The dust settled on the low mountain road, the last remnants of a passing traveller. In the darkness loomed heavy breaths, peeling away dryness in the air with long plumes of mist, congealing life-force in the cold bitterness of the Raiaeran countryside. Here they will come; through this wide plain they shall traverse the distance to their target. Cydnar smiled weakly, clutching the heavy woollen cloak around his shoulders tighter still. He looked to his flanks and examined the terrain. To his right there was a dense tree line, oak and mahogany trunks topped with deep olive foliage and ancient groves capped with firefly branches. His left yielded an open and somewhat dry marsh land that stretched three times as wide as the field to his right. The wide road was higher than either side, built up to be free of the sodden land by farmers and merchants long ago.
Why such devilish and threatening armies chose this place, one perfect for an ambush by all accounts was beyond Cydnar. It was beyond his superiors and beyond all common sense. Glancing over his shoulder he peered through the evening air to catch sight of his companion. “I fear we will need to call on water kindred brothers, so that they may shape out places for our kin to hide in the marshland.”
The shadow grew closer, nodding with every step in agreement. He was a tall and slender elf, taller and more wraith like than Cydnar, yet he held a curious impression of strength. He wore no cloak, but his robes were the same half purple, half black vestments worn by a fellow Serpent Brother. “An astute observation, one we shall report. I fear a pincer attack will not work, so we shall aim to attempt a tri-partite attack from several fronts.”
“That is grand, Brother Laminas, grand indeed. I cannot help but question the Minister’s visions. This does not look like a place to call daemons and wreak havoc on the fabric of the world. Why here, why now?”
“It may be too late in the day for ontological considerations, Cydnar, they army has entered this valley to the extreme south; we have until dawn before they pass. Let us return to the camp in the trees and settle our deliberations with the others.” Laminas turned and walked almost silently across the grass to the forest, some arcane magic working beneath his boots to keep him free from the thin line drawn in the air, a trap.
“I-guess you are correct. Let us see what the Salthias Court has to say on our findings. Pray the carrion of the skies feast not on the worms of the underneath when the deed is done.” He thought to himself as they nipped across the field and left the cold night air swirling in their wake. The canopy of trees and dead pine needles instantly warmed their souls and limbs alike. Through the dark lattice, Cydnar could see a distant fireplace flickering in the shadows.
Twin guards dropped from the trees as they approached, daggers and blades drawn stoically and with lack of foresight, with prehensile speed. Seeing that it was their brothers, they slipped away like shadows moving in shadow into the crow’s nests above, returning to their vigil in flurry of owl calls and telepathic messages. Cydnar considered this a comfort. He hoped they would not be surprised or their attack foreseen. The Death Lords had allies far more mysterious and ever deadly than anything they had bonded with, anything they could call to kindred arms.
“Brother Yrene!” A young female voice snapped over the clearing and a woman with brown hair clad in plate mail twice her size waved at him. The light from the fire in front of her caused her armour to dance in shades of metals he could not name. Perhaps gold, iron, bronze, mithril? Mesmerised by her sight he smiled weakly, nodded, and walked on hurriedly to catch up with his captain.
“She is a wonder, is she not?”
Cydnar raised an eyebrow with puzzlement. He poised his hands behind his back and walked with a gentlemanly vigour he’d observed in Donnalaich. It was the walk of kings presumed, noblemen’s wonder, pious man’s amble. “Who?”
Laminas’s laugh boomed through the camp and caught glances from all manner of elves at work or in discussion. It was a jovial and boisterous noise, one fitting of the inn after a battle, not in the twilight hours before. “You can act coy all you like, but I know Manira has displayed affection for you, and you keep brushing her aside, too ashamed to take her hand and dance!” The warlock patted his friend on the back, nearly winding him with exuberance. “Tell me, why do you not approach her?”
“Because-” The title of Salthias is my life… “Because I have had other concerns.”
“Other concerns? Please, stay your tongue. I grow sick from your lies already brother, talk to her! In these dark times it is a worthy accessory, to have a reason to fight beyond the petty ramblings of templars and gods we neither see nor hear!” Shocked to silence, Cydnar remembered a time when he would have drawn his blade and stricken his friend down for such disorder, for such catastrophic heresy. But there was a point there, all the same…
“If it pleases you so to make me a fool before such a wonder, I will approach her when this battle is done, when we are free of our duties, and when I am prepared better in the mettle to tend to her…desires.”
The two swordsmen approached a small circular tent to the rear of the camp, where the twilight of the evening was darkest, and where the torches scattered in the trees and on poles in the damp earth glared brightest. The cloth was a dark green, emblazoned with the symbol of the leading house of the Hummel army, that of Calvary. Inside, Cydnar knew the four captains and Magister awaited their report.
“Well…let us see to our duties once more.” Wonderment and fear tingled and sparked like faerie lights in the air around Cydnar's head, he smiled weakly. Nerves and butterflies kicked up a hurricane in his chest, tickling his nerves into spiteful submission. Although born into public view, into the oratory domain, such an upbringing did not make such encounters any easier. He felt dread at having to stand before his brothers and the Magistracy, he felt intimidated and small, like an ant beneath a vengeful heel.
“Yes,” began Laminas, “let us indeed.” He pulled the fold of cloth to one side and waved Cydnar in. As it flowed back into place, in the distance, a keen eyed Hummel saw at the end of a panoptic lens a blanket of shadow and fire appear on the verges of the valley. It was so far away he could tell nothing of the size or content, but he called through the glacial night all the same.
Cydnar caught the sound of a thrush bird courting as he trailed into the warm, cinnamon scented and fur lined tent. Time was running out, they were fast approaching. The War Council convened.
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