His eyes widened when he realized the mist had been summoned. It had been summoned to blot out the sun, summoned to protect the hide of the Fear Liath. In crushing anguish, he realized that this was the final lair, this was the place most heavily protected. Perhaps not by one Fear Liath but several, and he was violating the sanctuary with his presence. A chill swept down to his toes and he felt the violent urge to fly away and leave Baylen to defend himself. They needed to get off the promontory immediately. The peril increased with each moment.
He scanned the grounds quickly, looking for a place to set down—a place where his memory might be used at some future moment to bring others deep inside the Scourgelands. Was this the right place? Broken walls littered the promontory. Derelict chimneys and skeletal archways still existed, but they protected nothing. In his mind’s eye, Paedrin could imagine a sprawling courtyard, grander than the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos. A few ragged trees, bereft of all foliage, had grown in seams and cracks in the rubble. The mist swept down as a veil, chilling him.
Low chanting sounded from just below where he was perched. To his surprise, he saw black-robed Rikes ascending from a gaping maw of stone in the floor just beneath him. Many held staves with glowing stones embedded into one end. A few carried smoking brands, reminiscent of the ones carried by the Boeotians to drive away helpful spirits. The Rikes were chanting in some ancient language, words that Paedrin did not understand. They emerged from hidden crypts within the bowels of the ancient fortress. A dozen men . . . then another dozen . . . wave after wave of Rikes emerging into the misty gloom, humming and chanting, some glancing fearfully at the shelves of rock and crumbled walls. The sound of clopping hooves approached and more riders appeared in the debris, their hoods concealing their faces. One raised a crooked arm and pointed, directing the Rikes with sibilant hisses in some ancient language.
Paedrin screwed up his courage, knowing he would need to leave before the Arch-Rike himself arrived. Fear raged inside of him, threatening to spoil his courage forever. The mist was thick and heavy and Paedrin gently inhaled, coming off the roof and floating away from the apex of the buttresses he had perched on like a gray dove.
Baylen was heading into a trap. This was not a battle they could win. The mist would help conceal them if they fled—hopefully. Paedrin quickly explored the ruins, seeing riders throughout the maze. He went around the complete perimeter, looking for a place to land, a small shelf of rock where he could bring others back with him—a place away from the deadly ramp and the deadly guardians there.
Around the base of the promontory, the woods of the Scourgelands pressed against the rock, giving it the impression of an island rising in a lake of oak burs. All the trees looked alike, of course, as they typically did to a young man raised in a crowded city. But as he glided along the far end of the promontory, there was a single tree that struck his attention and caught his gaze.
What struck Paedrin was the hideousness of the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was even an oak tree at all, because it was so misshapen and distorted. At first look, it didn’t even look like a single tree but as if twelve other trees had all grown together into a single, contorted mass. It was not the largest tree he had seen in the Scourgelands either. But it was singularly grotesque, and the trunk seemed to split in the middle, revealing a cave-like maw at the base that showed light from the other side, as if the tree had two massive legs and it were squatting. A variety of gnarled branches had grown from the hulking shape, most stick straight like the quills of a porcupine. Rotten foliage hung in clumps around it.
Paedrin stared, his heart burning with fire as he saw the mist descend and shroud the image of the tree below. He felt an overwhelming urge to fly down to the misshapen behemoth for a closer look, but a wave of sudden dread soured his mind. What would be guarding it? He thought it wise to land atop the promontory and watch it a moment, to see if he could discern any guardians. He knew it likely that a Fear Liath was hunting in the mist. He could sense them, their foreboding presence and darkest evil. Had Baylen reached the top of the promontory yet, and would he meet the Rikes and soldiers soon? His mind twisted itself in knots with all the possibilities.
At the edge of the promontory, just below him, Paedrin saw a fallen wall, broken to crumbled bits. He lowered himself down, breathing out softly, and decided to make his watch there, amidst the rubble. It was near the queer-looking tree, a place he would remember and be able to describe later. It was away from the escarpment where the Rikes gathered and would provide a good view of the tree below.
A horrible dread filled Paedrin’s stomach. He had to be away, had to try to escape while he could. How would he find his way back to the ramp in the mist? He could not worry about that. He needed to position himself on the promontory. This was the legacy he would bring back to Tyrus—the atonement he would offer for his failure.
He scanned the grounds quickly, looking for a place to set down—a place where his memory might be used at some future moment to bring others deep inside the Scourgelands. Was this the right place? Broken walls littered the promontory. Derelict chimneys and skeletal archways still existed, but they protected nothing. In his mind’s eye, Paedrin could imagine a sprawling courtyard, grander than the Paracelsus Towers in Kenatos. A few ragged trees, bereft of all foliage, had grown in seams and cracks in the rubble. The mist swept down as a veil, chilling him.
Low chanting sounded from just below where he was perched. To his surprise, he saw black-robed Rikes ascending from a gaping maw of stone in the floor just beneath him. Many held staves with glowing stones embedded into one end. A few carried smoking brands, reminiscent of the ones carried by the Boeotians to drive away helpful spirits. The Rikes were chanting in some ancient language, words that Paedrin did not understand. They emerged from hidden crypts within the bowels of the ancient fortress. A dozen men . . . then another dozen . . . wave after wave of Rikes emerging into the misty gloom, humming and chanting, some glancing fearfully at the shelves of rock and crumbled walls. The sound of clopping hooves approached and more riders appeared in the debris, their hoods concealing their faces. One raised a crooked arm and pointed, directing the Rikes with sibilant hisses in some ancient language.
Paedrin screwed up his courage, knowing he would need to leave before the Arch-Rike himself arrived. Fear raged inside of him, threatening to spoil his courage forever. The mist was thick and heavy and Paedrin gently inhaled, coming off the roof and floating away from the apex of the buttresses he had perched on like a gray dove.
Baylen was heading into a trap. This was not a battle they could win. The mist would help conceal them if they fled—hopefully. Paedrin quickly explored the ruins, seeing riders throughout the maze. He went around the complete perimeter, looking for a place to land, a small shelf of rock where he could bring others back with him—a place away from the deadly ramp and the deadly guardians there.
Around the base of the promontory, the woods of the Scourgelands pressed against the rock, giving it the impression of an island rising in a lake of oak burs. All the trees looked alike, of course, as they typically did to a young man raised in a crowded city. But as he glided along the far end of the promontory, there was a single tree that struck his attention and caught his gaze.
What struck Paedrin was the hideousness of the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was even an oak tree at all, because it was so misshapen and distorted. At first look, it didn’t even look like a single tree but as if twelve other trees had all grown together into a single, contorted mass. It was not the largest tree he had seen in the Scourgelands either. But it was singularly grotesque, and the trunk seemed to split in the middle, revealing a cave-like maw at the base that showed light from the other side, as if the tree had two massive legs and it were squatting. A variety of gnarled branches had grown from the hulking shape, most stick straight like the quills of a porcupine. Rotten foliage hung in clumps around it.
Paedrin stared, his heart burning with fire as he saw the mist descend and shroud the image of the tree below. He felt an overwhelming urge to fly down to the misshapen behemoth for a closer look, but a wave of sudden dread soured his mind. What would be guarding it? He thought it wise to land atop the promontory and watch it a moment, to see if he could discern any guardians. He knew it likely that a Fear Liath was hunting in the mist. He could sense them, their foreboding presence and darkest evil. Had Baylen reached the top of the promontory yet, and would he meet the Rikes and soldiers soon? His mind twisted itself in knots with all the possibilities.
At the edge of the promontory, just below him, Paedrin saw a fallen wall, broken to crumbled bits. He lowered himself down, breathing out softly, and decided to make his watch there, amidst the rubble. It was near the queer-looking tree, a place he would remember and be able to describe later. It was away from the escarpment where the Rikes gathered and would provide a good view of the tree below.
A horrible dread filled Paedrin’s stomach. He had to be away, had to try to escape while he could. How would he find his way back to the ramp in the mist? He could not worry about that. He needed to position himself on the promontory. This was the legacy he would bring back to Tyrus—the atonement he would offer for his failure.
