of a crest that provided them cover from the relicts.

The camp was only about the size of a small farm, but it wasn’t the only one. There was movement along the other patches of Blight up ahead, leading all the way to the horizon where the tips of what Ein presumed was Aldoran poked into view. There were at least a dozen of the encampments, maybe more.

“They’re so organized,” Evaine breathed.

She was right. Although their tents had been scattered in no particular order, each group of relicts had their own delegated tasks. A group of Worgals tended to the Celadons and the Slazaads. Another stockpiled and distributed arms, slaughtering creatures as well—relict or not—for food, while Bloodmanes oversaw them and snapped out instructions. It was, Ein realized, an actual camp preparing itself for war, and he sensed the others coming to the same conclusion.

“Look over there,” Rhinne said, keeping her voice hushed. “Near that group of tents.”

He followed the direction she pointed and spotted what looked like a rip in the fabric of the air, a slash of violet that ran vertically towards the ground for about the height of a tree. Relicts moved back and forth through it, disappearing and reappearing with weapons, armour, cratefuls of supplies, or more relicts in tow.

“A portal,” Alend murmured. “To Nephilheim?”

“Looks like it,” Garax said grimly. “I’d say the majority of the damage to the earth is caused from sustaining the portals that are opening up everywhere.”

A man stood guard beside it, a ragged half-giant that spoke in grunts and groans. He was enormous, perhaps a few feet away from reaching the height of a full giant, with bulging muscles and limbs the size of tree trunks. Scars crisscrossed his naked torso, forming a fleshy pink pattern across his body. Black iron manacles hung from either wrist, and he wore a mask across his face with the Watching Moon upon it. The mask of an Urudain.

Hrongar, the giant with the fists of steel, Ein thought.

It wasn’t the only portal. There were a few others, guarded by groups of Bloodmanes and Worgals, but the one in front of them was the biggest.

“We’ll have to go around them,” Ein said.

“As opposed to going through them,” Evaine joked, but her voice was flat. They lay prone at the top of a hill, peering across the war camp. Bran had his back towards them, trembling.

“This is worse than I thought,” Alend muttered. “I don’t think we have much time.”

“We’re close,” Marc said. “It’s not in my business to guess, but I’d presume your business in Aldoran is related to this.”

Alend’s face hardened as he realized he’d said too much. “Let’s head off now, before night falls. If we hurry, we might just make it to the city before dusk.”

#

Through some miracle or other, they reached the gates to Aldoran without incident. The Blight had given way to vegetation once more, though they passed many a farmstead that had been raided and left to rot.

The wall towered above them into the crimson sky, a proud barrier of grey stone that raced towards the horizon in either direction. They approached from the southern woodlands where the canal left the city and trickled down towards the sea, flushing away all the filth from within. Soldiers patrolled the walls, tiny specks bobbing up and down between the watchtowers.

“Halt,” called a pair of guards by the gate, stepping in front of the party. The two great doors loomed behind them, tall and solid. “What business do you have in Aldoran?”

“We wish to seek council with the King,” Alend said, looking out from his position in the carriage. Ein ran his eyes across the black and silver armour of the Legion, resting longer than necessary on the Uldan crest.

“So does every other fugitive along the Royal Road,” the first guard said.

“Be that as it may, we have no right to refuse them,” the other replied, quickly scanning the inside of the carriage. He turned to Alend. “How long do you plan on staying?”

“A few days at most,” Alend replied. “Once our business is done, we’ll be on our way.”

The guard eyed the group of ragtag travellers with a critical gaze. Ein looked away, staring at a spot in the distance while Bran shifted uncomfortably beside him. “How did you lot make it this far? The countryside is anything but safe. It’s been teeming with relicts, or so I’ve heard. They’ve been making us close the gates several hours early because of it.”

“I guess we were lucky,” Garax shrugged.

The two guards looked at each other, exchanging a series of looks and head tilts. Ein held his breath. Would they be allowed inside, or did their filthiness make them unfit to enter? He was sure they’d cleaned themselves, though Rhinne’s garb was still unusual for a girl. They’d made her put on shoes and extra layers to at least maintain the pretence of being an ordinary human.

“Very well then,” the guards finally said. “We’ll open the gates for you. Do take note for the future, though—when the sun goes down, so does the portcullis, and it won’t be coming up until first light. With times as they are, the King takes no risks. You’ve just made it before night though, so there’s no problem.”

“Understood.” Alend’s hand twitched into what Ein suspected was a salute, but he caught himself and instead scratched his beard.

The guards stepped aside, pushing the wooden doors open enough to fit the carriage through. With a gentle nudge, Marc eased the Orstreds forward and into the City of Twilight.