by Kim Wedlock
"It is not harm I fear you will bring, but harm you will receive. Ut'hala is unsafe - dangerous. Not even the priestesses have been near it for an entire moon..."
Now Rathen took a careful step towards her, and she watched him just as closely as she had Anthis. "Why has it not been safe? What's happening there?"
She seemed reluctant to answer at first, as though she saw the sudden focus in his eyes as something to be wary of, that his interest was borne of ill will. But her eyes revealed another deep consideration, one that weighed many factors very quickly, and she shortly made a decision. "No wind blows," she replied finally, though her instinctive hesitance remained, "and the sands are drowned, flooded by rains that never fell."
"What does that mean?" Petra frowned. "The water just appeared there? In the middle of the desert?"
"We have no understanding of it, either," she admitted, "but there is more besides - a beauty, an unsettling one, unnatural." Suspicion pulled at her brow as the group sent each other brief and unsurprised glances, and accusation suddenly tainted her voice. "What is it you know?" She demanded, taking a sharp step closer herself this time, and if she had intended it to be menacing, she'd succeeded. Each of them shifted back, their guards immediately rising; Petra's hand twitched towards the hilt of the sword she'd made a point of keeping beside her that night, and Garon, too, reached to draw his own from further back where he kept watch. But she paid them no mind, as if physical weapons were of no concern to her.
Only Rathen's defence remained constant, for he knew her hands were still useless.
"We know that this same thing - or something similar - is happening all over Turunda, Ivaea, and other countries besides," he replied calmly as her eyes burned into him. "It isn't our doing - we're trying to stop it. But part of our plan involves visiting various sites and seeing how they're affected so we can develop an understanding of it first."
The ferocity of her eyes barely softened as they continued to sear him, their blue colour now blistering ice, but the crease in her painted brow did ease a little, and she considered him more carefully. "It is magic. You know this, don't you?"
He nodded, surprised but pleased for the fact that the tribes at least recognised this much. And hopeful. "We've seen it in a number of other places, but we need to see it in Uth--in the desert. Your desert."
She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt hope rising further at her ever-thoughtful gaze. Then she nodded to herself in conclusion. "You should turn around."
Confusion shattered his brow. "What?"
"I can make my own way back from here, but you shouldn't waste your time. If other places are in such turmoil, you haven't time to lose."
"No."
She stared at his abrupt and stubborn response, as did everyone else.
"Sorry," he continued unapologetically, "but we've got little choice. We have to get there."
"Well you can't," she said with much the same tone.
"I would prefer to hear that from your leaders."
"What makes you think I am not one of them?"
"You wouldn't be out here on your own if you were, lying in your own blood."
Her eyes sharpened. "This is why you helped me. You do want something."
"Like I said: you were only partly right." He walked towards her again, but this time he didn't stop after one or two steps. He drew up right in front of her, folded his arms across his chest and loomed with the grim authority one often used over a child, using his own well-aged obstinacy to cancel hers out. "We are going to the desert wind tribe for permission to visit this ruin, and for you to be out here, I would guess you belong to that very tribe. In which case I would ask you to help us convince your elders in payment for saving your life. You are free to leave us alone and make your own way instead, if you wish, and feign unfamiliarity when we arrive, but arrive we will, and ask we will. This is important - for the sanctity of your shine as well as the safety of your people, never mind the world beyond."
Once again, she met his gaze levelly, and all other eyes flicked carefully between the two.
"How close are you to being able to fix it, if that is truly your goal?"
He let no trace of doubt nor hesitance cross his face. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "We could be months away, or weeks - or the very detail we need could be within the ruin you so jealously guard. Until we get there, none of us will know for certain - but I would prefer to explain all of this to--"
"To my chief." She sighed heavily and looked across the wary, expectant faces of the others. Her own expression changed now - it was still just as reserved, but there was a new kind of thoughtfulness, one that revealed she fully understood the weight of what they were trying to do. But there was also a responsibility, an obligation to her tribe and one that could sway her decision in either direction: she could take the group at their word and hope they could restore her people's sacred shrine, or lead strangers to her home and risk harm to her loved ones. Because Rathen realised as he watched her internal deliberation that what little they knew of the tribes probably mirrored what little the tribes knew of his own culture.
Then her thoughts were concealed. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let a soft, brief but sudden breeze tousle her long, white hair. She opened her eyes the moment it passed. "I will lead you to my people in the morning. If we leave at dawn, we will reach them in two days."
"And you will ensure us a safe arrival?" Petra added nervously, but the girl only gave them an unreadable frown.
"Of course..."
Chapter 33
Small, grey clouds dotted the sky, encouraging a game of hide and seek between the mid-spring sun and the underlying land. A light breeze, neither too warm nor too cool, rolled over the mottled hills and tousled the trees' boughs like a grandparent would a child's hair, the sound of competing birdsong drifting upon it from the forests to the west, laced with the scents of distant rain and the churned earth of ploughed fields.
In short, it was an unremarkable day.
And yet, despite such ordinariness, the surrounding atmosphere was tense and watchful. The endless armoured bodies stood out painfully from the rich, green landscape, if not for their numbers then certainly for the way their steel caught the sunlight and lit them up like beacons - a fact of which all were acutely aware. The watch's attention sharpened in their exposure, rendering each as alert and hawk-eyed as if they felt dogs were ever an inch from nipping at their rears. A steel ring formed around the camp, their eyes cast out to the furthest reaches and their swords close at hand, sheathed readily at their hips or strapped across their backs, while the soldiers within shot watchful glances over their shoulders while tending their weapons, armour and rumbling stomachs.
But their shared concern was for more than being a conspicuous feature in the landscape.
Skilan's forces were still inexplicably scattered and it was difficult to know where small battalions might pop up, or what they might do when they did. It was true that Turunda's forces were more collected and organised, and that they were on familiar ground, but Skilan seemed to be applying unorthodox tactics and equally had two allies at their disposal, of which Doana was quite an unexpected addition.
They were doing all they could against the situation, but after yesterday's loss, their confidence had been knocked. It was the result of not the first, but the second questionable decision by their superiors, and even General Moore had been unable to contain his frustration in front of his subordinates.
But the whispers of discontent beneath the air were weak. Unconventional Skilan may presently be, but Turunda still had the upper hand. And more fortunately still, General Moore's soldiers weren't the only ones standing vigil across Turunda.
Among this very division stood other men and women, equally armoured if curiously unarmed at first glance, absorbed in the same outward concentration. Some were grouped in small, uniformed ranks, weaving their fingers into the same movements at the same time, casting spells in perfect un
ison with a certain if unobvious result, while others stood alone and as still as rock, their eyes distant and focused intently on something unseen. With their magic, the Order's martial wing were the only ones capable of confronting enemy casters - either to stop them or to occupy them, whichever present tactics required - and protecting the military itself from magical assault while they saw to the rest. But, with a few simple spells, they were also capable of detecting anyone or anything's approach far more quickly than soldiers' eyes and ears alone.
Privately, more than a few war mages found it ironic that so many soldiers breathed easier when martially-trained casters were around, but soldiers were far more wisened to the necessities of war than ordinary people, most of whom blindly feared even the Order's tame scholarly wing.
Thoughtful and observant, Sivaan Rosh had pondered it many times himself, and he found it even more curious and yet quite unsurprising that he worked better with General Moore than he did a number of the Order's own elders.
That day, however...
"You're distracted, Damien."
The grandly armoured mage turned his head sharply towards his military counterpart, startled out of his obsessive thoughts. He blinked at him for a moment. "Yes. Sorry."
The general shook his head with brief amusement and looked across the camp from beside him. "Heed your lieutenants' advice, my friend. Whatever weighs on your mind needn't consume your whole being. And it shouldn't, especially not now. Your mages need your leadership, and we need their skills."
"I know."
Moore's stern brow knitted more tightly as he considered his strangely distant colleague. Damien had never been the type to keep things to himself if they were relevant, but neither was he the type to let irrelevant things distract him. He was a professional with forty five years of service under his belt, and an open book when it mattered.
It was possible that he was simply troubled by Skilan's unexpectedly advanced tactics - but while they were certainly shocking and had caught even himself off guard, the sivaan should have adjusted by now. Or perhaps there was something arcane at work that he was still trying to solve - but again, that wasn't something Damien Rosh would keep secret from him, not in a time of war, and neither would he withhold it until he had an understanding of it. They were fighting the same enemies; everything was shared as soon as it was learned, whether they could make heads or tails of it or not. Every detail mattered.
His eyes narrowed. No, it was neither of those things, and nor was it anything personal. It had manifested only in the past few days and his home had been long behind him by then...
Then perhaps - just perhaps - his age was finally catching up to him, turning him into a bitter and brooding old man. It claimed most soldiers in time, those who lived long enough to see such age, and in the sivaan's case it had certainly taken long enough...
Moore grunted quietly to himself in conclusion. That had to be it. "If--"
The mage-general abruptly walked away. "Sorry," he threw back as an after-thought, "I've really got to..." But he didn't finish.
The general said nothing as he watched the sivaan hurry away. He'd never been a rude or haughty mage so something must have grasped his urgent attention, but Moore didn't want to cause a commotion among the already tense ranks by hurrying after him to find out.
And he was presently too alarmed himself to even think to.
He watched him closely, tracking him through the maze of bodies.
He hadn't missed the flash of distress in the old man's eyes.
The subtlest trace of magic had been sitting just at the edge of Rosh's senses for days, dragging away more and more of his attention with every rising of the sun, as if his mind had been chained to an old and stubborn work horse. He'd fought against it with all his strength, but it had grown so very curious, compelling - almost seductive - over the past week that it simply wouldn't be ignored. He felt his dedication slipping, increasingly unable to resist its pull, but each time he'd found himself giving in he discovered he could see it a little more clearly. Before long, he'd become unwilling to even try to brush it aside.
The enrapturing sensation was unfamiliar, and yet, somehow, he knew it as well as the presence of an old friend. But try as he might, he couldn't identify the magic's source, even as it grew steadily stronger with their march across the western reaches. He'd thought at first that it was following him, approaching from behind and preparing to overtake him, and that had prompted him to keep the Order marching long into the night to try to rid himself of the harassment. Now, however, it was different. He'd spent so much time consumed by it while lying rigidly awake on his cot that he'd realised it wasn't following him at all. It was luring him, as if he was an animal being led into a trap.
He'd decided upon that striking recognition that he would find it himself, first. To lure him, it would have to lie in wait, which meant that he could hunt it down instead. He would find it, he would silence it, and he would claim it. That was his duty. That was his compulsion.
And now, at last, it was close. When they'd drawn to a stop that afternoon he'd felt as if they were right on top of it - he was certain they were right on top of it. And he had to find it before it understood what he was doing and escaped.
He'd searched and searched from where he'd stood as the camp continued its cautious activities around him, the sensation, the presence, the lure entirely engulfing him and giving him nowhere at all to turn. And then, finally, he'd found something: a trace, a tendril snaking out towards him from a kaleidoscope of magic which he followed with the sheerest focus, grasping it almost with his bare hands to make sure it couldn't suddenly flit away.
With every step, he could feel it coaxing him. It wanted him to find it. But his guard was keen; he wasn't walking towards it - whatever or whoever it was - blindly. It wouldn't get the better of him. It wouldn't.
He would find it.
The tendril wended through the camp and he followed its every twist and turn, stepping unknowingly passed the soldiers who moved respectfully out of his way, mage and man alike.
A dull throb reverberated through his head to settle behind his brow. It was a familiar pain, the same headache he'd had for weeks that simply wouldn't budge, but it had grown more intense in his recent agitation and now it all but fogged his mind.
A sudden desperation flooded his being as his addled mind lost track of the magic, and the tendril disappeared into the myriad of energy like a breath puffed in a fog. He stumbled to a stop, ignoring those he'd startled.
He couldn't afford to lose it.
But where was it?!
There!
It snaked back out, curling towards him like a ghost's finger. His attention was hooked, his frustration forgotten, and he followed it willingly, ignoring everyone and everything around him.
But again it slipped away!
His exasperation returned, boiling his blood, burning his veins, and his pace hurried as he sought it out once more. It was right here, right here, and he wasn't going to let it get away from him! He needed to find it!
Innumerable eyes followed him in his chaotic search, most confused by his indecisive movements, some concerned by the torment in his brow, but one or two others were moving around on an identical hunt through the camp of two thousand, feverishly certain they could sense the same thing. But if that was the case, they didn't appear to be working together. He paid them no attention and they similarly ignored him, each focused intently on their own individual missions which led them all in opposing directions.
It didn't matter. He didn't care. All he wanted was to find the magic, that above everything. Above rest, above food, above breath.
But where was it? Where was it?!
Where had it gone?!
There was a charge in the air. The hairs on the back of one soldier's neck stood up, but as he looked around at the calm and quiet camp, he assumed it to be little more than wartime tensions. He dismissed it and returned his attention to his rations, but his hesitan
ce returned when he noticed the movement of a handful of others across the way, each raising their heads and glancing around with the same wary expectation he had.
He frowned and looked about again, more attentively this time, and almost immediately a small flash caught the corner of his sight. It would have seemed nothing more than the glint of armour to any other eye, but having spent half of his life in the ranks, the soldier knew better. The armour was as steel as his own, but its details of royal purple set the woman apart from the military as a war mage, and it wasn't the glance of sunlight across her breastplate that had shimmered, but a spark of magic.
His heart shuddered. The Order had found something, and from the distant but concentrated look upon her face - an expression all soldiers had become unerringly familiar with over the years - it could only be magic.
He dropped his bread and hollered an alarm, and all around him the camp sprung to life. Mages raised their hands and immediately set to forming protective barriers while the soldiers drew their weapons, and as more sparks rose and crackled around the woman, others caught his eye, scattered across the commotion. Some were even bursting around Sivaan Rosh, who stood not far behind him.
The lack of organisation disturbed the soldier, but whatever the mages had detected, it had to be severe to provoke such a response from the mage-general himself. If that was how it was to be handled, then so be it. Magic was the Order's domain.
He, like all the other soldiers around him, locked his attention onto trying to locate the attackers, as a magical assault was almost always a distraction, and when cries of alarm rose shortly from his left, his sharpened focus was snatched towards it. They had to be over there.
But the cries continued for a fraction too long. They were not those of startled warning, they were entirely involuntary, torn free from their throats by panic.
His heart skipped a beat as his mind was assaulted by a sluggish lack of comprehension, and in that moment the unmistakable orange glow and crackle of fire burst into life from the corner of his eye.