[game-notes version here]

XXVII.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

Wolves black as night dashed from the trees to the left and right in a stir of branches and fallen leaves. Vessa saw Alric crouch and swing with his staff, two-handed, but then two of the beasts were upon her.

They weren’t larger or faster than common wolves, but they made little sound as they bit and gnashed their white fangs. Their eyes were solid black. No beast’s eyes looked like that… Orthuun’s stain had found them. And, as the first wolf leapt at her, she saw their tongues were equally black, an unnerving detail that would plague her dreams.

She dropped her bow to the ground as she ducked the first wolf, drawing her shortsword from its sheath. Before she could stab at the ebon fur, however, Maelen was there, snarling and clubbing the creature with her spiked mace. Her friend’s bestial noises were a sharp contrast to the silent aggression from the wolves.

Another animal darted in. Vessa turned her blade to fend it off, and Maelen crushed its skull as it veered.

Where was Alric? She turned to see him still grunting and swinging his rune-carved staff. Amazingly, two black-furred bodies lay prone at his feet, but he didn’t see the wolf crouching behind him. In one smooth motion, she dropped her sword and plucked the bow from the ground. Draw, pull, loose, and the arrow took the animal in its throat as it leapt. The soundless body hit Alric’s back, making no sound as it hit. He stumbled, spinning to face the threat. Vessa’s shot had been a good one, though. The wolves that had ambushed them were dead.

The entire encounter had taken mere heartbeats, but Vessa was panting. Her wounds from the Starless Rift were far from healed, and she was not, she realized, prepared to again face death.

“We have to get out of here,” she hissed at Maelen. The warrior gripped her weapon with two hands, eyes wide and searching. Vessa recovered her sword from the leaves and sheathed it, placing a hand upon Maelen’s shoulder. Her friend flinched, breath ragged. Maelen may have physically recovered from her wounds more than Vessa, but her psychological ones were far worse. Vessa squeezed the shoulder.

“Mae, we have to go,” she urged with a fierce whisper.

Maelen blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. She scanned the small clearing, the prone bodies scattered like shadows in the grass. She nodded once.

Vessa plucked the arrow from the dead wolf as they left, covering their rear and keeping her eyes sharp for more predators. Out of sight, they could hear the two wolfpacks still battling, though she noted there were far fewer sounds than before. Since only the brown wolves snarled and growled, that could mean both sides were depleted, or it could mean that the Orthuun-tainted ones had almost finished them off. That latter possibility made her breath catch, and she hurried her pace.

Maelen half-carried Alric down the slope of the hill, their steps reckless and stumbling. Almost immediately, Vessa’s chest and legs began protesting, and she uncharacteristically tripped and fell hard on one knee. The jolt sent a stab of pain through her cracked ribs. Maelen paused when she heard her yelp, and through tear-blurred eyes Vessa waved the concern away. Vessa pushed herself up, gritted her teeth, and ran.

They were well out of the forested hills and trudging wearily across grassy plains by the time they collapsed into a brief rest. Alric lay panting and clutching his shoulder. Maelen dropped next to him, her eyes clenched shut in either pain or exhaustion. Vessa sat in a way that gave her ribs some relief, her body slick with sweat.

Her gaze was drawn back to the Greenwood Rise, now on the horizon. She saw no evidence of black-furred shapes darting out of the trees in pursuit. Their quick work of the wolves ambushing them seemed to have kept the party away from the larger pack. Either that, Vessa thought, or the black-eyed animals wanted to stay within the forest.

She shivered. They would definitely not be returning to the wilds anytime soon, she quietly vowed.

“I think…” Vessa panted, catching her breath. “I think we made it out. For now.”

The others nodded, unable to speak, and for some time they sat in depleted silence. Vessa kept her keen eyes on the tree line the entire time, searching for some movement that would signal their pursuit. She saw nothing, and they drank water from yesterday’s stream and ate the last of their dried rations. Vessa hoped they would reach Leandra’s Rest by nightfall, otherwise it would be a lean and hungry night.

As if sensing the thought, Maelen pushed the group up and moving again, far before any of them looked ready. The day remained sunny and warm, and, as they trudged eastward towards the coast, Vessa tried to conjure the feelings of peace and shelter from their shared Rootmother dream. Her thoughts, however, frequently drifted to the empty tomb of Saelith the Vanished, the lone hill giant and its tent, the morning’s swarm of wolves. The Redwood Marches were changing, in ways that made dread settle at the base of her spine. Were demon-led armies massing? Would Oakton soon be under siege? She pictured black-eyed wolves and savage skratts in the city’s alleyways, the City Watch bells ringing in earnest.

Gods but she yearned for a drink, or a smoke of lotus leaf—anything to lessen her anxiety about what was coming.

Late in the afternoon, they reached the Long Road and followed it north. Any travelers they saw steered well wide of them, both because of their bedraggled appearance and, Vessa guessed, Maelen’s scowl. It was just as well… she would rather the word not spread about the coin-laded packs they carried. She did note that the wagons and foot traffic seemed to be headed exclusively north, though. Not a single traveling party moved south, away from the city.

Well before dusk, they’d found Leandra’s Rest, the small fishing hamlet nestled between reed marshes and the road. It was even smaller, she realized, than Vastren Hollow had been, and not nearly as fortified against attack. For a grim moment, Vessa pictured the scattered wood houses on stilts and various docks aflame as creatures of shadow tore the residents apart. She blinked and shook her head to clear it of horror.

Just beyond the town’s low, unmanned wall was the rocky patch of soil the locals called their village square. Beyond it lay the Brine Spoon, where Vessa aimed to eat whatever fish stew was offered, fend off any advances from the lascivious bartender, and sleep. Before they’d taken three weary steps into the square, however, a familiar, dry voice called out to them.

“They live! But lo, you’ve stared into the shadows, haven’t you? The rabid dog is frothing,” she nodded towards Maelen, “the mouse’s tail is stained ink-black,” she frowned at Alric, and then she turned a sad smile to Vessa. “But at least the beaten pup has found love, eh?”

Maelen growled under her breath, but Alric answered with a lopsided grin. “Wink!” he said, as they moved to where the old woman squatted on the same overturned fish crate near a lantern post. She looked just as she had—what was it? Nearly two weeks ago?—her tightly coiled hair bound up in a patched, sea-green shawl, driftwood cane at her side. Her white eyes never left them. Wink’s dark, weathered face crinkled in knowing mirth.

“My boy! A mixed journey for you, eh? The book still plagues your pocket, but at least you took an old crone’s advice and didn’t take the hand that was offered! And you all survived, which I admit I didn’t expect.”

“How did you–?” Alric began, then shook his head. “I do not understand prophecy.”

“The shore speaks tide. The blind speak time!” Wink answered with a cackle, then slapped her knee.

“Leave the bitch,” Maelen growled, her fists clenched. “I’m in need of a meal and a bed.”

“Maelen, please,” Vessa said. “She got us to the Rift, didn’t she?”

“Which lined your pockets in gold, hm?” Wink smiled open-mouthed.

“Keep your bloody voice down!” Maelen hissed, eyes searching the square.

“But at what cost?” the old woman continued. Her face transformed into a tragic frown, and she seemed to be talking to herself more than Alric. “The darkness is spreading, threatening to blot out the sun. The boy will search for answers, but will he find them in time? Will his friends be strong enough to shine the lanterns and banish the shadows? I wouldn’t bet on it, alas. Doom comes.”

A chill shiver crept down Vessa’s spine at her words. Just then, someone with a high-pitched voice yelled, “Look!”

Vessa and the others in earshot raised their heads at the boy, who was no more than ten, in patched overalls at the far side of the square. He was pointing a thin finger westward. Vessa turned to look.

Clouds had gathered over the Greenwood Rise, darker than she could ever remember seeing. Even as she watched, open-mouthed, the black clouds bubbled and expanded over the hills, gathering ominously. Below the heavy clouds, ebon shadows engulfed the forest and began spreading out towards them on the plains. Trees darkened and vanished in the prowling black. Vessa had never seen distant clouds look so threatening or gather so quickly. People around them began murmuring and exclaiming at the coming storm. The parent of the boy who’d called out hustled him inside a nearby building.

“All things happen, in time,” Wink sighed dramatically, even as the square stirred with activity. “The lights go out, only to be lit again, someday, far from now.” She seemed to slump. “We did our best.”

“How do we stop him?” Alric urged, leaning in towards the blind woman. “What do we do, Wink?”

But Vessa saw the blind woman’s white eyes fill with tears, lost in thought. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she murmured something below hearing. The woman’s age-gnarled hands clutched between her knees, almost like prayer. In that moment, Vessa recalled vividly the time by the warm column of air, deep within the Starless Rift, when Maelen and Alric had been broken by their defeat. The prophet Wink had the same hopeless, distant feel, and Vessa wasn’t surprised when she didn’t even acknowledge Alric’s words. Once again, fear gripped Vessa’s spine as she felt the threat of helplessness creeping in from all sides.

“Let’s go, lad,” Maelen pulled Alric’s arm roughly, and he stumbled away. He seemed to come to the same conclusion as Vessa and, with a worried look back once more at the distant storm, limped to keep up. Vessa followed more reluctantly, pursing her lips and rubbing at her bent nose in agitation. She hurried her steps and caught her two companions just as Maelen threw open the door of the Brine Spoon.

Late that night, Vessa padded silently on bare feet across the hallway of the inn. As expected, they’d eaten their fish stew, she’d fended off the bartender’s inelegant advances, and she’d even enjoyed a rare sponge bath before bed to free herself of the grime and terror from their journey. Maelen had drunk too much ale and lay snoring on her back, still in her chain shirt. The warrior’s black mace lay at the bedside, close at hand.

Outside, the storm hammered at the Brine Spoon’s windows and roof, lashing rain and wind. Vessa thanked the Rootmother they were indoors, as sleeping in the mud during this night would have been harrowing at best. She could almost picture it, and shuddered.

The door across the hall was locked, but she’d brought her picks. It was a simple lock, and within several heartbeats it clicked. The wooden door’s hinges creaked annoyingly as she swung it open cautiously, but the buffeting storm helped dampen the noise. She paused, hesitated, almost turning back.

The room beyond was far smaller than her and Maelen’s. Square, with only a bed and wash basin as adornment, pegs on the wall for clothes and an unlit iron lantern. A single window rattled with the wind and rain, letting in little light. Even with Vessa’s adjusted night vision, the room was a smudge of vague shapes. There was a lump in the bed, which is what she’d expected. She closed the door softly and stealthily, then carefully approached the bed. Her heartbeat quickened.

“Alric,” she whispered lightly. The lump stirred and he mumbled something. She repeated his name.

“Vessa?” his baritone voice said groggily. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh,” she whispered, leaning close. “Everything’s fine. Listen: The innkeep said it’s the twenty-eighth, which means we missed the Sweet Requital.”

“Wh– what?” he mumbled, confused. She thought she could see him rubbing at his eyes in the gloom.

“It’s my favorite holiday,” she continued. “It must have been while we were underground. I lost track of the days, and now I realize we missed it.” She blew out a soft breath and moved closer. “With everything happening…” she paused, swallowed. “Well, I don’t know that we’ll see another one. So…”

She shrugged out of her shirt, pulling it over her head and trying not to cry out at the protest from her ribs and shoulder. Vessa lay a hand down upon where she thought his chest was. He utterly stilled, saying nothing. The window rattled at a particularly violent assault of wind and water.

Her hand pulled his blanket down slowly and his breath caught. She used the sound to lower her own lips to his. After a hesitant kiss, she whispered. “Just tonight. To banish the darkness.”

“Vessa…”

“Shh. Don’t overthink.”

The next kiss she gave him was not so hesitant.

Next: Haunted [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXVII.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

Wolves black as night dashed from the trees to the left and right in a stir of branches and fallen leaves. Vessa saw Alric crouch and swing with his staff, two-handed, but then two of the beasts were upon her.

They weren’t larger or faster than common wolves, but they made little sound as they bit and gnashed their white fangs. Their eyes were solid black. No beast’s eyes looked like that… Orthuun’s stain had found them. And, as the first wolf leapt at her, she saw their tongues were equally black, an unnerving detail that would plague her dreams.

She dropped her bow to the ground as she ducked the first wolf, drawing her shortsword from its sheath. Before she could stab at the ebon fur, however, Maelen was there, snarling and clubbing the creature with her spiked mace. Her friend’s bestial noises were a sharp contrast to the silent aggression from the wolves.

Another animal darted in. Vessa turned her blade to fend it off, and Maelen crushed its skull as it veered.

Where was Alric? She turned to see him still grunting and swinging his rune-carved staff. Amazingly, two black-furred bodies lay prone at his feet, but he didn’t see the wolf crouching behind him. In one smooth motion, she dropped her sword and plucked the bow from the ground. Draw, pull, loose, and the arrow took the animal in its throat as it leapt. The soundless body hit Alric’s back, making no sound as it hit. He stumbled, spinning to face the threat. Vessa’s shot had been a good one, though. The wolves that had ambushed them were dead.

The entire encounter had taken mere heartbeats, but Vessa was panting. Her wounds from the Starless Rift were far from healed, and she was not, she realized, prepared to again face death.

“We have to get out of here,” she hissed at Maelen. The warrior gripped her weapon with two hands, eyes wide and searching. Vessa recovered her sword from the leaves and sheathed it, placing a hand upon Maelen’s shoulder. Her friend flinched, breath ragged. Maelen may have physically recovered from her wounds more than Vessa, but her psychological ones were far worse. Vessa squeezed the shoulder.

“Mae, we have to go,” she urged with a fierce whisper.

Maelen blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. She scanned the small clearing, the prone bodies scattered like shadows in the grass. She nodded once.

Vessa plucked the arrow from the dead wolf as they left, covering their rear and keeping her eyes sharp for more predators. Out of sight, they could hear the two wolfpacks still battling, though she noted there were far fewer sounds than before. Since only the brown wolves snarled and growled, that could mean both sides were depleted, or it could mean that the Orthuun-tainted ones had almost finished them off. That latter possibility made her breath catch, and she hurried her pace.

Maelen half-carried Alric down the slope of the hill, their steps reckless and stumbling. Almost immediately, Vessa’s chest and legs began protesting, and she uncharacteristically tripped and fell hard on one knee. The jolt sent a stab of pain through her cracked ribs. Maelen paused when she heard her yelp, and through tear-blurred eyes Vessa waved the concern away. Vessa pushed herself up, gritted her teeth, and ran.

They were well out of the forested hills and trudging wearily across grassy plains by the time they collapsed into a brief rest. Alric lay panting and clutching his shoulder. Maelen dropped next to him, her eyes clenched shut in either pain or exhaustion. Vessa sat in a way that gave her ribs some relief, her body slick with sweat.

Her gaze was drawn back to the Greenwood Rise, now on the horizon. She saw no evidence of black-furred shapes darting out of the trees in pursuit. Their quick work of the wolves ambushing them seemed to have kept the party away from the larger pack. Either that, Vessa thought, or the black-eyed animals wanted to stay within the forest.

She shivered. They would definitely not be returning to the wilds anytime soon, she quietly vowed.

“I think…” Vessa panted, catching her breath. “I think we made it out. For now.”

The others nodded, unable to speak, and for some time they sat in depleted silence. Vessa kept her keen eyes on the tree line the entire time, searching for some movement that would signal their pursuit. She saw nothing, and they drank water from yesterday’s stream and ate the last of their dried rations. Vessa hoped they would reach Leandra’s Rest by nightfall, otherwise it would be a lean and hungry night.

As if sensing the thought, Maelen pushed the group up and moving again, far before any of them looked ready. The day remained sunny and warm, and, as they trudged eastward towards the coast, Vessa tried to conjure the feelings of peace and shelter from their shared Rootmother dream. Her thoughts, however, frequently drifted to the empty tomb of Saelith the Vanished, the lone hill giant and its tent, the morning’s swarm of wolves. The Redwood Marches were changing, in ways that made dread settle at the base of her spine. Were demon-led armies massing? Would Oakton soon be under siege? She pictured black-eyed wolves and savage skratts in the city’s alleyways, the City Watch bells ringing in earnest.

Gods but she yearned for a drink, or a smoke of lotus leaf—anything to lessen her anxiety about what was coming.

Late in the afternoon, they reached the Long Road and followed it north. Any travelers they saw steered well wide of them, both because of their bedraggled appearance and, Vessa guessed, Maelen’s scowl. It was just as well… she would rather the word not spread about the coin-laded packs they carried. She did note that the wagons and foot traffic seemed to be headed exclusively north, though. Not a single traveling party moved south, away from the city.

Well before dusk, they’d found Leandra’s Rest, the small fishing hamlet nestled between reed marshes and the road. It was even smaller, she realized, than Vastren Hollow had been, and not nearly as fortified against attack. For a grim moment, Vessa pictured the scattered wood houses on stilts and various docks aflame as creatures of shadow tore the residents apart. She blinked and shook her head to clear it of horror.

Just beyond the town’s low, unmanned wall was the rocky patch of soil the locals called their village square. Beyond it lay the Brine Spoon, where Vessa aimed to eat whatever fish stew was offered, fend off any advances from the lascivious bartender, and sleep. Before they’d taken three weary steps into the square, however, a familiar, dry voice called out to them.

“They live! But lo, you’ve stared into the shadows, haven’t you? The rabid dog is frothing,” she nodded towards Maelen, “the mouse’s tail is stained ink-black,” she frowned at Alric, and then she turned a sad smile to Vessa. “But at least the beaten pup has found love, eh?”

Maelen growled under her breath, but Alric answered with a lopsided grin. “Wink!” he said, as they moved to where the old woman squatted on the same overturned fish crate near a lantern post. She looked just as she had—what was it? Nearly two weeks ago?—her tightly coiled hair bound up in a patched, sea-green shawl, driftwood cane at her side. Her white eyes never left them. Wink’s dark, weathered face crinkled in knowing mirth.

“My boy! A mixed journey for you, eh? The book still plagues your pocket, but at least you took an old crone’s advice and didn’t take the hand that was offered! And you all survived, which I admit I didn’t expect.”

“How did you–?” Alric began, then shook his head. “I do not understand prophecy.”

“The shore speaks tide. The blind speak time!” Wink answered with a cackle, then slapped her knee.

“Leave the bitch,” Maelen growled, her fists clenched. “I’m in need of a meal and a bed.”

“Maelen, please,” Vessa said. “She got us to the Rift, didn’t she?”

“Which lined your pockets in gold, hm?” Wink smiled open-mouthed.

“Keep your bloody voice down!” Maelen hissed, eyes searching the square.

“But at what cost?” the old woman continued. Her face transformed into a tragic frown, and she seemed to be talking to herself more than Alric. “The darkness is spreading, threatening to blot out the sun. The boy will search for answers, but will he find them in time? Will his friends be strong enough to shine the lanterns and banish the shadows? I wouldn’t bet on it, alas. Doom comes.”

A chill shiver crept down Vessa’s spine at her words. Just then, someone with a high-pitched voice yelled, “Look!”

Vessa and the others in earshot raised their heads at the boy, who was no more than ten, in patched overalls at the far side of the square. He was pointing a thin finger westward. Vessa turned to look.

Clouds had gathered over the Greenwood Rise, darker than she could ever remember seeing. Even as she watched, open-mouthed, the black clouds bubbled and expanded over the hills, gathering ominously. Below the heavy clouds, ebon shadows engulfed the forest and began spreading out towards them on the plains. Trees darkened and vanished in the prowling black. Vessa had never seen distant clouds look so threatening or gather so quickly. People around them began murmuring and exclaiming at the coming storm. The parent of the boy who’d called out hustled him inside a nearby building.

“All things happen, in time,” Wink sighed dramatically, even as the square stirred with activity. “The lights go out, only to be lit again, someday, far from now.” She seemed to slump. “We did our best.”

“How do we stop him?” Alric urged, leaning in towards the blind woman. “What do we do, Wink?”

But Vessa saw the blind woman’s white eyes fill with tears, lost in thought. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she murmured something below hearing. The woman’s age-gnarled hands clutched between her knees, almost like prayer. In that moment, Vessa recalled vividly the time by the warm column of air, deep within the Starless Rift, when Maelen and Alric had been broken by their defeat. The prophet Wink had the same hopeless, distant feel, and Vessa wasn’t surprised when she didn’t even acknowledge Alric’s words. Once again, fear gripped Vessa’s spine as she felt the threat of helplessness creeping in from all sides.

“Let’s go, lad,” Maelen pulled Alric’s arm roughly, and he stumbled away. He seemed to come to the same conclusion as Vessa and, with a worried look back once more at the distant storm, limped to keep up. Vessa followed more reluctantly, pursing her lips and rubbing at her bent nose in agitation. She hurried her steps and caught her two companions just as Maelen threw open the door of the Brine Spoon.

Late that night, Vessa padded silently on bare feet across the hallway of the inn. As expected, they’d eaten their fish stew, she’d fended off the bartender’s inelegant advances, and she’d even enjoyed a rare sponge bath before bed to free herself of the grime and terror from their journey. Maelen had drunk too much ale and lay snoring on her back, still in her chain shirt. The warrior’s black mace lay at the bedside, close at hand.

Outside, the storm hammered at the Brine Spoon’s windows and roof, lashing rain and wind. Vessa thanked the Rootmother they were indoors, as sleeping in the mud during this night would have been harrowing at best. She could almost picture it, and shuddered.

The door across the hall was locked, but she’d brought her picks. It was a simple lock, and within several heartbeats it clicked. The wooden door’s hinges creaked annoyingly as she swung it open cautiously, but the buffeting storm helped dampen the noise. She paused, hesitated, almost turning back.

The room beyond was far smaller than her and Maelen’s. Square, with only a bed and wash basin as adornment, pegs on the wall for clothes and an unlit iron lantern. A single window rattled with the wind and rain, letting in little light. Even with Vessa’s adjusted night vision, the room was a smudge of vague shapes. There was a lump in the bed, which is what she’d expected. She closed the door softly and stealthily, then carefully approached the bed. Her heartbeat quickened.

“Alric,” she whispered lightly. The lump stirred and he mumbled something. She repeated his name.

“Vessa?” his baritone voice said groggily. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh,” she whispered, leaning close. “Everything’s fine. Listen: The innkeep said it’s the twenty-eighth, which means we missed the Sweet Requital.”

“Wh– what?” he mumbled, confused. She thought she could see him rubbing at his eyes in the gloom.

“It’s my favorite holiday,” she continued. “It must have been while we were underground. I lost track of the days, and now I realize we missed it.” She blew out a soft breath and moved closer. “With everything happening…” she paused, swallowed. “Well, I don’t know that we’ll see another one. So…”

She shrugged out of her shirt, pulling it over her head and trying not to cry out at the protest from her ribs and shoulder. Vessa lay a hand down upon where she thought his chest was. He utterly stilled, saying nothing. The window rattled at a particularly violent assault of wind and water.

Her hand pulled his blanket down slowly and his breath caught. She used the sound to lower her own lips to his. After a hesitant kiss, she whispered. “Just tonight. To banish the darkness.”

“Vessa…”

“Shh. Don’t overthink.”

The next kiss she gave him was not so hesitant.

Next: Haunted [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXVI.

Duskmarch 27, Moonday, Year 731

Everything in Alric’s body ached. Indeed, pain had become such a constant experience these past two days that he hardly knew where to focus on it. He was footsore. His weaker leg complained with every step, worse than at any point in his life. His hips felt pulled out of their sockets. His entire torso itched and burned with half-healed bite marks. He had strained an arm muscle in the climb out of the Starless Rift, and any time he tried to lift something it screamed. Somehow, he’d twisted his neck wrong, so that looking to his right triggered a lightning bolt of agony. Even his jaw ached. The mage couldn’t remember what the embrace of a soft bed was like, how it felt to lose himself in his thoughts without his body demanding attention.

And yet, the mental anguish he experienced was worse. They had failed to keep Saelith the Vanished contained, and now he was free upon the world after centuries of imprisonment. Yesterday, they’d seen a hill giant on the plains, evidence that Orthuun’s army was beginning to assemble. Twice today they’d passed small animals, dead and with either their eyes or faces gone. How long did they have until Oakton and its surrounding settlements were under siege? A year? A month? Could humanity survive the Blind Sovereign’s forces, or were the secrets to defeating the demon lost to time? Did the knowledge of who created Thornmere Hold and the Starless Rift exist in the Inkbinders Lodge somewhere? Were there other caches of ancient artifacts nearby that would prove the key to repelling Orthuun? The implications of this journey swirled in his mind.

Colliding with those dark thoughts were more personal ones. How was he alive with no heartbeat? Or was he even alive? Saelith had called him “darkling” …was it only a matter of time before he succumbed to some sort of corruption? Would he turn on his companions eventually? Would he suffer the same fate as Hadren Kelthorn, devoured by some shadowy beast with nothing left behind? Should he abandon his magic before he was a thrall of the demon, or was it too late? Could he even get rid of the Tome of Unlit Paths? Did he want to?

“You’re doing it again,” Vessa’s voice broke in.

Alric blinked and looked at her. She was grinning. Gods but she was lovely, even after the perils they’d shared. Vessa limped as badly as him and kept touching her side tenderly. She said she’d thought she cracked a rib or two, and her shoulder where the rock had struck her was mottled in gruesome bruises. And yet still: She was lovely. Her lopsided grin was as much a light in the darkness for him as the sun finally appearing overhead.

He returned the grin. “Sorry,” he said, blushing. “I suppose I am.”

“A pip for your thoughts?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, no,” he chuckled sourly, and waved his hand as if repelling a bad smell. “Nobody needs to share the misery of my mind. I apologize. You were saying?”

She paused a beat, as if wondering whether to probe. Instead, she pointed at the low, forested hills ahead of them. “I was saying that Mae thinks we can make it to Vastren Hollow by nightfall if we fancy a bed, but I’m not sure I want to return there. What do you think?”

Alric pursed his lips. “A bed does sound nice, and perhaps there is food remaining there that hasn’t spoiled. But…” a flash of bodies torn apart across the village’s streets filled his vision, and corrupted skratts leaping upon him in the night. He frowned. “I can see avoiding it too.”

“You’re no help,” she laughed. “I just…” she shivered. “You don’t know what I saw there that night. The nursery…” He thought he saw a tear form and she suddenly turned away, rubbing at her face.

“Vessa,” he said gently, then repeated her name. She looked up, eyes wet, face defiant, and sniffed. “On second thought, if an army was going to muster somewhere nearby, they’d pick Vastren Hollow. Indeed, perhaps Orthuun sent the skratt horde there specifically to clear it out, to supply his forces. We’d be safer in the woods, I think. Undetected.”

It was a fanciful theory, and one he didn’t believe. Vessa may have thought so too, but her momentary hard mask dissolved. A warm smile transformed her face, and another tear formed. She let it fall onto her cheek. “Thank you, Alric. I’ll tell her.”

Vessa squeezed his shoulder briefly before padding ahead to catch Maelen, who remained irritable and standoffish since the Starless Rift. The squeeze hurt one of his wounds, but Alric didn’t care. It was a sign of connection and fondness that he held onto, and for a brief time his dark thoughts receded.

By the time he’d come back to the present, they’d entered the tree-packed hills of the Greenwood Rise. It felt strangely unfamiliar. Alric couldn’t have put his finger as to why, but the more accomplished forester Vessa did.

“The insects and birds,” she said, her voice suddenly low. “They’re quiet.”

Yes, that was it exactly. The forest had previously brimmed with ravens, jays, and chittering insects, even in winter. Yet now there was only the rustling of their footsteps on fallen leaves and… nothing. It was almost like being back in the caverns below ground. Alric shivered and scanned the canopy above. There he spied a bird sitting atop a low branch overhead, quietly watching them. Several steps later he saw another, perched and otherwise still. As they passed beneath the second bird, it took flight in a frantic flapping of wings and rustling of leaves, yet at no point did it call out.

Maelen seemed to recognize the same oddity and fell back to join them. Her wary eyes scanned, her hand not far from the wrapped handle of her mace.

“Predator, you think?” she asked Vessa in a low whisper, eager.

“No,” she said simply. “Feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” the warrior growled, and now she did pull her weapon into her fists. As Maelen stalked forward, ready for battle, Vessa shot a worried look at him. He pursed his lips and shrugged.

All that afternoon, the trio moved through the woods, vigilant but sensing no obvious danger other than the preternatural quiet. Their ears led them to a stream, made more vibrant by the recent rains. They paused there to clean themselves and refill waterskins, while Vessa stalked upstream with her bow. When she returned later, she carried three fish tied together with a spare bowstring and a beaming expression. Despite her constant yearning for the city and complaint about the wilds, Alric thought that Vessa was happiest when she’d hunted a meal that could feed her companions. Happier, even, than finding gold to spend on drink and lotus leaf. There was insight there, one perhaps he’d share with her in a quiet moment.

That night, Maelen directed them to make camp at the base of an immense redwood tree. The cooked fish was delicious, and the meal proved to be a welcome counterbalance to the strange, tense silence of the surrounding forest.

After they’d eaten and cleaned up, a howl carried to them through the trees, low and impossibly long, fading into something that sounded like breath being drawn in. After that… the profound silence seemed almost suffocating. They looked at each other nervously, and Maelen suggested they douse the fire and set watch. Alric wasn’t sure he could sleep after that call, but performed his evening tasks dutifully and lay down on his bedroll with staff close at hand. Surprisingly, he was asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.

Alric rarely dreamed, and when he did of late his sleep was plagued by nightmare scenes of either creatures with flashing claws and teeth leaping from the shadows upon him or, almost more horribly, of sitting in his chair in the Inkbinders Lodge while darkness gathered, gathered, and, eventually, consumed everything around him until all was utterly black. These nightmares had him gasping awake, clutching at his chest, eyes straining to ensure he was not blind. In misery, all his worries would come flooding into him then, with the list growing longer each day.

Tonight, however, his dream began with him resting his back against the wide, ancient trunk of a tree, one leg resting idly across an enormous root. It was summertime, or at least the temperature was warm and pleasant. He wore his old scribe’s clothes—not the robe or cloak he’d taken on this journey—a detail he didn’t notice immediately but would remember after waking. Golden sunlight dappled the scene, filtered through the leaves above. Birds twittered and chirped, unseen, from somewhere beyond. The soil beneath him was as comfortable as a feather mattress. A light breeze stirred the leaves and sent the branches above swaying. Alric smiled and sighed with contentment. In that moment, he wanted for nothing in the world.

At the edge of the glade in which Alric lounged, the bushes rustled. A majestic stag stepped forth, its shoulders seemingly as tall as the mage would have been standing, its rack of antlers preposterously large. Looking back on the dream, Alric was surprised he didn’t regard the enormous beast as a threat. Instead, he felt simple awe at such a powerful presence, and humility as it regarded him with its round, brown eyes. It was then Alric noticed that those immense antlers had sprigs of leaves growing from parts of them, and small flowers.

The stag bowed its head, almost imperceptibly, and moved through the glade. As the sunlight played across its flank and back, he thought that perhaps the beast’s hide wasn’t covered in fur but a finely grained bark, almost as if the creature were a wooden construct. When it lifted its cloven hooves, the animal left delicate flowers behind in the low, green grass of the glade. Alric marveled at the little spots of bloom… had they been there before? Why hadn’t the weight of the creature crushed them? Had they grown from its passing? In the moments it took him to ponder those details, the stag was gone.

Alric exhaled, feeling the wonder of the moment, and closed his eyes. The dream ended then, and left in its wake a deep, velvety embrace of sleep.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

He blinked awake. It was daytime, well past dawn. Wasn’t he supposed to have had the last watch of the night? Sitting up, he looked around the campsite. Vessa and Maelen were there, the thief on her side and the warrior on her back, both just beginning to stir. He yawned and stretched, his body complaining at the motion less than any morning in recent memory.

“I just had the most amazing dream,” Vessa purred, stretching an arm skyward.

Later that morning, Vessa was still marveling at their fortune.

“It was the Rootmother, it had to be!” she said excitedly. “All of us having the exact same dream? The tree? The stag? Waking up refreshed, like we’d slept in an inn? It’s the Rootmother, I’d swear my life on it!”

Alric couldn’t argue the point, and even Maelen and her foul temper seemed to accept that they had all received some sort of blessing from Oakton’s most revered goddess.

“Keep your voice down, lass,” the warrior admonished. “It may have been her in our dreams, but something’s still spooked the forest’s wildlife. Remember the howl from last night.”

“What does it mean, though?” Vessa asked urgently, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Alric? Do you think she’s trying to tell us something? To guide us in some way?”

They moved through the Greenwood Rise at a good pace, all of them buoyed by the restful night. Already, the companions had crested the hills and were making their way down the eastern foothills, the trees becoming thinner and further apart. It allowed them to see the wider expanse of land ahead of them, a wrinkled landscape of green hills all the way to the coast, with cloudless blue skies overhead. The journey was a stark contrast to their way west from Leandra’s Rest more than a week before, when this part of their trek had been shrouded in fog. Truly, the Redwood Marches were a wonder of beauty on a clear day.

The only pall was the still-silent woods. They’d seen plenty of birds that morning, and more than a few brown squirrels. But unnatural quiet still hung over the forest, making every step and conversation feel impossibly loud and dangerous.

Alric considered Vessa’s question. “It’s possible that the Rootmother is sending us a message, though I admit it’s a difficult message to interpret. Or perhaps everyone in the area had the same dream, not just us, and it’s the goddess telling us all that we’re safe in her embrace.”

Vessa smirked. “Why Alric… you’re starting to sound like a priest. Going to join the Rootbound when we get back?”

He blinked, thrown off by the comment. Before he could answer, though, Maelen shushed them both.

“Quiet!” she growled. “Listen.”

Alric did. Animals were growling and yipping somewhere beyond a wooded ridge, off to their right. Wolves, perhaps? Or wild dogs of some kind? The sudden animal noise was startling. Alric’s throat went dry.

“Vess, go see,” Maelen whispered. “I’ll bring the lad.”

Without a word, Vessa padded off towards the noise, crouched low and with bow in hand. In moments she’d disappeared over the ridge.

As Alric followed Maelen, staff gripped tight, the sounds grew steadily louder. What he had thought perhaps was a pack of dogs playing now sounded distinctly more aggressive. A sharp whine of pain punctuated a series of frantic, snarling growls.

They found Vessa on one knee at the base of a slender tree, bow drawn and arrow nocked, looking down the slope to a gentle hollow between two low hills. Maelen crouched low near another tree two strides away, and Alric tried his best to mimic her movements.

The scene below made him gasp.

Two packs of wolves clashed there, each with at least two dozen members. One of the groups was primarily brown and white, the other black and gray. The sheer number of creatures was startling… Alric didn’t know his forest lore well, but he didn’t think packs usually grew that large. They snarled and darted and leapt at one another, a mass of bristled fur and gnashing teeth. The conflict was brutal and loud, and already a handful of the animals were lying dead or dying amidst the grass.

As he watched, fascinated, it seemed to Alric that the black wolves were winning this territorial war. Two-thirds of the fallen wolves were from the brown pack, and they seemed the ones yipping and whining, being chased far more often than chasing.

Like a bolt of lightning, realization hit him: Only the brown wolves were making noise. He scrambled to Maelen’s side, squinting. The nearest wolves were perhaps forty paces away and he did his best amidst the chaos to focus on the closest black wolf, who had just made a lunge at an opponent and narrowly missed. It turned its head to the side, giving Alric a perfect profile as it scanned the battlefield for the next attack.

Its eyes were pitch black, like hollows in its dark-furred face.

He tugged at Maelen’s arm. “We have to go,” he hissed.

Perhaps she had the same thought, or perhaps something on his face convinced her. She paused only a breath before nodding once and signaling Vessa. The three of them edged away from the low hilltop and back the way they came.

They neither saw nor heard the wolves that had been stalking them until the attack.

Next: Darkness Spreading [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXVI.

Duskmarch 27, Moonday, Year 731

Everything in Alric’s body ached. Indeed, pain had become such a constant experience these past two days that he hardly knew where to focus on it. He was footsore. His weaker leg complained with every step, worse than at any point in his life. His hips felt pulled out of their sockets. His entire torso itched and burned with half-healed bite marks. He had strained an arm muscle in the climb out of the Starless Rift, and any time he tried to lift something it screamed. Somehow, he’d twisted his neck wrong, so that looking to his right triggered a lightning bolt of agony. Even his jaw ached. The mage couldn’t remember what the embrace of a soft bed was like, how it felt to lose himself in his thoughts without his body demanding attention.

And yet, the mental anguish he experienced was worse. They had failed to keep Saelith the Vanished contained, and now he was free upon the world after centuries of imprisonment. Yesterday, they’d seen a hill giant on the plains, evidence that Orthuun’s army was beginning to assemble. Twice today they’d passed small animals, dead and with either their eyes or faces gone. How long did they have until Oakton and its surrounding settlements were under siege? A year? A month? Could humanity survive the Blind Sovereign’s forces, or were the secrets to defeating the demon lost to time? Did the knowledge of who created Thornmere Hold and the Starless Rift exist in the Inkbinders Lodge somewhere? Were there other caches of ancient artifacts nearby that would prove the key to repelling Orthuun? The implications of this journey swirled in his mind.

Colliding with those dark thoughts were more personal ones. How was he alive with no heartbeat? Or was he even alive? Saelith had called him “darkling” …was it only a matter of time before he succumbed to some sort of corruption? Would he turn on his companions eventually? Would he suffer the same fate as Hadren Kelthorn, devoured by some shadowy beast with nothing left behind? Should he abandon his magic before he was a thrall of the demon, or was it too late? Could he even get rid of the Tome of Unlit Paths? Did he want to?

“You’re doing it again,” Vessa’s voice broke in.

Alric blinked and looked at her. She was grinning. Gods but she was lovely, even after the perils they’d shared. Vessa limped as badly as him and kept touching her side tenderly. She said she’d thought she cracked a rib or two, and her shoulder where the rock had struck her was mottled in gruesome bruises. And yet still: She was lovely. Her lopsided grin was as much a light in the darkness for him as the sun finally appearing overhead.

He returned the grin. “Sorry,” he said, blushing. “I suppose I am.”

“A pip for your thoughts?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, no,” he chuckled sourly, and waved his hand as if repelling a bad smell. “Nobody needs to share the misery of my mind. I apologize. You were saying?”

She paused a beat, as if wondering whether to probe. Instead, she pointed at the low, forested hills ahead of them. “I was saying that Mae thinks we can make it to Vastren Hollow by nightfall if we fancy a bed, but I’m not sure I want to return there. What do you think?”

Alric pursed his lips. “A bed does sound nice, and perhaps there is food remaining there that hasn’t spoiled. But…” a flash of bodies torn apart across the village’s streets filled his vision, and corrupted skratts leaping upon him in the night. He frowned. “I can see avoiding it too.”

“You’re no help,” she laughed. “I just…” she shivered. “You don’t know what I saw there that night. The nursery…” He thought he saw a tear form and she suddenly turned away, rubbing at her face.

“Vessa,” he said gently, then repeated her name. She looked up, eyes wet, face defiant, and sniffed. “On second thought, if an army was going to muster somewhere nearby, they’d pick Vastren Hollow. Indeed, perhaps Orthuun sent the skratt horde there specifically to clear it out, to supply his forces. We’d be safer in the woods, I think. Undetected.”

It was a fanciful theory, and one he didn’t believe. Vessa may have thought so too, but her momentary hard mask dissolved. A warm smile transformed her face, and another tear formed. She let it fall onto her cheek. “Thank you, Alric. I’ll tell her.”

Vessa squeezed his shoulder briefly before padding ahead to catch Maelen, who remained irritable and standoffish since the Starless Rift. The squeeze hurt one of his wounds, but Alric didn’t care. It was a sign of connection and fondness that he held onto, and for a brief time his dark thoughts receded.

By the time he’d come back to the present, they’d entered the tree-packed hills of the Greenwood Rise. It felt strangely unfamiliar. Alric couldn’t have put his finger as to why, but the more accomplished forester Vessa did.

“The insects and birds,” she said, her voice suddenly low. “They’re quiet.”

Yes, that was it exactly. The forest had previously brimmed with ravens, jays, and chittering insects, even in winter. Yet now there was only the rustling of their footsteps on fallen leaves and… nothing. It was almost like being back in the caverns below ground. Alric shivered and scanned the canopy above. There he spied a bird sitting atop a low branch overhead, quietly watching them. Several steps later he saw another, perched and otherwise still. As they passed beneath the second bird, it took flight in a frantic flapping of wings and rustling of leaves, yet at no point did it call out.

Maelen seemed to recognize the same oddity and fell back to join them. Her wary eyes scanned, her hand not far from the wrapped handle of her mace.

“Predator, you think?” she asked Vessa in a low whisper, eager.

“No,” she said simply. “Feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me,” the warrior growled, and now she did pull her weapon into her fists. As Maelen stalked forward, ready for battle, Vessa shot a worried look at him. He pursed his lips and shrugged.

All that afternoon, the trio moved through the woods, vigilant but sensing no obvious danger other than the preternatural quiet. Their ears led them to a stream, made more vibrant by the recent rains. They paused there to clean themselves and refill waterskins, while Vessa stalked upstream with her bow. When she returned later, she carried three fish tied together with a spare bowstring and a beaming expression. Despite her constant yearning for the city and complaint about the wilds, Alric thought that Vessa was happiest when she’d hunted a meal that could feed her companions. Happier, even, than finding gold to spend on drink and lotus leaf. There was insight there, one perhaps he’d share with her in a quiet moment.

That night, Maelen directed them to make camp at the base of an immense redwood tree. The cooked fish was delicious, and the meal proved to be a welcome counterbalance to the strange, tense silence of the surrounding forest.

After they’d eaten and cleaned up, a howl carried to them through the trees, low and impossibly long, fading into something that sounded like breath being drawn in. After that… the profound silence seemed almost suffocating. They looked at each other nervously, and Maelen suggested they douse the fire and set watch. Alric wasn’t sure he could sleep after that call, but performed his evening tasks dutifully and lay down on his bedroll with staff close at hand. Surprisingly, he was asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.

Alric rarely dreamed, and when he did of late his sleep was plagued by nightmare scenes of either creatures with flashing claws and teeth leaping from the shadows upon him or, almost more horribly, of sitting in his chair in the Inkbinders Lodge while darkness gathered, gathered, and, eventually, consumed everything around him until all was utterly black. These nightmares had him gasping awake, clutching at his chest, eyes straining to ensure he was not blind. In misery, all his worries would come flooding into him then, with the list growing longer each day.

Tonight, however, his dream began with him resting his back against the wide, ancient trunk of a tree, one leg resting idly across an enormous root. It was summertime, or at least the temperature was warm and pleasant. He wore his old scribe’s clothes—not the robe or cloak he’d taken on this journey—a detail he didn’t notice immediately but would remember after waking. Golden sunlight dappled the scene, filtered through the leaves above. Birds twittered and chirped, unseen, from somewhere beyond. The soil beneath him was as comfortable as a feather mattress. A light breeze stirred the leaves and sent the branches above swaying. Alric smiled and sighed with contentment. In that moment, he wanted for nothing in the world.

At the edge of the glade in which Alric lounged, the bushes rustled. A majestic stag stepped forth, its shoulders seemingly as tall as the mage would have been standing, its rack of antlers preposterously large. Looking back on the dream, Alric was surprised he didn’t regard the enormous beast as a threat. Instead, he felt simple awe at such a powerful presence, and humility as it regarded him with its round, brown eyes. It was then Alric noticed that those immense antlers had sprigs of leaves growing from parts of them, and small flowers.

The stag bowed its head, almost imperceptibly, and moved through the glade. As the sunlight played across its flank and back, he thought that perhaps the beast’s hide wasn’t covered in fur but a finely grained bark, almost as if the creature were a wooden construct. When it lifted its cloven hooves, the animal left delicate flowers behind in the low, green grass of the glade. Alric marveled at the little spots of bloom… had they been there before? Why hadn’t the weight of the creature crushed them? Had they grown from its passing? In the moments it took him to ponder those details, the stag was gone.

Alric exhaled, feeling the wonder of the moment, and closed his eyes. The dream ended then, and left in its wake a deep, velvety embrace of sleep.

Duskmarch 28, Ashday, Year 731

He blinked awake. It was daytime, well past dawn. Wasn’t he supposed to have had the last watch of the night? Sitting up, he looked around the campsite. Vessa and Maelen were there, the thief on her side and the warrior on her back, both just beginning to stir. He yawned and stretched, his body complaining at the motion less than any morning in recent memory.

“I just had the most amazing dream,” Vessa purred, stretching an arm skyward.

Later that morning, Vessa was still marveling at their fortune.

“It was the Rootmother, it had to be!” she said excitedly. “All of us having the exact same dream? The tree? The stag? Waking up refreshed, like we’d slept in an inn? It’s the Rootmother, I’d swear my life on it!”

Alric couldn’t argue the point, and even Maelen and her foul temper seemed to accept that they had all received some sort of blessing from Oakton’s most revered goddess.

“Keep your voice down, lass,” the warrior admonished. “It may have been her in our dreams, but something’s still spooked the forest’s wildlife. Remember the howl from last night.”

“What does it mean, though?” Vessa asked urgently, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Alric? Do you think she’s trying to tell us something? To guide us in some way?”

They moved through the Greenwood Rise at a good pace, all of them buoyed by the restful night. Already, the companions had crested the hills and were making their way down the eastern foothills, the trees becoming thinner and further apart. It allowed them to see the wider expanse of land ahead of them, a wrinkled landscape of green hills all the way to the coast, with cloudless blue skies overhead. The journey was a stark contrast to their way west from Leandra’s Rest more than a week before, when this part of their trek had been shrouded in fog. Truly, the Redwood Marches were a wonder of beauty on a clear day.

The only pall was the still-silent woods. They’d seen plenty of birds that morning, and more than a few brown squirrels. But unnatural quiet still hung over the forest, making every step and conversation feel impossibly loud and dangerous.

Alric considered Vessa’s question. “It’s possible that the Rootmother is sending us a message, though I admit it’s a difficult message to interpret. Or perhaps everyone in the area had the same dream, not just us, and it’s the goddess telling us all that we’re safe in her embrace.”

Vessa smirked. “Why Alric… you’re starting to sound like a priest. Going to join the Rootbound when we get back?”

He blinked, thrown off by the comment. Before he could answer, though, Maelen shushed them both.

“Quiet!” she growled. “Listen.”

Alric did. Animals were growling and yipping somewhere beyond a wooded ridge, off to their right. Wolves, perhaps? Or wild dogs of some kind? The sudden animal noise was startling. Alric’s throat went dry.

“Vess, go see,” Maelen whispered. “I’ll bring the lad.”

Without a word, Vessa padded off towards the noise, crouched low and with bow in hand. In moments she’d disappeared over the ridge.

As Alric followed Maelen, staff gripped tight, the sounds grew steadily louder. What he had thought perhaps was a pack of dogs playing now sounded distinctly more aggressive. A sharp whine of pain punctuated a series of frantic, snarling growls.

They found Vessa on one knee at the base of a slender tree, bow drawn and arrow nocked, looking down the slope to a gentle hollow between two low hills. Maelen crouched low near another tree two strides away, and Alric tried his best to mimic her movements.

The scene below made him gasp.

Two packs of wolves clashed there, each with at least two dozen members. One of the groups was primarily brown and white, the other black and gray. The sheer number of creatures was startling… Alric didn’t know his forest lore well, but he didn’t think packs usually grew that large. They snarled and darted and leapt at one another, a mass of bristled fur and gnashing teeth. The conflict was brutal and loud, and already a handful of the animals were lying dead or dying amidst the grass.

As he watched, fascinated, it seemed to Alric that the black wolves were winning this territorial war. Two-thirds of the fallen wolves were from the brown pack, and they seemed the ones yipping and whining, being chased far more often than chasing.

Like a bolt of lightning, realization hit him: Only the brown wolves were making noise. He scrambled to Maelen’s side, squinting. The nearest wolves were perhaps forty paces away and he did his best amidst the chaos to focus on the closest black wolf, who had just made a lunge at an opponent and narrowly missed. It turned its head to the side, giving Alric a perfect profile as it scanned the battlefield for the next attack.

Its eyes were pitch black, like hollows in its dark-furred face.

He tugged at Maelen’s arm. “We have to go,” he hissed.

Perhaps she had the same thought, or perhaps something on his face convinced her. She paused only a breath before nodding once and signaling Vessa. The three of them edged away from the low hilltop and back the way they came.

They neither saw nor heard the wolves that had been stalking them until the attack.

Next: Darkness Spreading [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XXV.

Duskmarch 25, Hearthday, Year 731, the day of Sweet Requital in Oakton.

Maelen seethed. She would not survive floating eyes of death in the forest, face-eating skratt legions, insane cultists, and skinless nightmares only to be crushed in an earthquake. She would not die with coin-heavy packs that she never spent. Most of all, though, she would absolutely not watch more companions perish. Screw this Starless Rift! She wished she could punch Orthuun the Blind Sovereign square in the jaw.

With red mist clouding her vision, she roared forward, grabbing Alric by his oiled cloak and hauling him alongside her. Maelen’s boots hammered on the cavern floor, a rumble like thunder all around them. Debris skittered and danced, and rocks cascaded from above—at first smaller than a fingernail but soon as large as a fist. A stone glanced off her back and she shouted, “Go! Go!” to Vessa, three steps ahead of her, over the groaning earth.

The black mace’s handle slapped her thigh as she ran, its incessant hum in her ears. Maelen held her torch high, the speed of their flight and shaking ground making the light dance madly. She tripped briefly, her shoulder crunching into the jagged stone wall before rebounding. Yet she could feel none of her injuries as her panic-fueled rage grew.

By the time she’d reached the stone dais below the cavern entrance, Vessa was already climbing the rope hand over hand, her bow slung across her shoulders and heavy pack dangling from her back. She moved like a deer up a hillside, steps light and graceful despite the weight of her gear.

As she watched in horror, a rock from above bounced off the stone wall and struck Vessa hard, and for a moment Maelen thought she would let go and plummet to the floor. She hung limply by one arm, twisting above. Then the lass shook her head, grabbed the rope with her other hand, and repositioned her feet along the wall. Vessa continued upwards.

“Go!” Maelen said to the mage, tossing him bodily atop the dais. “Grab the rope and climb!”

“My staff…” Alric started, as Maelen vaulted to join him. The rumbling floor made even standing upright difficult now. She frowned when she saw the red and purple scraps of wet tissue littered across the dais, remnants of the first of those skinless creatures.

“I’ve got it!” she yelled. “Go!”

“Will the rope hold–?” he began, then saw the look on her face and paled. He turned, gripped the rope, and…

Climbed! Maelen always assumed the young man was weak because of his profession and lamed leg. Yet, she realized suddenly, she’d seen him again and again bash monstrosities with his staff and do real damage. And, she supposed, he compensated for his withered leg by bearing weight with his arms on that same stick every day. She’d never really considered that he might have some physical strength in that lanky torso of his. Without a second glance, the lad was pulling himself upwards, not as gracefully as Vessa but with steady, even movement. Maelen blinked, surprised.

Then something in the darkness crashed, like a boulder being pulverized, and she lurched into action. Maelen dropped the torch to the floor without looking back, picked up Alric’s staff and, in one clean motion, jammed it behind her, wedged between her travel pack and chain shirt. That done, she gripped the rope with thick, calloused hands, and pulled.

Alric’s question hadn’t been wrong. They’d descended one at a time, with lighter packs. Would the rope hold three of them, plus the treasure of the vault? She guessed they’d find out. With a vicious groan, she pulled, muscles bunching. Her boots found the cavern wall. She climbed.

The noise was deafening now, a combination of constant thunder and crashing stone. Twice, rocks as large as her head fell from above, one narrowly missing her arm and another glancing off her pack. Had either struck her, she would have fallen, head over feet, into the darkness. She assumed that Vessa had made it to the surface by the time she’d made half the climb, and soon after the light from above began reaching the glistening, water-stained rock all around her. Maelen was close. She yelled again, shoulders burning and hands aching, for what felt like days. Voices above her urged her on, though she couldn’t make out words over the cacophony of the Starless Rift.

Eventually, hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upwards. Rain spattered across her face. And, just like that, she lay on her back, her panting breath making puffs in the cold winter air. Maelen wasn’t sure how long she lay there, every pain now flooding back, before Vessa called out.

“Look!” she croaked, the lass’ voice raw.

Like a turtle on its back, Maelen rolled awkwardly. She shrugged her shoulders in the steady rain to release the heavy pack and Alric’s staff so she could sit. Maelen glanced at Vessa, who sat three strides away on her knees, mouth open. The lad lay on his side between them, staring in the same direction. Maelen turned to follow their gazes.

The Starless Rift was sealing itself. The two sections of muddy plains now only lay a short leap apart. Even as she watched, still and stunned, the earth rumbled and groaned, each side reaching for the other. Over the next stretch of time—she couldn’t have said how long—the two sides met, the crack sealed. The rumbling thunder echoed across the plain, low and distant, and then fell silent. Only churned soil, the shape of a long crescent, remained.

In that moment, she thought of her mouse Tatter. The little friend had been with her for over two years and survived the worse this world could throw at them. When she’d scampered away in fear from the monstrosities in the shadows below, Maelen assumed they would find each other again. But now, with the Starless Rift closed, any hope of reunion died. The mouse was probably dead, in the darkness and offal stink of those caverns, and if not dead then trapped. A sob threatened to escape her mouth, but blind rage pushed it back. She struck the mud beside her with a fist and growled.

“What is it?” Vessa asked her.

“Get your asses up!” Maelen barked, pushing herself to her feet unsteadily. “We’re leaving this bloody place.”

“Mae?” her friend asked, but the warrior turned her back on her companions and stalked off in the rain, fuming.

She spoke little the rest of the day. It was impossible to know when in the day they’d emerged from the Starless Rift thanks to the steady storm, so she vowed to just keep walking north until it grew dark. Despite their injuries and exhaustion, she pushed them through the mud and rain, with far fewer and shorter breaks than her companions likely deserved. They didn’t push back on her militant march, though; Vessa and Alric were as eager to put distance from the Rift as Maelen.

As the journey lengthened, it became clearer that they’d emerged sometime in the morning. Was it the next day? Surely, they hadn’t spent more than that underground. Regardless, Maelen thought it made the accounting easier for when they’d reach waypoints and landmarks back to Oakton, assuming they made roughly the pace.

The longer they trudged across plains broken by low hills and dark, craggy rocks. As the miles dragged on, Maelen wondered at her own fury. Yes, she’d always been prone to getting into scraps, even as a young girl. But now the simple need for violence threatened to overwhelm her. Any increase in the rainfall, any unexpected slog of mud, any stumble by the mage—they all filled her with rage. Each slight complication, she held herself back from cursing angrily and often failed. Her fists bunched without her realizing it, tightly and painfully until her knuckles ached. Once, when Vessa whispered to her that she thought they should take a rest for Alric’s sake, Maelen barely avoided punching her friend in the jaw.

Was it the mace, she pondered? Surely the thing hummed to her in a tone only she could hear, and it seemed eager for combat. Did the weapon contain some sort of enchantment that manipulated her emotions? The very idea also made her want to strike something and smash it to pulp. But no, she thought the mace’s personality, if one could call it that, was much more jovial than destructive. Now that she considered it, the black weapon was like a mercenary companion of hers from years ago, even before the Larkhands, named Torin Bonebreaker. The man was crude, filthy, and built like a mountain, but always in uncannily good spirits. He looked forward to battle but wasn’t bloodthirsty for it. So too did it seem the mace was a humming, cheerful companion, happy to fight but otherwise just enjoying the traveling life in the beltloop at her hip. “If only it might rain more!” Torin would say if he were with them, “I don’t think the crack of my ass is wet enough yet!”

If not the mace, then why? It was the Starless Rift itself, and those skinless terrors, she realized. The utter wrongness of those creatures, combined with the oppressive darkness and bleak stone all around them, had triggered some animal instinct in her that she now found difficult to shut off. Like a cornered wolf, Maelen was snapping her slathering jaws at anyone who came near, even those meant to comfort her. She hated the uncontrolled feelings of it, but even as she spent the day grimly meditating on her emotions, could do nothing to erase it. Indeed, she almost wished the party would find more minions of Orthuun that she could destroy, that it would somehow purge her lust for violence.

They made camp in the rain, with little conversation amongst the three of them. Perhaps the only words spoken were when Vessa took inventory of their supplies and noted that they only had one more day of dry rations available, and only three torches that were both unused and had survived the constant wet. There was nothing to do about the torches, but Maelen told Vessa to keep an eye out for game on their journey, especially as they entered the forests of the Greenwood Rise. She must not have made the request respectfully, given that Vessa’s response was to spit and turn her back on her. Still, she felt confident that the lass would do some hunting, so mission accomplished.

Duskmarch 26, Stillday, Year 731

Shortly after setting out on the next day, the rain finally broke. By late morning the clouds had parted, showing cracks of blue sky and shedding the entire landscape in glistening, sparkling relief. The contrast from the previous day and horrors of the Starless Rift were stark, though it did little to lessen Maelen’s anger. For Alric and Vessa, however, the change seemed to allow for some light banter, and the two of them laughed several times at something Maelen couldn’t hear. Midday, after Vessa had crept away briefly to kill two chickens she’d spied in the long grass, the lad and lass sat closely and chattered while cleaning the animals. Maelen thought it was only a matter of time until Vessa bedded the mage and hoped she could wait until they’d returned to Oakton. The last thing Maelen needed was babysitting two lovesick kids.

Most of the day, they tromped through grassy plains stretching between occasional sandstone outcroppings. By mid-afternoon, the sky full of puffy clouds, numerous low ridges and scrub forests that preceded the Greenwood Rise appeared on the horizon. The trio topped a rise, and Vessa squinted, stopping abruptly.

“What is it?” Alric asked, looking at her with concern.

“It’s…” she licked her lips, sounding uncertain. “A tent, I think.”

Maelen shaded her eyes with one hand. Sure enough, far across the grasslands, near a low-lying ridge, was a structure that looked like a crude tent of some kind. White smoke rose from behind the tent, as if from a campfire. The more Maelen watched it, though, the less sense it made. The structure was somehow out of scale for the distance.

Vessa voiced her thoughts. “But it’s… massive.”

They ducked down in the tall, damp grass. Maelen figured that whoever set up the enormous tent couldn’t see them when they crouched, but equally there was no real place to hide their presence once they started moving. She swore, then tried to reign in her inner rampage.

“We’ve got two choices,” she said. “Backtrack and go a long way around, or head towards it and hope it’s someone willing to talk.”

“Perhaps,” Alric offered. “We wait to see if Vessa and her keen eyes can catch a glimpse of who might be setting up such a large tent in the wilds west of Oakton. Perhaps it’s knights of the Prince.”

“No banner that I saw,” Maelen shook her head. “You, Vess?”

The lass shook her head, rubbing at her bent nose in worry. “No. We’re carrying a lot of loot.” Her eyes scanned across Alric and Maelen. “And we’re awfully injured. We’ll look like easy marks to bandits.”

“But why such a large tent?” Maelen growled, her face a thundercloud of thought. “If you’re bandits, why make a bloody fire and announce yourself to everyone around?”

“It could be Saelith…” Alric whispered, and something prickled along her spine. Maelen still wasn’t convinced that a living being had escaped the Starless Rift, a general of a demon’s armies that was centuries old. But she’d also seen enough to make her cautious.

“Dammit all,” she scowled. “Let’s see if we can swing wide, then. Vess, you lead the way.”

The thief nodded and, still crouching, pushed back the way they’d come. Alric followed directly behind, bent awkwardly and his staff sticking up well above the waving grass. Maelen took up the rear and ventured a glance back towards the tent on the horizon.

Her blood went cold. A towering figure in furs and hides appeared from behind the tent, his head almost as tall as the structure. Even from this distance, Maelen could see that he was thick and heavy, his arms reaching down to his knees beneath broad shoulders. He walked with stooped, swaying steps to the side of the tent and paused, turning his slab of a back to them to look north, presumably at the Greenwood Rise.

“Giant!” Maelen hissed. “Keep your heads low!”

“Giant?” Alric paused, and Maelen shoved him forward. “Ow! Are there giants in the Redwood Marches?”

“There’s bloody one there now, you idiot!” she spat back.

Vessa, pushed her way through the grass, crouching and holding her bow low, leading them in a snaking pattern to a hill where they’d be unseen. It was maybe the worst possible position for Alric, whose lamed leg couldn’t support the crouch without the help of his staff. He fell several times, and each time Maelen unsympathetically dragged him up and barked for him to keep going. By the time they’d circled the low hill and paused, panting, even Maelen’s thighs burned with effort. A hundred bruises, cuts, and strained muscles protested as well. She groaned, stretching the leg and shoulder that hurt the most.

“Giant?” Vessa said, rubbing at her own wounded shoulder, the one struck by the rock. “You sure, Mae?”

She grunted in affirmation.

“It’s all Orthuun,” Alric panted, shaking his head.

“Drop it, lad,” Maelen admonished. “Not everything in the great wilds has to do with the bloody demon.”

“Don’t you see?” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “Saelith the Vanished has arisen! He was one of Orthuun’s ten generals, to lead an army of darkness that will sweep over the land and destroy everything.”

“So?” Maelen scowled.

“So, a general needs an army…” Vessa gasped. “The giant is responding to… some kind of call?”

Alric spread his hands wide, as if revealing a magic trick.

“A general needs an army,” he nodded.

Maelen spat a particularly vile curse that surprised even her with its vitriol.

Next: The Rootmother’s Embrace [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XXV.

Duskmarch 25, Hearthday, Year 731, the day of Sweet Requital in Oakton.

Maelen seethed. She would not survive floating eyes of death in the forest, face-eating skratt legions, insane cultists, and skinless nightmares only to be crushed in an earthquake. She would not die with coin-heavy packs that she never spent. Most of all, though, she would absolutely not watch more companions perish. Screw this Starless Rift! She wished she could punch Orthuun the Blind Sovereign square in the jaw.

With red mist clouding her vision, she roared forward, grabbing Alric by his oiled cloak and hauling him alongside her. Maelen’s boots hammered on the cavern floor, a rumble like thunder all around them. Debris skittered and danced, and rocks cascaded from above—at first smaller than a fingernail but soon as large as a fist. A stone glanced off her back and she shouted, “Go! Go!” to Vessa, three steps ahead of her, over the groaning earth.

The black mace’s handle slapped her thigh as she ran, its incessant hum in her ears. Maelen held her torch high, the speed of their flight and shaking ground making the light dance madly. She tripped briefly, her shoulder crunching into the jagged stone wall before rebounding. Yet she could feel none of her injuries as her panic-fueled rage grew.

By the time she’d reached the stone dais below the cavern entrance, Vessa was already climbing the rope hand over hand, her bow slung across her shoulders and heavy pack dangling from her back. She moved like a deer up a hillside, steps light and graceful despite the weight of her gear.

As she watched in horror, a rock from above bounced off the stone wall and struck Vessa hard, and for a moment Maelen thought she would let go and plummet to the floor. She hung limply by one arm, twisting above. Then the lass shook her head, grabbed the rope with her other hand, and repositioned her feet along the wall. Vessa continued upwards.

“Go!” Maelen said to the mage, tossing him bodily atop the dais. “Grab the rope and climb!”

“My staff…” Alric started, as Maelen vaulted to join him. The rumbling floor made even standing upright difficult now. She frowned when she saw the red and purple scraps of wet tissue littered across the dais, remnants of the first of those skinless creatures.

“I’ve got it!” she yelled. “Go!”

“Will the rope hold–?” he began, then saw the look on her face and paled. He turned, gripped the rope, and…

Climbed! Maelen always assumed the young man was weak because of his profession and lamed leg. Yet, she realized suddenly, she’d seen him again and again bash monstrosities with his staff and do real damage. And, she supposed, he compensated for his withered leg by bearing weight with his arms on that same stick every day. She’d never really considered that he might have some physical strength in that lanky torso of his. Without a second glance, the lad was pulling himself upwards, not as gracefully as Vessa but with steady, even movement. Maelen blinked, surprised.

Then something in the darkness crashed, like a boulder being pulverized, and she lurched into action. Maelen dropped the torch to the floor without looking back, picked up Alric’s staff and, in one clean motion, jammed it behind her, wedged between her travel pack and chain shirt. That done, she gripped the rope with thick, calloused hands, and pulled.

Alric’s question hadn’t been wrong. They’d descended one at a time, with lighter packs. Would the rope hold three of them, plus the treasure of the vault? She guessed they’d find out. With a vicious groan, she pulled, muscles bunching. Her boots found the cavern wall. She climbed.

The noise was deafening now, a combination of constant thunder and crashing stone. Twice, rocks as large as her head fell from above, one narrowly missing her arm and another glancing off her pack. Had either struck her, she would have fallen, head over feet, into the darkness. She assumed that Vessa had made it to the surface by the time she’d made half the climb, and soon after the light from above began reaching the glistening, water-stained rock all around her. Maelen was close. She yelled again, shoulders burning and hands aching, for what felt like days. Voices above her urged her on, though she couldn’t make out words over the cacophony of the Starless Rift.

Eventually, hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upwards. Rain spattered across her face. And, just like that, she lay on her back, her panting breath making puffs in the cold winter air. Maelen wasn’t sure how long she lay there, every pain now flooding back, before Vessa called out.

“Look!” she croaked, the lass’ voice raw.

Like a turtle on its back, Maelen rolled awkwardly. She shrugged her shoulders in the steady rain to release the heavy pack and Alric’s staff so she could sit. Maelen glanced at Vessa, who sat three strides away on her knees, mouth open. The lad lay on his side between them, staring in the same direction. Maelen turned to follow their gazes.

The Starless Rift was sealing itself. The two sections of muddy plains now only lay a short leap apart. Even as she watched, still and stunned, the earth rumbled and groaned, each side reaching for the other. Over the next stretch of time—she couldn’t have said how long—the two sides met, the crack sealed. The rumbling thunder echoed across the plain, low and distant, and then fell silent. Only churned soil, the shape of a long crescent, remained.

In that moment, she thought of her mouse Tatter. The little friend had been with her for over two years and survived the worse this world could throw at them. When she’d scampered away in fear from the monstrosities in the shadows below, Maelen assumed they would find each other again. But now, with the Starless Rift closed, any hope of reunion died. The mouse was probably dead, in the darkness and offal stink of those caverns, and if not dead then trapped. A sob threatened to escape her mouth, but blind rage pushed it back. She struck the mud beside her with a fist and growled.

“What is it?” Vessa asked her.

“Get your asses up!” Maelen barked, pushing herself to her feet unsteadily. “We’re leaving this bloody place.”

“Mae?” her friend asked, but the warrior turned her back on her companions and stalked off in the rain, fuming.

She spoke little the rest of the day. It was impossible to know when in the day they’d emerged from the Starless Rift thanks to the steady storm, so she vowed to just keep walking north until it grew dark. Despite their injuries and exhaustion, she pushed them through the mud and rain, with far fewer and shorter breaks than her companions likely deserved. They didn’t push back on her militant march, though; Vessa and Alric were as eager to put distance from the Rift as Maelen.

As the journey lengthened, it became clearer that they’d emerged sometime in the morning. Was it the next day? Surely, they hadn’t spent more than that underground. Regardless, Maelen thought it made the accounting easier for when they’d reach waypoints and landmarks back to Oakton, assuming they made roughly the pace.

The longer they trudged across plains broken by low hills and dark, craggy rocks. As the miles dragged on, Maelen wondered at her own fury. Yes, she’d always been prone to getting into scraps, even as a young girl. But now the simple need for violence threatened to overwhelm her. Any increase in the rainfall, any unexpected slog of mud, any stumble by the mage—they all filled her with rage. Each slight complication, she held herself back from cursing angrily and often failed. Her fists bunched without her realizing it, tightly and painfully until her knuckles ached. Once, when Vessa whispered to her that she thought they should take a rest for Alric’s sake, Maelen barely avoided punching her friend in the jaw.

Was it the mace, she pondered? Surely the thing hummed to her in a tone only she could hear, and it seemed eager for combat. Did the weapon contain some sort of enchantment that manipulated her emotions? The very idea also made her want to strike something and smash it to pulp. But no, she thought the mace’s personality, if one could call it that, was much more jovial than destructive. Now that she considered it, the black weapon was like a mercenary companion of hers from years ago, even before the Larkhands, named Torin Bonebreaker. The man was crude, filthy, and built like a mountain, but always in uncannily good spirits. He looked forward to battle but wasn’t bloodthirsty for it. So too did it seem the mace was a humming, cheerful companion, happy to fight but otherwise just enjoying the traveling life in the beltloop at her hip. “If only it might rain more!” Torin would say if he were with them, “I don’t think the crack of my ass is wet enough yet!”

If not the mace, then why? It was the Starless Rift itself, and those skinless terrors, she realized. The utter wrongness of those creatures, combined with the oppressive darkness and bleak stone all around them, had triggered some animal instinct in her that she now found difficult to shut off. Like a cornered wolf, Maelen was snapping her slathering jaws at anyone who came near, even those meant to comfort her. She hated the uncontrolled feelings of it, but even as she spent the day grimly meditating on her emotions, could do nothing to erase it. Indeed, she almost wished the party would find more minions of Orthuun that she could destroy, that it would somehow purge her lust for violence.

They made camp in the rain, with little conversation amongst the three of them. Perhaps the only words spoken were when Vessa took inventory of their supplies and noted that they only had one more day of dry rations available, and only three torches that were both unused and had survived the constant wet. There was nothing to do about the torches, but Maelen told Vessa to keep an eye out for game on their journey, especially as they entered the forests of the Greenwood Rise. She must not have made the request respectfully, given that Vessa’s response was to spit and turn her back on her. Still, she felt confident that the lass would do some hunting, so mission accomplished.

Duskmarch 26, Stillday, Year 731

Shortly after setting out on the next day, the rain finally broke. By late morning the clouds had parted, showing cracks of blue sky and shedding the entire landscape in glistening, sparkling relief. The contrast from the previous day and horrors of the Starless Rift were stark, though it did little to lessen Maelen’s anger. For Alric and Vessa, however, the change seemed to allow for some light banter, and the two of them laughed several times at something Maelen couldn’t hear. Midday, after Vessa had crept away briefly to kill two chickens she’d spied in the long grass, the lad and lass sat closely and chattered while cleaning the animals. Maelen thought it was only a matter of time until Vessa bedded the mage and hoped she could wait until they’d returned to Oakton. The last thing Maelen needed was babysitting two lovesick kids.

Most of the day, they tromped through grassy plains stretching between occasional sandstone outcroppings. By mid-afternoon, the sky full of puffy clouds, numerous low ridges and scrub forests that preceded the Greenwood Rise appeared on the horizon. The trio topped a rise, and Vessa squinted, stopping abruptly.

“What is it?” Alric asked, looking at her with concern.

“It’s…” she licked her lips, sounding uncertain. “A tent, I think.”

Maelen shaded her eyes with one hand. Sure enough, far across the grasslands, near a low-lying ridge, was a structure that looked like a crude tent of some kind. White smoke rose from behind the tent, as if from a campfire. The more Maelen watched it, though, the less sense it made. The structure was somehow out of scale for the distance.

Vessa voiced her thoughts. “But it’s… massive.”

They ducked down in the tall, damp grass. Maelen figured that whoever set up the enormous tent couldn’t see them when they crouched, but equally there was no real place to hide their presence once they started moving. She swore, then tried to reign in her inner rampage.

“We’ve got two choices,” she said. “Backtrack and go a long way around, or head towards it and hope it’s someone willing to talk.”

“Perhaps,” Alric offered. “We wait to see if Vessa and her keen eyes can catch a glimpse of who might be setting up such a large tent in the wilds west of Oakton. Perhaps it’s knights of the Prince.”

“No banner that I saw,” Maelen shook her head. “You, Vess?”

The lass shook her head, rubbing at her bent nose in worry. “No. We’re carrying a lot of loot.” Her eyes scanned across Alric and Maelen. “And we’re awfully injured. We’ll look like easy marks to bandits.”

“But why such a large tent?” Maelen growled, her face a thundercloud of thought. “If you’re bandits, why make a bloody fire and announce yourself to everyone around?”

“It could be Saelith…” Alric whispered, and something prickled along her spine. Maelen still wasn’t convinced that a living being had escaped the Starless Rift, a general of a demon’s armies that was centuries old. But she’d also seen enough to make her cautious.

“Dammit all,” she scowled. “Let’s see if we can swing wide, then. Vess, you lead the way.”

The thief nodded and, still crouching, pushed back the way they’d come. Alric followed directly behind, bent awkwardly and his staff sticking up well above the waving grass. Maelen took up the rear and ventured a glance back towards the tent on the horizon.

Her blood went cold. A towering figure in furs and hides appeared from behind the tent, his head almost as tall as the structure. Even from this distance, Maelen could see that he was thick and heavy, his arms reaching down to his knees beneath broad shoulders. He walked with stooped, swaying steps to the side of the tent and paused, turning his slab of a back to them to look north, presumably at the Greenwood Rise.

“Giant!” Maelen hissed. “Keep your heads low!”

“Giant?” Alric paused, and Maelen shoved him forward. “Ow! Are there giants in the Redwood Marches?”

“There’s bloody one there now, you idiot!” she spat back.

Vessa, pushed her way through the grass, crouching and holding her bow low, leading them in a snaking pattern to a hill where they’d be unseen. It was maybe the worst possible position for Alric, whose lamed leg couldn’t support the crouch without the help of his staff. He fell several times, and each time Maelen unsympathetically dragged him up and barked for him to keep going. By the time they’d circled the low hill and paused, panting, even Maelen’s thighs burned with effort. A hundred bruises, cuts, and strained muscles protested as well. She groaned, stretching the leg and shoulder that hurt the most.

“Giant?” Vessa said, rubbing at her own wounded shoulder, the one struck by the rock. “You sure, Mae?”

She grunted in affirmation.

“It’s all Orthuun,” Alric panted, shaking his head.

“Drop it, lad,” Maelen admonished. “Not everything in the great wilds has to do with the bloody demon.”

“Don’t you see?” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “Saelith the Vanished has arisen! He was one of Orthuun’s ten generals, to lead an army of darkness that will sweep over the land and destroy everything.”

“So?” Maelen scowled.

“So, a general needs an army…” Vessa gasped. “The giant is responding to… some kind of call?”

Alric spread his hands wide, as if revealing a magic trick.

“A general needs an army,” he nodded.

Maelen spat a particularly vile curse that surprised even her with its vitriol.

Next: The Rootmother’s Embrace [with game notes]