Escape at Alder

One of his creations was speaking, but the Ender of Days did not hear the words. Instead, his gaze rested on a small group struggling to cross the broad expanse of the Vyrathar River. Already they had dwindled to little more than specks, and Kane cursed as they slipped out of his reach once more. As his quarry vanished into the night, fury washed through him and he reached out, his hand easily closing around the top of the speaker’s head. That anger became a tightness in his chest and every muscle in his body quivered with rage.

A quiet “pop” drew his attention back to his surroundings. Warmth spread across his hand and he lifted it before him, a distant part of him noting that it was covered in blood and gore. Mechanically, Kane opened his fist, releasing his hold on the speaker. It fell to the ground and lay unmoving, its head burst open.

For some time, Kane remained still, while around him the swarm flowed past. They moved towards a small village in the distance where the flicking lights of a hundred torches illuminated a battle and cries of terror mingled with the clash of battle. These things went unnoticed by Kane, whose attention had again turned inward, to those first moments of waking. He should have captured them there in that forgotten village, but he had been disoriented - lashing out at anything. That allowed them to escape the first time, and they had eluded him again in the hills to the south. In this place, however, he had meant to crush them against the banks of the uncrossable river.

Only, against the odds, they had crossed it, slipping beyond the reach of his now-useless swarm. He released it from his control, and immediately the singular drive that pushed it towards the distant village dissolved. At the swarm’s edges, its members began to turn away, skulking into the darkened countryside all around. Kane had already forgotten it, turning his otherworldly gaze outward seeking the folds in reality that would allow him to travel hundreds or even thousands of spans with a single step. When he found one, he stepped into it and vanished from the field.

---

On the ramparts of the distant village, Stralok Gregor watched the great host swarm across the fields. His men were brave and he believed no finer soldiers could be found in Strykara, but they were few. They would fight, and they would die, and in so doing, they would buy the precious minutes the strangers needed to escape. As he thought of those strangers, Gregor looked north to where they were just beginning their crossing of the swollen Vyrathar. Only a mad fool would attempt a crossing now, a mad fool, or a small group with few choices pursued by an inhuman host.

When they had come to his gates on the prior day, Gregor hadn’t known why he had chosen to help them. His first instinct had been to clap them in chains and send them on to Wyrkspire. Or perhaps even give them over to this host, which his scouts indicated with certainty was chasing them. Gregor wasn’t surprised when they denied knowledge of the host or even when one among them pretended to be a shadowbinder. That they were desperate was clear. Despite his initial misgivings, Gregor chose to lend aid because a feeling in his gut told him to do so.

Now, as he watched the host swarm towards him, their commander in sight, he was certain he had made the right decision. This was no mere army of mortals which descended upon him. It was an unholy host pulled from the annals of Veylantia’s distant past. Their commander was the Ender of Days, one of the dreaded voidreavers of Morithal. He towered over his forces in plate armor, blackened and charred. And, as if to underscore his inhumanness, there was simply nothing above his shoulders. Where his head should be, there was just an emptiness that in no way impeded his ability to perceive the world around him.

The people of Alder had done everything they could to prepare. Fields had been cleared, trenches and pitfalls dug. Walls were fortified and ammunition and food stockpiled. Shifts were organized, watches established. When the enemy came, they would be as ready as they could. Gregor knew it was in vain. He had known since the first message from his scouts hinting at the size of the force arrayed against them. Nevertheless, they would fight.

When the vanguard of the enemy host reached the outer ring of Alder’s defenders, they were struck by a barrage of crossbow fire. Bodies fell, to be trampled beneath the feet of their comrades, who ran headlong into the second volley. These fell and those behind them pushed on heedless of the fallen and the crossbow bolts alike. Volley after volley went into the host but still they came, a great wave of bodies, monsters whose flesh was desiccated and drawn and whose hands were twisted claws.

As the enemies drew closer, Gregor raised his hand and brought it down in a quick chopping motion as he shouted, “Bring the fire!”

A salvo of flaming bolts shot forward at his command, these not seeking the bodies of enemies but instead hidden stores of oil which erupted in great explosions. Bodies were flung across the battlefield, embers and ash raining down as they did. Sheets of flame rippled out after them, consuming them in fire. With the enemy hidden behind a wall of flame, a moment of hope surged through the soldiers but vanished almost immediately as the next wave appeared. They howled through their inhuman lips as they leapt through the flames, scrabbling over one another in their rush to reach the city.

And then they were at the walls, crashing along the palisade like a great wave. Some were smashed against it, but most leapt over, landing on the battlements beyond where soldiers in the red-and-black armor of Strykara waited. The two groups met, the impact of that initial clash ringing across Alder. Atop the battlements and in the street just beyond the soldiers fought a desperate struggle. In the midst of the fray, Stralok Gregor fought with his men. He hewed at the enemies, battering them back with his shield even as they scraped and clawed at him seeking a weak spot in his lamellar armor.

One after another, his enemies met their end on the edge of his sword and Gregor lost track of everything except the enemy in front of him. His arm ached with the effort and he bled from a dozen wounds. As he clove the head from his latest enemy and turned he found no other. Sucking air through clenched teeth, Gregor looked about and realized that there were no more enemies atop the wall. A cheer went up from the western flank, quickly joined by a second and a third. Then all up and down the line soldiers were shouting. Gregor’s cheers mingled with theirs, as he brandished his sword high.

Gregor lowered his arm and sheathed his sword as he turned his gaze north once more. There, about halfway across the river, the strangers were just vanishing into the darkness. They, at least, were safe. Alder would fall, and would be forgotten. The host could swarm over the walls of Alder and kill every man, woman, and child in the town. But it could not cross the river. Whatever wicked purpose the Ender of Days had come for would fail.

“I beat you.” Gregor said with satisfaction, addressing his words to the Ender of Days. He kicked the nearest monster, rolling it onto its back. As it did, Gregor jerked back. Revulsion flooded him and he clamped his teeth tight against the bile that rose within him. He knew this man! This was no monster. This was a peddler who had visited Alder on many occasions, transformed by the Ender of Days into an unholy abomination. His revulsion turned to anger, which became outrage, and finally, his face paling, fear. As he looked at the dead man he knew without doubt that this was to be his fate.

“Why?” He shrieked, turning his face towards the sky as he cursed the Twin Gods. “Why?” He repeated, filling the word with the frustration and helplessness he felt.

Gregor turned back to the battle, ready for the death he knew would come. But it did not. Instead, in the distance, he watched as the Ender of Days turned, took a few steps, and then disappeared. As he did, the host which had been arrayed against Alder broke apart, its members scrambling away in every direction. A few stragglers still came against the city, but their assault was a chaotic flailing. Gone was their cohesion and sense of purpose. And, as the first light of dawn turned the sky crimson, Alder stood.

In that morning light, Gregor looked one last time north, seeking the strangers. He found them, more than two spans away, on the far side of the river. They lay there, tiny figures in the distance. That their crossing had been difficult, Gregor was certain, but they survived. They had survived and so too had Alder. He smiled and then began to laugh.

---

Days later, Kane sat at a smooth table, its black wood polished to a bright sheen. He wore black silks and in this place his head was visible, appearing spectral. He was not alone although many of the eight seats were empty. That would change, Kane knew, it was their time again and soon all surviving voidreavers would be awake.

“They escaped.” He answered bluntly in reply to a question from a shadowy figure standing at the head of the table. This figure was not a voidreaver but something else, and it vexed Kane that Morithal had set it over them. Nevertheless, he obeyed.

If the figure was upset at his admission, it gave no indication. Instead, it looked down at a map displayed upon the table showing the western half of Veylantia. A broad circle had been drawn upon the map, enclosing most of the northern part of Strykara along with a swath of land including parts of Braxyl, Gallance, and Eldoria. “They are somewhere inside this region.” the shadowy figure said, tapping the circled area with a slender finger. “You will find them.”

This last was directed not at Kane, but instead to the pair sitting to his left. Eclis and Sable. The Shadow Twins. Wordlessly, they nodded their assent then Eclis said, “If they are, the Covenant will find them.”

Their business concluded, Kane rose and departed. The Shadow Twins too left, but their night’s purpose was only just beginning. Upon departing, they quested outward, seeking the dreams of the Covenant, those mortals who had pledged their souls to Morithal.

In one such dream, they found the man Thael Ashwind. Thael hadn’t realized the gravity of the oaths he swore, but now, huddled naked in a corner, he understood. They had taught him. Angry red marks marred his flesh in many places and his cheeks were puffy and red. He knew he was dreaming, but it made no difference. The things they had done to him! Tears came again and Thael jerked involuntarily Sable laid her hand on his back. She began to stroke his back like one might pet a dog.

“Now then,” she said in her soft voice, “watch and learn.”

As Sable spoke, images exploded in Thael’s mind. A parade of visions that began somewhere in Strykara. There was a group of youths and a sailor, a Pelegorian Thael believed. They were in some town. There was an explosion and then Kane. The group fled west towards the mountains and a voidscar. Then they were moving north. Now Kane pursued them, a long chase. Finally, they reached a small Strykaran town on the banks of a raging river. Here they climbed aboard a ferry and soon vanished.

Thael gasped but the images did not stop. Now, one by one, each of the figures came to the forefront of his mind: a boy with curly brown hair, a fisherman, a youth marked with the tattoos of the shadowbinders, a boy with a chain, a girl of perhaps eight, a Sarnathian, another brown-haired boy, and finally the sailor. Again and again they flashed before his eyes until each was burned into his mind.

He felt Sable pat his head and whisper, “Good boy.” before standing and joining her brother Eclis. Together, the voidreavers stepped out of Thael’s dream.

That night, across an area of southwest Veylantia some 1,200 spans in diameter, those most people called vilebound, who called themselves the Covenant, were visited by the Shadow Twins. Some were tortured, as Thael had been, others seduced, others commanded. Each was dealt with according to their place, but the message to each was the same: find them!