The thin wooden door creaked open slowly, tiny beams of light arcing into the darkened room from the threshold and the miniscule holes that peppered its frame, as Alana gingerly pushed it. Pushed was perhaps too strong a word, given that this was less a door and more a rotting slab of wood, a doorknob hastily drilled into it, with a shoddy paint job on top that had already dried and began peeling, giving it less the feeling of fine redwood and more so mud.
In that way, Alana had been lucky, as one would think that with all the wind Kovaria was so famous for, the door, and really the entire rotting structure it was only a cell of, would have collapsed. But the lowlands were different, the natives would tell you, grinning with uneven teeth at their good fortune. If only that were true of other things as well.
But perhaps the lack of torrential wind was in fact a blessing in this instance. Everything was dead silent, so as Alana crept into the hovel that had been her residence for the past month and change, nothing would be able to obfuscate itself. It was early dawn, and the residents of the nearby village were only just readying themselves for a day of agricultural labor, but she did not worry about them anymore. For quite some time, she had been forced to hide herself from them as much as possible, going out only to survey and to contact her confederate, an elderly merchant far too good for this wretched countryside. It had been an odd mission, simply standing and collecting information, but a Knight-Errant did as they were told, even if that required them to hide away in an abandoned, collapsing shack and spy on trade caravans for a month.
She hadn’t been clandestine enough, it would seem, though in truth the mission was quite a hard one. Spying on caravans, and collecting evidence of slave trading were the easy parts, the harder parts were the actual execution. In many ways she was a walking declaration of oddity; she was a woman by herself, out in the Kovarian countryside, something that would arouse suspicion especially when coupled with the fact that she was far, far darker than anyone for miles. Just from a glance the people here would have assumed her to be from the western nations, be it Onasia or Ishran, because those were the only lands they knew of whose populations were similarly reddish-brown as sepia as she was. Of course, they would ignore those who were lighter or darker than that standard, because it fit a nice mold for them to follow.
This perhaps wasn’t entirely fair of a thought on Alana’s part, as this was a country like any other, and there were people of all stripes and thoughts just like any other. It was just that having spent her time hunting the dregs of society, in a society so ambivalent to their continued spread, if not actively supportive, it was hard to remain positive.
Except for Halas, may the Trifold Three smile goldenly upon him. He was old and sick, yet his mind was energetic, as was his conscience. If he had been a Meddler or Knight-Errant earlier in his life, it wouldn’t have surprised Alana, though she didn’t really care at the moment. He had been a friend and a confidant, a merchant angered by the absolute apathy the monarchs of Kovaria responded with to the rising tide of slavers and fanatics, whose actions were often directly supported by regional aristocrats. Perhaps, if he was old enough, he remembered the Righteous Hand Purges, and how they had not just spiraled into mass violence but taken a nose-dive as radicalized militia seized control. It could have been because of his own monetary desires, as knocking them out of business, as they traded in far more than slaves, would allow his own mercantile franchise to expand. Maybe it was something else entirely, but Alana did not care, at least not at the moment. What she did care about was his continued support, through which she had learned the entire route the Maki Cel caravans took in this region, and so had made preparations.
It was in the process of these preparations she had been seen. Beforehand, she had been an oddity, and her cover as a wandering bard had held up. She had never had to actually give a performance, which was a blessing from the Trifold Three if she had ever seen one, given that she had never been good at the whole song-and-dance routine. But even that disguise could only go so far, and while the Kovarian townsfolk were by no means magically adept, even they in their general ignorance could recognize, and did recognize, the wards she had been casting around the nearby cliffs. She had hoped nobody would have been out there in the middle of the night, given that generally nobody in their right mind decides to leave the comfort of their beds for the unforgiving drops of cliffsides, especially after a hard day of work in the fields. But these were not sane times, and the countryside was alight with a fever, the air growing so thick it was clear it only needed a tiny fuse to blow everything up.
Several guards, drawn from the nearby noble’s estate, had been on patrol, along with a fairly large mob, both of whom had been out searching for the unnameable trouble everyone was dimly aware was right around the corner.
Oh but they had names, and many of them. Witches, warlocks, these were some of their favorites, but that was expected when it came to the region, especially with tales of serpent sorcerers and their great necromantic abominations coming out of the bordering jungles of Urell. Even as blatantly false as those were, there were others that were far more worrying and far more pertinent.
Alana stopped, sliding off Navar’s saddle and landing on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of light brown dust. She felt her adrenaline coursing through her veins, sheer nervous energy frothing at every nerve ending as the fate of her entire operation, and the lives of countless civilians, were balanced not on a well-planned surgical strike as had been hoped, but on the crazed improvisation that was born when any plan made contact with the enemy, who then promptly set it on fire.
She quickly entered the shack, eyes darting to a decaying wall. On whatever parts of the wall that could still be somewhat considered to be part of the greater whole, were various sketches in varying stages of completion and of various subjects from her months of being here. It would be good to take them with her, she thought, but she also did not have any time to waste, even the few moments it would take to bundle them together. So instead she hoped she would make it back; this would be her incentive for staying alive, besides the general and mundane desire to not die. Alana grabbed two already filled packs, took a single moment to take in the rickety, shelter-adjacent structure that had been her only safe harbor for months, and ran back out.
She should have been quieter, she thought, as she attached the packs to Navar’s metal frame, and hoisted herself back onto his saddle. Navar simply clicked as she directed him to rush forwards. Even though he was a metal construct in the form of a horse, he was still nervous.
If only she had been more careful around the cliffside, perhaps this mad rush would not be necessary, she thought. Of course what had happened had happened, and no magic anywhere on Sathos could ever change the past, so there was no reason to agonize over it. Plus, for all she knew in that possible reality where she had been more careful, something else could have gone wrong. At least here she still had a shot to stop the Maki Cel and save people.
Her original plan was simply to wait for the Maki Cel caravan to pass through the valley under the cliffs, and then activate a complex series of traps, which would block their escape routes, in addition to some other effects, and let her, as a single individual, have a legitimate chance of fighting them all off.
But now the cliffs and the cave around them were crawling with guards from the local lord, be he duke or earl or whatever, and they most likely had a court wizard or two working to undo her traps. It was an oddity she never fully understood; magic was magic no matter who used it, it was a natural force just like water or fire or oxygen; nobody claimed any of that was inherently evil, but actions could be done with them that were evil- yet how could someone proclaim it to be the work of demons (not that this was not partially true, or fully true in some circumstances), when they themselves cast the same spells and worked the same forces?
She had been lucky to escape when she had, though she had had to fight her way out, abandoning the cliffs in the process. Another group, she wasn’t sure if it was more soldiers on the noble’s payroll or just enthused militia, had gone out to warn the Maki Cel to change their route, an expensive and chaotic prospect but one that was infinitely better for them, and infinitely worse for her. But the Maki Cel were hours away at best, and this group had only had a short head start. Plus, they were using regular horses, if they had horses at all, while Navar was cogs and gears all the way through. Muscle and bone tire, while steam and steel do not. So she gave herself some time to rest; she hadn’t slept at all during the night, and would need to be at full strength and mental acuity soon, so she could not let anything else possibly stop her. Even if they could intercept this warning party, which was the plan, there was no going back; the mission was falling apart at the seams and now the only thing that could stop it from failing entirely was being as bullheaded and irrational as possible. It was the Knight-Errant way after all.
And then, there was the warning party. Two soldiers, each in chainmail with the coat of arms of their specific house emblazoned on their surcoats, worn over the armor itself. Another two men wore clerical vestments, modest off-white robes that contrasted with the deep red, flowing robe of the fifth. The clerics’ robes were simple and unassuming, while this other individual’s robes were ornate and decorated, swirls of blue stitched onto the robe in complex patterns. He was a mage, and he did not hide that fact.
Surprise be damned, Alana drew a sigil in the air, shouted an incantation, and watched as the sigil crackled to life as Ventomon flowed from it into the surrounding air, melding with it and pouring energy into it, exciting the particles within and propelling them forward, a great gust of wind birthing from her spell. This shear barrelled into the party, knocking the two clerics from their saddles and rattling horse and man alike.
The other three turned in surprise as the clerics rolled to the ground, cursing and coughing the whole way down. The two soldiers readied their weapons, though they stared down Navar and weren’t quite sure they wanted to charge a metal horse-thing, while the mage drew his hands backwards. His fingers curled as they drew a few short sigils and incanted himself, drawing Ventomon to the point of his outstretched finger; negative charge was drawn from the surrounding region focused on this point, and in an instant, the air equalized, a bolt of crackling lightning shooting itself forwards towards Alana.
Navar opened his mouth, the lightning arcing off its course and towards his metallic body, then snaking its way into his mouth, spinning through numerous cords that formed his throat, and harmlessly dispersed across the electric-resistant coating that protected his internal mechanisms.
The mage desperately reached for some ingredients for another spell, but Alana did not give him the chance to grab them, charging forwards, as Navar’s hooves pushed forward, pistons in his legs compressed the air and rocketed him forwards. It was a short leap, the force not enough to keep him aloft for long, but the distance gained was enough. Alana drove her empty hand forwards, and the mage’s eyes went wide as a lance materialized in it, then jammed itself into his torso, knocking him from his horse and sending him to the ground.
The two soldiers, deciding far too late to truly enter combat, did just that. One wild slash was blocked by Alana’s shield, the other narrowly missing her, nicking her cheek but then rebounding off Navar’s metal frame, almost flying from its wielder’s hand. The clerics, meanwhile, had run, fleeing back from where they came, no longer a threat. Alana quickly wondered which deity they followed; none of the Ten Above, if she understood her theology correctly, would ever support what was going on here.
Alana pushed Navar on a curve, swooping around the soldiers and bringing her lance straight out. She charged forwards, Navar’s pistons propelling them forwards, but in a reduced capacity than earlier. The lance found purchase and one soldier grunted as he slid off his horse, which bucked and began skittishly leaping from place to place, trying to extricate itself from this conflict while also being utterly terrified of everything that was happening. The last soldier dropped his sword; he had considered running and it seemed quite attractive, facing a mage of unknown capacity, and his ideas of what magic could do were blown a great deal out of proportion due to local fearmongering. When you think your very soul is on the line, and eternal damnation supposedly looks you in the face, most will likely bend the knee, even if all of this is utterly false. He turned, and coaxed his horse to follow the path the clerics had taken.
So Alana and Navar pushed on. One part of their two-part plan was complete, though this was the easier of the two. She considered turning back; nobody would blame her for looking at the odds and recognizing she was heading towards an unmarked grave, if she was even afforded a burial. But that was not the Knight-Errant way, be they given a parade in Tereth or fighting the good fight in some forsaken backwater. Because nobody else was fighting these fights, and if the Knight-Errants left too, then it would be over, and that would be that. History, seeped with blood and bile, would close itself on these atrocities, and no one would care, not until it was far too late, or it was their turn on the chopping block. That was not a world Alana was willing to live in. And so they marched on.
Navar sensed Alana’s discontent. She likely would not survive this fight, and they both remembered the friends they had lost. If she was in a singing mood, or really had any musical talent, now would be the time for a funerary dirge. But none came, an odd melancholy washing over the countryside in conjunction with the sun, whose rays lazily tried to puncture the thickening clouds on the horizon, turning the sky reddish-purple, blue, and orange.
Time passed; this in truth was the purpose of time, and so perhaps was less of a descriptor and more just reality, but what was important, at least to Alana, was that it felt like an eternity. They raced forward for an age, though it was likely more of an hour or two, perhaps three if her sense of time was quite off. The clouds continued to amass at the edges of the horizon, growing larger and angrier, their thick grayness beckoning a coming storm. Maybe there was symbolism in that- No, there was absolutely symbolism in that, but at the moment Alana could not be bothered, for at that moment the caravan finally came into view.
Four carts and an equal number of wagons plowed out from the hills, which had partially obscured them. The other piece to their obfuscation had been an unnatural mist, which began to burn away as the sun rose. It was a simplistic camouflaging spell, using the minor amount of liquid in the air to create a fog that would wrap around the caravan. What worked for night raids against under-protected, forgotten villages however, did not always have universal application. As the sun’s heat warmed the land, the liquid would dissipate, requiring far more energy to maintain. So instead it had been simply dropped; it wasn’t as though they were about to be attacked. But Alana took a cue from this, and raised her own invisibility spell, one a bit more advanced but more restrictive, which created a short-term barrier around her which would copy her immediate surroundings, copying the images around her and transposing them on herself and Navar.
The carts were all prison carts, filled to the brim with the dirty, broken forms of people. Flesh was the trade the Maki Cel operated in, bolstered by the vitriol spreading across the countryside. There were many names for the kinds of people they hunted without mercy, Malechedilr being the most prominent. It had a deeply ingrained and violent meaning, one whose origin likely would be found in the annals of genocide and slaughter. The closest approximation in Kleneri was “demon-spawn” or “those whose sin it was to be born”, but even those lost some of the original hostility.
There would be arguments later if this word meant anything in actuality, as Alana knew the Veirosian arguments on the nature of sin and the indeterminism of being, but she couldn’t let her mind wander, as she was almost on top of the caravan at this point.
Her barrier, as stated before, was restrictive. There were limits to how much stimulus it could cloak, and often if anything entered or exited with enough speed, the entire spell would end. And so that is exactly what happened as she fired her crossbow.
An arc of blue light followed the bolt she launched, finding purchase in one of the drivers of the closest wagon. Ice quickly began to form around the wound, until a person-sized block of ice slipped off the wagon. Before anyone else had time to react, she pulled on Navar’s reigns, whose pistons fired yet again, launching them into the air, directly in the middle of the caravan.
There was a metallic snap and Navar neighed, as a low cutting sound could be heard from one of the pistons. Alana cursed, barely holding onto her crossbow as she reached for a small vial in her pocket, and flung it at another wagon, the green liquid bursting into flames as the bottle broke on impact. The only way she was going to come out of this alive, and victorious, was through the sowing of absolute chaos and confusion, in which Navar’s speed boosts were an integral piece. But something had clearly happened to at least one of them, and her mind raced trying to figure out what else she could improvise.
The horses attached to the now-burning wagon were thrown into a frenzy, as the drivers of the prison carts all dragged themselves to a halt. They were carrying precious cargo, and it would be they who would pay the price should anything happen to their captives, beyond the obvious horrors planned to be committed to them.
The wagons tried to accomplish the same, but the loss of one driver and the conflagration in the second made this a less than stellar operation. Someone was able to grab the reins, while the burning wagon stopped, its occupants spilling out.
Alana opened fire with her crossbow once again, skewering a driver to their cart. Voices on the inside began to pick up, confusion and horror still dominating them, but with a faint glimmer of hope as well, which was music to Alana’s ears. But focusing on that meant she wasn’t as focused on the now-enraged Maki Cel.
A bubble of kinetic force slammed itself into her, tearing her from her saddle, and knocked her off Navar. Her armor absorbed almost all of the blow, and as she went down, as a reflex, she yelled out another incantation, drawing from the heat around her to a point, directing it wildly forwards.
Several cried out, and the beam began more fires, burning clothing and canvas alike. Alana slammed to the ground, and immediately followed her beam attack by using more Ventomon to bond with the air around her and create a protective barrier. She rose, hoping to see what her opponents would do. Several of the Maki Cel had fallen, that much was clear, but there were unluckily more. Several drew their weapons, having frantically raced to respond to this unknown attack. Others prepared spells, buffeting Alana’s shield with a variety of missiles and explosions.
And it was effective. Alana felt her magical barrier shatter, and she had to bear the brunt of another blast which almost knocked her back down, but she stood. She charged forwards, sword and shield materializing as she thought of them, and in a mad rush cut down two more Maki Cel, neither of whom had much chance to use their poleaxes. She focused on the heat around her, and with an incantation, pushed it away, the ensuing frost forming into tiny icy needles, which she then propelled forwards, finding purchase in some of the Maki Cel, but not many.
Navar had seemingly fled, which gave the Maki Cel quite a bit of confidence. There were ten of them, and one of her. Luckily the boss hadn’t yet come out of his wagon yet, and so wasn’t doling out punishment for whomever had failed to see this attacker.
Alana studied her enemies. None of them seemed to have ranged weaponry, and those that were armed seemed a bit unsteady when facing an enemy in full plate armor. There wasn’t a ton of time to think though, as a blast of electricity tore its way to her, but she bent this one’s trajectory, sending it flying upwards.
At that moment one of the Maki Cel found his courage and charged. He was always the end of everyone’s jokes, and had never once successfully won any of the fights that sporadically broke out in their ranks. He was a runt, and that made him angry. And at this exact moment, that was both rewarded and punished. Before Alana could respond, he jammed forward with his spear, catching the tip between the segments, cutting into her left arm. This instant of glory was immediately replaced as Alana brought her sword down through his unprotected chest.
Alana pushed the dead body off of herself, narrowly dodging and blocking blows from the rest of the non-mage Maki Cel, who were enthused by their compatriot’s success that they decided not to fight one at a time, but use their superior numbers to carry the day.
It was working quite well, in some senses of the term. Alana was a better trained soldier than any of them were, but it was six to one, and those were not the fairest of odds. For every slash or jab she blocked, another axe cut or spear jab found purchase, though most simply bounced off her armor, and most of the ones that didn’t were nicks or minor flesh wounds. She, on the other hand, found her job made far easier by the complete lack of shields or any moderately strong armor, but the issues of numbers came up yet again.
A valiant spear thrust opened its owner to a counterattack, but if the owner’s five compatriots were there to fill in the gaps, it would be Alana who was left unprepared. But she took the gambit, grabbing the spear and its wielder towards her, offing him with a quick slash, then kicked another Maki Cel, knocking them backwards. The other four tried to rush Alana, who whipped around, deflecting two more blows, but taking the third, which cut into her left shoulder again. She bit back the pain, pulled another vial from her pouch, held her breath, and flung it. Smoke poured outwards, and with it came uncontrollable bouts of coughing. Trying to maintain proper fighting stances with this was hard, but not impossible. But the Maki Cel were not professional soldiers, they were armed thugs.
So it was that in a matter of moments the last of the Maki Cel fell, dead.
Alana turned to the nearest prison cart, looking for the locks to cut open. And as she did, pain spread across her leg, as she found a bolt had juxtaposed itself there. She turned, biting back the pain, and stood to face a tall, scarred man with a crossbow.
He spat.
“Was it worth it, Malechedilr? Now you get to die with your own damned kind.”
He raised the crossbow.
And was immediately crushed by the form of Navar, who rocketed right into him. Something metallic snapped, and fizzled, and Alana looked down at Navar’s two back legs, one of which was currently in the process of melting, and the other which was bent in the wrong direction.
She grabbed the crossbow, which had been knocked to the ground.
She fired the crossbow at one of the prison cart’s locks, which shattered.
“I think it was.”
