For what other solution is there, when they come from across the seas and demand we give them our land, when they turn forests into graves, and when they chain the spirits of Artaghan to their will? -Final sentence of Tolrion’Le’Dali’s speech: They Who Crossed the Seas
It should be raining. That would fit her mood.
But it wasn’t. The night was frigid, windy, and miserable, but it wasn’t raining. Gwynfor followed behind Lydia, wearing a matching cloak of crimson and a porcelain mask. The sun was gone now, having fled from sight. A mist was creeping through the streets, brought on by an evening chill from the west. It was a gossamer blanket wreathed atop the buildings. Despite the chill, Gwynfor felt clammy and warm, sweat beaded on her face behind the mask. The city seemed quiet, more so than usual. This late in the year, night came early, and fewer ships arrived as the waters worsened. Besides, for most people, it was better to stay inside during the Banishment.
“Stay quiet. Tonight there is much danger.”
“I will do what needs to be done,” Gwynfor said.
Lydia paused. “I will not let Willow go. But you follow me. It is the safest way. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” Gwynfor said with a nod. She would not be left behind by behaving foolishly. She would listen.
“Good,” Lydia said, already walking again.
Gwynfor did not hurt. The pain was there, but hidden, no longer important. She barely limped, and instead prowled forward behind her mentor. They had been to many Banishments, it was Lydia who first turned Gwynfor’s loss of a friend into anger, and gave it direction.
Dockside was never quiet. They crossed into the district between warehouses, and refineries, drawn to the shadows like mice avoiding cats. Even past evening into night, there was the sound of work being done. Hammers clanged, boxes and crates grinded against the ground as they were dragged. The few people on the streets and not in the midst of working gave them a wide berth. Their cloaks of red were recognized.
“How many will be there?” Gwynfor asked.
“All,” Lydia said.
Five years, that was the last time they had all gathered. “Even before they took Willow, you were planning something.”
Lydia did not respond.
“And the regular folk? How many?”
“More than normal, if we’re lucky.”
There were only a few scattered lamps on the streets. Most of the light wafted out from high up windows on large blocky warehouses. Lydia avoided the light like the plague. The harder it was to be spotted tonight, the better.
“What if the real Red Wraith is about tonight?” Gwynfor asked.
“We hope they do not ruin our plans.”
A horn sounded, a long wailing note that seemed to rattle the bones. Everyone in Redport knew that sound. The ships were docking. Lydia darted forward, and Gwynfor followed. She felt her heart begin to beat faster like a drum, and it was not entirely from running. One way or another, she was making a bad decision.
But what other choice did she have?
There were shouts, rising up from the white noise. At first it was distant, like a buzz of insects, but quickly it rose to a clamor the closer they came. Finally, they rounded a corner and stepped onto the docks.
It was a chaotic mess. There were a few scattered groups of people. They all looked normal; the kind of people you saw going out on an errand. The only difference was their fury. They bore torches and their voices shouted at a line of thirty some soldiers who spanned the length of the dock and beyond, separating protestors from prisoners. The soldiers each wore the Unicorn of House Itterarkh. Behind the soldiers, were the damned. Gwynfor gasped.
There had to be almost three hundred people gathered, all bound in chains. Most looked weary and dressed in rags. They had been brought a long way to Redport. They had the look of northerners, from the territory of House Groloth by their hard faces and broad appearance. War prisoners, most likely. House Groloth still refused to acknowledge Arrietty as Dragon. Even still, there were more people here than Gwynfor had ever seen.
Hope began to color her emotions. There was only a single ship pulled into the dock. She recognized it. Ships bound for Ghost had a look to them. They had to be sturdy, and often bore clear weathering and frequent repairs. The waters around Ghost were rough, and even the most talented of crews could end up sunk in moments if Mother Luck played you the fool. This one was the Salty Pelican, one of the most prolific ferrymen of the damned. But, it was small. It could not possibly fit all these prisoners. Maybe Lydia could leverage her authority to buy Willow’s freedom, or at least alter his sentence.
Lydia seemed to ignore all this, barely hesitating as she dove into the chaos and made her way towards a group of red-cloaked figures. Those not of their number parted, some giving icy glances, others smiles. Thirteen of the red cloaks now stood together. One of them, taller than the rest, even with a slight hunch to his back, waved at Lydia. “About time you showed up,” Malcolm growled.
“We are here,” Lydia said. She seemed to take in the situation, and Gwynfor tried as well. They stood further back from the line of soldiers than some of the other protestors, they didn’t need to be near for their presence to be felt. Everyone knew what their cloaks meant. Already, Gwynfor could feel the soldier's eyes on her. Their attention crawled at her back, like a bug you couldn’t quite find. Around them, shouts continued to echo, as insults and pleas were hurled at the soldiers with equal measure.
And with equal lack of care.
“We must be careful, they have Gravimancy,” Lydia said, her voice lowered. The wraiths nearest her reacted with a mixture of quickly suppressed gasps and shifting of cloaks. Gwynfor knew they hid weapons beneath the crimson folds. Only Lydia wore hers openly though. It was illegal for most people in the city to carry more than a knife. Gwynfor herself carried a sling, a dagger, and a pouch of stones, and it made for both a comforting and worrisome presence.
“Damn, those Morterran cursed bastards mean business then,” Malcolm said.
“The Red Wraith has frightened them,” Lydia said.
“You heard that then?” Malcolm asked.
Lydia nodded. “But the Gravimancer was here too quick, it makes for an unfortunate coincidence.”
“The question is, for what then?” Gwynfor asked.
Both of them turned to look at her. Behind her mask, she felt her cheeks color, but pressed on. “There is also the question of the scary man, and what he is after.”
“Scary man?” Malcolm asked.
“Later, more variables.” Lydia looked around.
“Willow is there,” Lydia said, pointing to the prisoners.
“Damn, another good one gone,” Malcolm hissed. “We going to let these bastards get the better of us again?”
“No. Not anymore.”
Malcolm smiled. “Good.”
“What’s the plan?” Gwynfor asked.
Lydia glanced at Gwynfor, and she felt locked in that gaze for an eternity. “You shall see. First, words may free our friend. Follow.” Lydia swept forward, her cloak swishing against the wooden docks. Gwynfor heard them creak as they stepped forward and towards the line of soldiers. The Salty Pelican had yet to begin unloading, though the gangplank had fallen. Through the mist, she could just barely see activity on the deck of the ship. Whatever cargo they had would be unloaded before the prisoners would be brought aboard. They still had time.
Gwynfor saw a glint of metal in the fiery light, as a soldier approached Lydia, waving a sword. “Not a step further wraith!” the man spat. He wore a chain vest, and a tall conical hat. There were bags under his eyes, and he looked young, barely past Gwynfor’s age.
Lydia took a step forward. “Who leads the Banishment?”
The soldier’s face twisted with disgust. “I don’t need to answer the likes of you.” He spat at her feet. Gwynfor felt her hand leap to a dagger hidden in the folds of her cloak.
Lydia pressed a hand against her. “Who leads the Banishment?” she asked again.
The soldier seemed uncomfortable now. His face, already pale, had gone practically white. He must be used to people running away when he antagonizes them.
“Uh,” he sputtered, looking around. His face steeled, as he waved the sword around again. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he sneered, falling back to childish insults. It must make him feel big.
Lydia did something unexpected.
She lowered her hood and removed her mask. The soldier seemed baffled. “I am Lydia Thyshar, Thane of the Five Flowers, and I demand to speak to whomever is in charge of this Banishment.”
The young man stumbled back, eyes wide in astonishment. Gwynfor smiled behind her mask. Lydia did not like to remind people of her role in bringing the new Dragon to power, or her family name. But it was always fun to see her use it to her advantage.
“Yes ma'am,” he said, pale as snow now. He turned and ran.
“Dangerous night,” Lydia muttered.
They were watched like hawks, the soldiers glaring at them. As they waited, Gwynfor began to look around. It was loud, and there was a lot going on. It was hard to focus on any single thing. One of the group of protestors were chanting, “Our kin do not belong to Ghost!” Several of the nearby soldiers there had drawn weapons and were brandishing them as an intimidation tactic. People were beginning to descend from the Salty Pelican, hauling heavy looking crates. A wail emanated from within the damned, and Gwynfor heard the sound of a child crying.
“Children!” Lydia spat, and wheeled towards the nearest soldier. She swung a finger like a sword and jabbed it towards him, striking his chestplate. The man retaliated, swinging his plated arm at her. Dancing back, Lydia stuck her leg out, tripping him. The soldier fell to the ground in a clatter. Several of the nearby soldiers drew weapons. Lydia swung her arms out, letting the long sleeves fall away to reveal the flowers tattooed on her arm. They all stopped, some faster than others.
“You dare take children again?” Lydia asked, her voice now deathly quiet.
Gwynfor felt her own stomach burning in anger. Not just Willow, but they had taken another child. They had promised, edicts had been passed. Not a child again. Her hands clutched at her dagger, they had promised. Her hands were shaking. She saw the soldier on the ground, struggling to stand up. Mail like he wore did well to protect against swings and slashings, but not the pinpoint of a dagger. She imagined her blade thrusting forward, taking him in the chest…what was she thinking? Gwynfor reeled back, nearly stumbling into Malcolm. She wanted to throw up for even fathoming such a thought.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?” A new voice drawled. It was pitched low, but in the manner of a child imitating his father. Gwynfor froze, as she spotted the speaker. He was not alone. The scary man trailed behind, wearing armor beneath his waxy-coat. He displayed no emotion as his eyes wandered across her and Lydia. Only a brief lingering on her indicated they had met. He followed the most obnoxious looking person Gwynfor ever had the displeasure of seeing. He was an elf, but clearly from the Mel’Aniuh line of House Bitter. In all the family lines across all ten of the High Houses, Mel’Aniuh was the only one made of elves. Everyone of them were traitors, the elves who sold away identity to earn themselves a better life.
His face was long and smug, with yellow eyes and slicked back hair like grass that already seemed to be withering away. He wore a white shirt with a high collar buttoned to his chin, a green vest over top. He had a prominent upturned nose, as if he were perpetually smelling something bad. Two Wyvern Guards flanked him, joined by two more rough looking men dressed in piecemeal armor–mercenaries.
The elf seemed to sneer as he looked them up and down and clearly found them distasteful. “Oh, why, if it isn’t the traitor of the Four Flowers. What could you possibly want?”
“Dylon Mel’Aniuh Bitter, I demand pardon for one of the Banished, as is my right as Thane, granted to me by Arrietty.”
“Her Lady Dragon,” the two Wyvern Guards both corrected at once, their voices seeming to boom from within their heavy suits of armor.
At the same time, Gwynfor saw this Dylon blink in surprise. He must have not realized she knew him.
“She gave me the right to name her as I please. Until that is gone, I speak of Arrietty as I wish,” Lydia said, staring the Mel’Aniuh down. Only after he broke her contest, did Gwynfor see Lydia glance towards the scary man.
What was he doing here?
Gwynfor felt a sensation like she was being watched, and with sudden realization, saw the scary man staring at her. She met his eyes, expecting him to glare her down. Instead, he seemed to gesture with his gaze, looking at something behind her. Gwynfor glanced back, and saw a glint of metal.
Hidden by the shadows and mist, Gwynfor realized people prowled on the rooftops nearby the protest. Not just people, soldiers, heavy crossbows in hand. And there were a lot of them–maybe a dozen–enough to easily pincushion a third of the protestors before they would have a chance to escape. I almost feel as if they are after me, the thought came unbidden to her mind, followed by an alien sense of dread.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
They would need more than spirits' blessings to get out cleanly if Lydia meant to fight. The archers were well hidden, she would have never noticed them without the aid of the scary man. Never had she seen them hide soldiers in the rafters and roofs. Gwynfor grabbed at her arm, realizing her hands had been twitching. She was cold, and frightened, and did not like admitting that to herself.
She shook her head, realizing she had missed part of the conversation. “...ever could you want? What purpose have you in this grimy lot of good for nothing–”
“Purpose? I need no purpose,” Lydia interrupted. “I have right of pardon. You must do so.”
This Dylon frowned, and made his face look even more unpleasant. “Fine, you may save your cursed soul then. Who do you want?” He did not look happy.
Gwynfor barely held back a laugh. Nothing funny at all was happening, but hearing those words broke a knot of stress that had tied her up and ate at her stomach. It was the only thing her body thought to respond with. She caught a glare from Dylon as she descended into a coughing fit to mask the break. The scary man eyed her with a long unwavering look.
“Give us Willow, he is a young man, taken today ne–”
“Ah,” Dylon said, and he grinned like a shark. “Alas, he is outside my power to pardon.”
“Outside your power? I am Thane–”
“He committed treason, and none but Our Lady Dragon Arrietty or the High Lord of the local province can pardon treason.”
Gwynfor’s hand tightened on her dagger. Treason. Treason? Where before the world's end had Willow committed treason? All the hope and relief that had built up in her was dashed away like a ship on an unseen rock. Lydia seemed unperturbed. “Then I demand he be imprisoned here to await trial before the Crown. I will not have him banished to Ghost, Dylon.”
Somehow, the awful little creature’s smile did not diminish. “I fear you still lack understanding. He is accused of High Treason, with quite sufficient proof. He was spotted outside Elder Duhnlaid’s chambers minutes after his apparent assassination, deep within the walled grounds of the church, and far into the night when any reasonable person should be there. Especially after the gates were closed. I have numerous witnesses who have signed the declaration. He cannot be touched by your pardon.” Every word of that sentence was filled with the sublime glee of an executioner. “Just be glad we have spared him the noose or the headsman. Now run along, unless you wish to pardon another,” he said.
Gwynfor took a step forward. She did not know what she meant to do, but she couldn’t just stand still. Lydia put a hand out in front of her. Bad idea, I need to be careful. She felt the eyes of the scary man burning into her.
Lydia stood very still. “Are you trying to make an enemy of me, Dylon?”
“Trying? No, this is sheer fortuitous luck for me. An enemy handed to me on a silver platter, falling onto my lap like a gift on feastday. Run along traitor, and go watch your tool be banished like you have always done.”
“And the child Dylon? What is your excuse there? Lord Balian Itterarkh himself declared an edict that children under fifteen would be spared banishment.”
“With the exception of High Treason.”
“You are a fool. I heard their cry. They are less than ten. You cannot dare suggest them a traitor?”
“Oh, but anyone can be a traitor, Lydia. From the youngest child, to the oldest man. From the poorest of us, to those with power and authority,” he leered at Lydia while he spoke. “There is proof of their guilt too. I would be willing to have one of my men show you, though it might make you miss the Banishment.”
Lydia grabbed Gwynfor’s hand, and began to turn away. “NO!” Gwynfor screamed, fighting her hand free and twisting back towards Dylon. She drew her dagger and dashed forward. She would not dare let this cursed creature take her friend, take a child.
The Wyvern Guards acted instantly. They darted forward, one rushed to grab her, another drew a sword. Lydia leapt forward, her own sword drawn. Dylon was stumbling back, terror in his eyes. Gwynfor spat at him as she felt the gauntleted hands wrap around her. She writhed, trying to break free, she had to get Willow.
“Unhand her!” Lydia was shouting. “I demand pardon for this stupid moronic child!”
Gwynfor was screaming, her ribs ached from the pressure of the hold the guard locked her with. She could not break away. Idiot, idiot, idiot. But she didn’t care. There would be no one left in the city if they took Willow. Lydia would leave soon, her parents did not understand her. The other Wraiths hid their identities, and many of them were not the fondest of elves, their goals just happened to align. What was the point of living in loneliness?
Then she felt the cuff of her shirt yanked back, and the hold on her was released. She was brought face to face with Lydia. Her eyes were like black pits of fire, rage burning in them. Shame washed over Gwynfor, pounded at her like a hurricane. She lowered her eyes, as she felt Lydia yank her away. Gwynfor realized they had taken her dagger. She was weaponless, in the middle of a protest on the verge of eruption.
“RUN YOU COWARD! I WILL MAKE SURE YOU SUFFER! CAISTLIN, MAKE SURE THEY DON’T CAUSE ANYMORE TROUBLE!” Dylon bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth.
“You nearly ruined everything,” Lydia hissed.
“I know,” Gwynfor admitted.
Then, Lydia hugged her. Gwynfor was stunned, as she fell to the ground, her mentor wrapping her in warmth. “It’s alright child. They will not take him without a fight.”
Gwynfor sniffed, realizing she was crying. She looked back up to Lydia, and saw the fury still there, but she was glaring back at Dylon. And the scary man was approaching them.
He stopped in front of them, his scarred face grim, his blue eyes staring at Gwynfor and avoiding Lydia. “I am apparently meant to keep you out of trouble,” he croaked.
“You do not meet my eyes,” Lydia said.
“Those in power hate being seen by those beneath them,” he croaked.
“Caistlin did I hear you called?” Lydia asked, walking forward, a hand still on her sword.
“So I have been called,” he replied.
Lydia laid a hand on his chin, and forced him to meet her gaze. He looked rougher up close now. The scarring of his face Gwynfor could see continue down towards his chest, and around his neck, there was a burn mark running along it, as if a necklace had burned itself into his skin.
“Why did you help Gwynfor and warn me?” Lydia asked, her voice a whisper.
Caistlin pulled back, and threw a hood over his face. “I haven’t a clue of what you speak,” he said, turning. “I warn you to not interfere with the Banishment. Lord Jehan Vren would not be happy if you were to do so.”
“Jehan?” Lydia asked. Gwynfor knew that name. Jehan Vren was one of the later members of the Five Flowers and now he was the Grand Lord of the Wyvern Guard. “He is here?”
Caistlin smiled, then scowled. “My bad, a slip of the tongue. You have heard nothing from me, elven filth. Run along, and cause no grievance, and we should have no quarrel with you. I will be watching.” And with that, the scary man–Caistlin, vanished back towards Dylon. Lydia grabbed Gwynfor, dragging her back away from the line of soldiers.
They returned to the rest of the Wraiths, surrounded by the other groups of protestors. Gwynfor shivered. Lydia seemed unperturbed, but how? Who was this Caistlin? Was he a friend, or was this some horrible setup? Malcolm was beside them, scanning the line of soldiers in front of them.
“High Father protect us,” he whispered.
Gwynfor followed his eyes. Emerging from the mist in the distance, Gwynfor saw a group of people marching towards the plaza. There were twenty of them, dressed in the black and spiky armor of the Wyvern Guard. Behind them, was a large man, a wild mane of hair cascading down his back and face. He wore almost no armor, and carried a massive greataxe on his back, and two side swords strapped to his waist. Gwynfor never was great at recalling what Gift each of the Ten High Houses had, but this one she knew. Gravimancer, the Gift of House Lusamyre.
Shaking his head, Malcolm turned to Lydia. “How’d it go, who was that speaking with you?”
A horn blew from the Salty Pelican, and it rattled her bones, drumming in her eyes so that it made her head pound. On and on the note sailed, an ominous warning to the protestors. When it finally stopped, there was a prolonged silence.
Then, Gwynfor saw a person descend from the gangplank of the ship. They were glowing. The mist seemed to curl away from them, as if frightened by the man. He was dressed in an impeccable gray suit, with a flowing shawl of black fluttering in the wind on his shoulders. Gwynfor knew him from the twelve-spoked golden wheel stitched on the back of the shawl: Atilan Itterarkh, Vessel of the High Father.
What was he doing here? Willow had mentioned rumors he had been summoned, but that was in response to Elder Duhnlaid, who was dead no more than a day or two. There was no way for him to be here so fast. Gwynfor felt her head spinning. There was too much happening, too many things going on. It was as if her entire world was ending.
Behind him, others began to follow. The Wyvern Guards reached the damned, and began to encircle them. Finally, the protestors began to shout again.
“OUR KIN DO NOT BELONG TO GHOST!”
“LET THEM GO!”
“MONSTERS!”
“THIEVES!”
“GIVE ME BACK MY CHILD!”
That last voice struck a chord with Gwynfor. She saw a younger woman, dressed in plain woolen clothes–a simple farm wife. Tears ran down her face as she stared down men who could have been statues with their lack of emotion.
“It went poorly,” Lydia finally responded to Malcom. “Be ready,” she said.
The damned were being forced to their feet. They were beginning to wail and to cry. Others refused to move. The soldiers forming the line between the protestors and the damned were holding their shields aloft, and Gwynfor realized they were a thin barrier. They were outnumbered, there were thirty soldiers, twenty Wyvern Guards, and maybe a dozen of the archers on the roofs. But, between the Wraiths, and the other protestors, they had to have almost one-hundred and fifty people. And that did not count the prisoners.
“LET THEM GO!” Voices kept shouting.
“BASTARDS!” Malcolm was loud even over other people bellowing.
Gwynfor grabbed Lydia’s arm. “What do we do? They have crossbow man on the rooftops. They’re ready for us!”
Lydia did not respond for a moment, she seemed to be watching the Vessel. Atilan had paused, and seemed to be engaged in conversation with that wretch named Dylon. Even from afar, Gwynfor could tell they seemed to be arguing. Could he be a friend?
Then, Atilan shook his head, and began to walk away.
He took with him the last shred of faith and hope left in Gwynfor that night.
“We fight. That is what we do,” Lydia said. She surveyed the rooftops, taking note of the soldiers. Her sword seemed to gleam with malice in the night. From the folds of her cloak, Gwynfor saw another glint of metal, as Lydia handed her a dagger.
Gwynfor took it, swallowing down fear. Was she really doing this? Perfect young woman? No, she never could be that. She had been lying to herself all day. She was a failure to her moth, to her pad.
A line began to crawl towards the ship, the wretched folk were marched one by one. They were chained together, and were being pushed by the Wyvern Guard.
“GIVE THEM BACK!” The shouting never ceased. Endless shouting. It all was beginning to blur together, an endless cacophony of anger and pleads and curses.
Malcolm appeared beside them. “That Gravimancer will be trouble. Is that Mel’Aniuh going to be a problem too?” he asked, pointing at Dylon.
Lydia shook her head. “Dylon was too impetuous to have Herbomancy. Only one mage, I hope.” There was uncertainty in her voice though, the kind that engendered worry.
Malcolm nodded, a grim cast to his face. “Some hope. Even one is going to give us Morterran’s Hell. Not even thinking of the Wyvern Guard. You still sure about this?”
“Sure? Perhaps. Best to go into battle sure.” Lydia nodded towards the Gravimancer. “I deal with him. When we start, you Wraiths deal with the crossbowmen,” she said pointing.
Malcolm swallowed, his porcelain mask peering behind him, where the buildings cast shadows and made cover for the enemy. “I can do that.”
And then, it was Gwynfor’s turn to be under Lydia’s gaze. She felt it heavy, somehow made more potent without the guise of the Red Wraith. Lydia knelt down, and leveled herself with Gwynfor. “You can still go. I will rescue your friend. You can still meet your parent’s request.”
Gwynfor shook her head. “But in doing so, I will fail to live up to my own expectations. I will not abandon the Wraiths at our greatest moment.”
Gwynfor was certain for as long as she lived, she would remember the proud beaming look Lydia gave her. The older elf rested a hand on her shoulder, and stood back up. “What I would have done to have my Wraiths during the succession. Perhaps things would have been different.” She turned back to the rest of the Wraiths, and donned her own mask and hood. They all stood silent and at attention in the midst of the shouting and chaos around them. Peering through the dark, Gwynfor saw the first of the damned shoved onto the gangplank. The Banishment had begun.
Lydia raised her sword. No words needed to be spoken. They had witnessed countless Banishments. They had watched each month as more and more unlucky people were sent to their demise. They always shouted words, demanded action, but never did they act. For what could they do? They had little to gain, and everything to lose.
As a whole, the Wraiths prowled forward through the heavy mists, the light of the plaza dancing around them, as they formed a crimson line that met the wall of shield-bearing soldiers. Gwynfor could see the nervousness in their stances, the way they kept glancing back at the Wyvern Guards.
I can do this. I will save Willow. She stepped with the Wraiths, and as she was ready for whatever Lydia would do, she found herself staring eye to eye with Caistlin. He was separated from Dylon now, and seemed to loiter on his own, away from the crowds. He smiled at her, his crooking teeth flashing. Then, in front of them, the huge wild man–the Gravimancer–thundered towards the line the Wraiths made.
“Step aside bloody peasants,” he growled, hefting his greataxe. “You shall not be interfering with the Banishment,”
Gwynfor saw Lydia step forward to meet him, and the two nearest soldiers parted before her. “I am no peasant, Lusamyre. I am Lydia Thyshar, Thane of The Five Flowers.” Lydia raised her blade in front of her, her feet twisting into a ready stance. “This Banishment hurts the soul. I will stop it.”
Gwynfor saw the little kid, in the crowd of the damned. She could not be more than ten years old, her innocent face pale and sunken, eyes pits of terror. Her dress was ragged and torn, and a soldier was standing over her, shouting for her to move forward. Anger, rage, frustration. Years of it had been building in her. In that moment, all thought of being perfect, of holding to her promise finally died like the light of a star winking out. Within the folds of her cloak, she grabbed her sling, snatched a pebble from a pouch, and slung it with all the force she could muster. It sailed forth and struck the guard looming over the little girl in the head. He fell like a sack of grain to the ground, the metal reverb of his conical helmet ringing loud.
The Gravimancer’s eyes seemed to draw themselves right to her, that wild smile on his face, the showing teeth of a wolf, he seemed a happy thing.
Another horn blew, loud and shrill, coming from Dylon, surrounded by soldiers. His face was red with the effort. The Lusamyre raised his axe.
Lydia lunged forward.
And all Mortteran’s hell broke loose.
***
The alley was dark and gray. Covered in a thick blanket of fog, few would dare wander a night such as this. In the distance, a horn blew. For most, it would be a somber sound, for her though, it brought a smile to her face. Her footsteps made no sound, the wind seemed to ignore them as they walked, as if the very earth itself refused to acknowledge her presence. It was no surprise, she had always been ignored. Even now, she was ignored, despite the fear in which their name was spoken.
Something else was moving in the alley. She could not see the figures, not directly. All there was to see were flashes of movement, in the corner of their eye, like the remnants of dream seeping into reality. The wraiths no longer unnerved her. So long as they kept their distance, their alliance would continue. A feeling ate into her. It was alien, entirely unnative to her own thoughts. There was no way to describe how it fell upon her, it merely did. Such was the method of communication. She saw light, vivid light–the light of the old enemy. His champion was here. The smile deepened. Tonight would be all the more fun.
Reprimand joined the feeling, and annoyance native to herself rose. Not yet then, it was never now, always later. Fine, the Shepherd knows all, listen to them. Frustration. Tonight could still be fun, it would be a game to avoid the enemy’s notice. So close would he be, and yet powerless to stop her. That was cause for joy. She walked towards a large fortified wall, filled with decoration and statues. It was made to look tall and imposing, for behind it stood the Church in the city. Archers lined the wall, and four soldiers stood at attention and guarding the front gates. She walked past them without issue, no one ever bothered to notice them. Why should they? That was their problem, they were just too busy thinking themselves superior to take notice of anyone other than themselves.
The Red Wraith paused, standing in the center of the Church grounds. They had failed to stop her just three nights prior. That had just been a warning. She fingered the odd weapon at her side. With this, she wondered just how much damage she could inflict.
