The Northern Approach (4 page)

Drawing his own sword, Raeln pushed on toward the pass. The going was slow for the first twenty minutes, mostly because of to the deep mud from the stream and fallen stones blocking much of the pass. Eventually, the path cleared, his sight limited only by the trees that filled much of the narrow gap between sheer cliffs.

The farther they went, the more corpses lay among the trees. Most were dead in the conventional sense, hacked or torn apart and left to rot where they fell, while a handful appeared to have been dead a long time. The regular corpses varied greatly, ranging from humans, wildlings, elves, dwarves, and even an orcish woman, whose axe was still lodged in the forehead of a human zombie that lay as still as she did.

The moon had already come up by the time the pass began to widen, opening up into sparse trees on the far side. What Raeln saw beyond brought him to an abrupt halt and nearly caused him to drop his weapon.

Hundreds of bodies were everywhere in a large, flat area between the mountains, illuminated by moonlight. For as far as he could see, corpses lay among smashed tents and hovels that appeared to have been trampled flat. Though the bodies filled the valley, the vast majority lay in a tight circle around the broken remains of one larger tent to one side. That single location held at least a hundred corpses, most of which were facing in toward the tent, as though a group had held off the undead for hours. It was also that tent that smoked endlessly, the canvas apparently having collapsed onto a fire.

At the south end of the valley, a low mist hung in the air ominously, obscuring Raeln’s view of that area. As he watched it, the mist moved in odd lurches, sparkling and almost glowing faintly in the moonlight. Something about it made his skin itch and he instinctively scratched at the skin near his silver bracelet. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the mists. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

On’esquin followed his finger and then backed away a step. “That is why we first began following the prophecy’s suggestions. Your sister died to keep that from getting stronger than it is. We will need to avoid it at all costs.”

Raeln eyed the cloud a little longer and realized it reminded him of something he had seen once before. During the fall of Lantonne, a massive hole in the air had lingered north of the town, created by the foolish use of magic. That hole had attacked and killed a dragon—once thought immortal—using black tendrils that sprang from within it. Ilarra had died with one of the dragons attempting to close it.

What stood out to Raeln was the sparkling glow. He had seen that same thing on the edges of the black hole when it began scooping up magic from the world around it. It had glowed almost exactly the same when it had torn the first dragon apart and consumed it. This was somehow an extension of what he had seen there.

“Why is that here?” he asked, trying to figure things out. The cloud was dangerous, that he understood, but he could not fathom why it was so far from Lantonne. “Does it have anything to do with the people here or the undead armies?”

On’esquin thought on that a moment. “No, I believe it doesn’t. The last time we had clouds like that slip through the veil, they followed sources of powerful magic in an attempt to consume them and grow. It likely came after something that is, or was, here. A strong source of magic.”

“So it’ll kill us if we get too close?”

On’esquin shrugged and began looking around again. “It might. Likely it will kill you, but there is a chance I might survive. Walking through one of those was how I arrived in Lantonne. Saved me months of travel…though it could have as easily torn my body and spirit apart and cast my remains across the world. Our best researchers never fully understood them and I had no time to further their efforts.”

“If you’ve seen them before and know what they can do, why did you touch it?”

“I had little choice if I were going to reach my destination in time,” answered On’esquin with a chuckle that faded quickly when he looked down at a broken man’s corpse near his feet. “Turess prophesied that I would need to risk my life to arrive before the city fell and that, if that gamble failed, you and all the others we need would die. ‘He will pass through the heart of magic to arrive at the beginning or not at all.’”

“So you got lucky?” Raeln asked incredulously.

“Yes, and we need to get lucky again if you wish to see fewer scenes like this,” he replied, gesturing widely at the gruesome battle’s remains.

Raeln squinted and scanned the valley as far as he could see, but nothing out there moved. “Where are your four saviors?” Raeln inquired eventually, at a loss for which way to go. They would be practically walking atop bodies no matter there they went.

“I wouldn’t know. I was actually hoping you did. Your nose is one of the reasons I brought you along.”

Raeln turned to glare at On’esquin, who gave him a toothy grin in return. “That’s not how my nose works,” he answered testily. “I can’t sniff out ‘important people,’ unless I know the person I’m tracking. At best I might be able to find someone of a specific race here and there, but I’m guessing you don’t know that either.”

“No, I don’t. In truth, I half expected the bracelet you’re wearing to guide us, as Turess wanted those items found as much as he wanted the six brought together. Sadly, no glowing arrow or beacon. Turess is making us work for this.”

Raeln scratched at the bracelet without thinking. He dearly wished he had stayed behind in the camp, but it was far too late for that. Much more of this nonsense and it would be difficult to keep from throttling the orc. Raeln needed concrete direction, a goal of some sort, maybe a map. Wandering aimlessly while claiming they were running out of time was beyond absurd.

Deciding to just go and hope something appeared that told him whether to continue on, Raeln walked toward the eastern end of the valley, where the most bodies lay. He walked carefully, stepping between and around corpses that lay in grotesque positions, having fallen with grievous wounds. Many appeared to have bled to death or been ripped open by the undead. Those that he recognized as having been zombies had been hacked to pieces to ensure they did not rise again. Some of the undead appeared to have been ripped apart bodily, often in long lines, as though something huge had crashed through their ranks.

What struck Raeln first about the scene was that these people wore no single identifying attire. Even so long into living in the wilds with his camp of survivors, most could be recognized as having come from Altis or Lantonne. These people nearly all wore hand-made clothing, as though they had lived in the wilds far longer, possibly their whole lives.

The next thing that occurred to Raeln was that these people did not belong together. He saw people with the tattoos of Altisian slaves running down their lower arms, lying beside a man who wore a golden necklace in a style Raeln recognized as those worn by Altisian slave-masters. Near them were dwarves, still wearing armor that marked them as royal guard in the deep cities. There were nobles of different lands and races, dead beside the lower castes of their societies. They were not facing one another, but fighting shoulder-to-shoulder and sometimes back-to-back. Had he seen this kind of cooperation in the months leading up to Lantonne’s fall, the city might have held against the undead.

The most common people among the dead were wildlings. Raeln had never seen so many in his whole life, even back in his hometown of Hyeth, where wolves were nearly half the population. Young and old of a dozen different breeds were scattered through the dead. Some he recognized as breeds that might be expected to reside in the mountains—cougars, bears, wolves, and many fox wildlings. Others were more obscure or appeared to be from far-distant lands.

Approaching the fallen pavilion tent, Raeln was stunned at the sheer numbers of dead there. Most appeared to be former undead, broken and ripped apart by something far larger and stronger than he was. Those dead were interspersed with the fallen defenders, often with trails of blood to tell him they were dragged from the tent alive and killed outside.

“Anything?” On’esquin asked, hanging back about twenty feet as Raeln moved.

“Maybe,” he replied, gingerly stepping onto the canvas of the tent.

The scents were so numerous that Raeln had trouble identifying most of them. He could smell humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, fox wildlings, and…something or someone familiar.

Dropping to his knees, Raeln sniffed at the tent, picking up the shredded cloth to look around as he searched. A singular scent tugged at his memories, making him wonder where he had smelled it before. It was a person, and a wildling at that. Not a breed he recognized.

“The healer from the slave camp,” he murmured, looking around for the man’s body. “There was a wildling back near Lantonne that was held at the slave camp. I met him briefly and wanted to come back for him. When we returned, he was gone. He was here…I can smell him faintly.”

“Find me that man. He may be one we’re looking for. There are no coincidences, Raeln.”

Raeln searched around under the tent, finding a half-dozen bodies of those who had tried to defend the place. None of them were the wildling he was searching for, but in looking, he uncovered the edge of a curved line of stones. Tossing aside the canvas, he exposed an intricately designed circle, complete with symbols drawn into the dirt around it. Most had been trampled flat, but a few still remained. The smoke from the smoldering campfire beneath the tent scattered as he moved the canvas away.

“A healing circle,” On’esquin said quickly, before Raeln could ask. “Used for the resurrection of the very recently dead by a powerful healer. They were trying to keep their people going long after they had lost the battle. Before you ask, the circle is powerless. That is likely why these people are all dead. Either they built the circle wrong or it was destroyed somehow.”

Snarling in frustration, Raeln threw the tent back over the ring of stones—though he kept it away from the fire pit. Once such a circle would have raised his hopes, but those he wanted to save were already as dead as these people. He knew little about magic, but he did know he needed their bodies present, a capable healer, and a working circle…all within minutes of their hearts stopping. Having none of those, the circle did no one any good.

“He isn’t here,” Raeln announced, sitting on his haunches. “His scent disappeared out into the mob. Likely, his body is out there somewhere or the Turessians took him and raised him as a zombie.”

“Unlikely. They abandoned the dead here and fled. I would hazard to guess that the mists are why. All of the Turessians know what those mists are and why they should avoid them.”

Raeln snorted, stood, and began walking again, making his way through the dead toward the west end of the valley. He very nearly gave up looking when he noticed a single body entirely out of place. It was not the healer he was searching for, but it still caught his eye.

Lying flat on his back, a dwarf had been arranged peacefully. The man was bloodied, his skin burned in places, and dried blood covered his lips and the skin near his nose and ears. Someone had arranged him with his arms crossed over his chest and twin knives lying under his fingers. Even his hair and beard had been somewhat brushed smooth. Around him, Raeln picked out tracks from a barefoot human and a small animal, both fresher than the others around him. A single spot of mud or dirt had been touched to his forehead, a mark Raeln recognized.

“There was at least one survivor,” Raeln told the orc behind him, pointing at the body. “Turessians wouldn’t have cared to give him Lantonnian funeral rights. This man meant something to someone who lived.”

On’esquin said nothing, waiting patiently for Raeln to lead him, his sword still ready in case whatever survived was less than friendly.

Raeln looked around, trying to find anything else that might indicate survivors that had fled the battle. Each time, his eyes went back to the dimly glowing mists, spread across the southern end of the valley and wrapping over toward the west. From what he could see, they were coming from the west, moving steadily southward.

“Anything out that way will have to wait until the mists move away,” he said over his shoulder. “Looks like they’re just now coming out of the mountains and heading away. Whatever they were searching for must be gone.”

The orc frowned at that and bent over one of the bodies. Touching it for a moment, his brows crinkled. “The mists passed over these dead in a hurry, seeking something they wanted more than they wanted anything out here. If the mists are coming back, whatever was here went into the mountains and the mists followed. We need to know what happened. Those mists could easily ruin the prophecy and hand the battle for Eldvar to the Turessians…or destroy both sides of that war, ourselves included.”