The Mist hung thick like cobwebs over the Forest of Dhuun. Even if the people of Vayhm hadn't been as superstitious as a Dvadi merchant they would've sworn that the mist had hands, damp and vaporous, that were stifling their very breath.
But the people of Vayhm were the most superstitious of Heaven's Kingdom, still believing in children's tales of the Undying Prophet and the return of God's Mercy. The taste of that air, would poison their soul...just as it had poisoned theirs. So even as their lungs burned with lack of oxygen, their mouths remained shut, firmly sealed with fear of the unknown. Never had the 3rd Company of Vayhm been more reluctant pursuers, as the night they crossed into the mists chasing their worst nightmare, waiting breathlessly to be woken from it.
And if they were uneasy, the dark rider did nothing to soothe their fears. Blackblood they called him, and with good reason too, for he carried within him their dark blood, ripe with unholy power, tongue black with the speaking of qalams. Three officers rode with the company of forty and seven. And even though he was the least of the three, he inspired the most fear, every cavalryman would've have sworn on the Rites of Abandon, that Blackblood was taking them to their deaths.
"These daft fools are going to drown themselves if they don't start breathing properly!" Commander Bravarion cursed looking back on his line of infantry disappearing into the mist, ten paces behind him, but he spoke in parts, taking a lungful of damp air in with each short phrase.
In the Vayhmian Cavalry, the rule of command was thus. Only the cavalrymen one designation below the speaker could 'hear' his words. Through strict discipline this had been enforced for time immemorial. Yet the second-in-command rode on, perfectly silent...he knew who the words for meant for.
And in time, the answer came: "They believe in old things, some men die for their beliefs." Blackblood's High Tongue was thickly accented, much like the words he oft spoke. A deep, steady voice unaffected by his surroundings, well-suited to a dark man. There was a significant pause and silence waited in anticipation: "What do you believe in, Commander?"
“I believe…I believe that I don’t have the time to play at words with you.” Bravarion responded with more impatience than he would have liked. Indeed, it had been the only criticism aligned against his appointment, the youngest of any cavalry commander since the Founding.
He resisted the easier thought, that the others were jealous of his rise in just three score years. Too young, too rash...too Brave, his reputation mostly preceded him. But he wasn’t young any longer, the greying was just beginning to show its presence, a sign of wisdom. No, definitely not young and brashness was a luxury he could scarce afford.
“I would know your mind, dhuunvaasi. You were once of them, tell me what they are thinking, tell me what they plan. I am sure I need not remind you of the importance of our mission."
Bravarion turned back in his saddle hoping to see his barb draw blood, but if Blackblood was discomfited by the words he showed no signs. Damn you! I hold your life in my hands and you pretend as if you care not! If all of Dhuun was this stubborn then there was little wonder that the Kingdom's ambitions were so well-checked. Within the mist valley of Dhuun, protected by its cursed tribesmen lay the future of the Kingdom, the future secured by its divine blood-line. 'My blood holds this secret too.' the thought brought a smile to his face.
"You have only to ask." The reply was measured, and delayed. A characteristic, annoyance of speech amongst the Dhuuns.
Just like the resistant, dhuunvaasi. Never volunteering, always resisting. Acting as if he had just been snatched, while weaning, from his mother's teat and not well over a decade ago. If only he did not serve his purpose so well.
"How many of your brothers were in the raid ?"
"I suspect a single pack of dhuunvasi." responded Black. He waited, then elaborated, gauging that Bravarion wanted more: "five brothers with one sister for support and healing."
"Healing sister? I am sure she sings and dances better than most tavern wenches." Bravarion played to the crowd.
Cavalrymen in earshot stifled laughter, they knew the Rhovan Code, and they knew when exceptions would be allowed.
"Where are your brothers headed? do they hasten due to our chase ?"
"Water quells thirst, but a debt to fire accrues, they head to Aatishgah to burn the bodies of the fallen. They will make haste, the wind shows them the fastest way."
"Then we are blessed, for we have a wind-reader, amongst our ranks as well." Bravarion smiled, like he always did when he realized that attaching himself to Blackblood despite all its challenges and reprecussions had been the right thing to do. That only left one question...
Suddenly then, a bird's call echoed through the woods, shrill and piercing, impossibly near. It spooked the horses and it took all the years of cavalry training for the riders to stay in their mounts. The infantry already out of breath, were the first to begin dissent.
"We best be turnin' back milord, these not be woods for huntin', lest ye becomin' prey yerself."
"These woods be cursed...cursed...Lola...I should have never left." someone whimpered.
"Foolery, we chase demons with demons carrying the scent, it be a trap as sure as..."
Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Another wave of resistance broke against this ill-begotten chase. Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Bravarion had fully expected this, he was lead them against their beliefs, and these were men who held their beliefs closer than their wives. But something was different, for the infantry to protest was one thing, but this time his well-trained cavalry, the pride of his unit was chiming in as well.
"The mists have not shown us the way, we trespass upon evil without the light's permission."
"We have gone deeper than any sane man dare, don't forget Logan's end, there would be no shame to turn back now."
Bravarion watched the seeds of chaos begin to catch fire around him and took a deep breath. Fools! did no one realize what was at stake here!
"Gerrard, the horses are yours, I'm going to mind the cattle." Bravarion spurred his stallion towards the infantry.
It was a simple enough job, but Bravarion thought twice about handing it to his second-in-command. It wasn't quite that Gerrard was incompetent, on the contrary he was a decorated commander in his own right, and accepting this demotion had meant a giving up some privileges. No, Gerrard's problem was his manner of command: Too methodical, too rehearsed...and too predictable. A liability for a Cavalryman. Cavalry tactics had to be more fluid, feinting, harrying, flanking were bread and butter; but one had to know when to be dynamic and opt for the charge, to end a battle with the decisive stroke. Gerrard lacked all of that, still he was only in momentary command, the foot needed Bravarion's presence for the moral boost. He would be the good shepherd, this once.
Gerrard watched Bravarion leave, less than five spaces away, he was lost in the mist. He his mount around, kicking it profusely to establish command. The Rhovan whinnied in protest. "Form rank! three wide, four strong!" barked Gerrard and the cavalry acquiesced. There, that was better able to counter the limited sight. Still not...
"Still not much use with the low visibilty." Blackblood watched the commander draw in breath, caught by surprise. "..was that not what you were going to say, Second?"
Gerrard could hear Blackbeard but amongst the many similar silhouettes not distinguish his position. His voice seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.
"The commander would have known my thoughts on what the dhuunvaasi plan, so I would share them. We number in five times ten, seeking to hunt but a pack. But their mists are strange friends, garbed in their color you would be hidden too well, till too late."
Another shrill call echoed from the woods. Gerrard could feel himself getting unnerved, this was most unlike Black, this man did not volunteer as much as a aye or a nay without protocol. Something was amiss, yet he could not figure out what had brought this change about him.
"Their brothers' blood was spilt, a water debt. Their brothers must be returned to the earth, they will be buried at Zameengah. Dhuunvaasi are specific in their tradition. Har Karz Adah. Every debt must be paid."
Gerrard strained hard to understand, but he was beginning to panic. Get a hold of yourself, old man. He spins children's tales. But...
"But...you said they make all haste to Aatishgah ?" blubbered Gerrard.
"They do, but the fire debt is still unpaid. None have fallen to burn, blood must be spilt first...Our blood."
"Well I'd like to see them bloody try, little knives and magic brews don't scar armor much." Gerrard declared, laughing nervously and hastily looked for support from his riders. None was to come, Blackblood had stolen their attention. "How will they manage to accomplish this feat, I've beaten twice their number with half the riders. You place too much faith in your traditions, dhuunvaasi. Hiding in these mists like you are they, well that's one thing you rats have in common." Gerrard blustered, in between increasingly heavy, damp breaths. Forced, nervous laughter escaped from the other riders.
Blackblood's rhovan mount materialized, darker than the gloom, with eyes glittering like a raven’s. Rider and horse stood still some paces away from the cavalry line, intently absorbing the surroundings. The tall, coffee-toned man held his lavish beard in his fist as his head tipped upwards, eyes closed, trying to sense a scent through a solid weight of air. "They have drawn us deep into the woods, we're already past Logan's End. The mist has hidden time well, and night gives it strength more-so." His speech was different, dramatic, almost theatrical. "I cannot see my own hand, the mist has grown so. Our speed of mount, avails us naught in these close quarters. Using our numbers they would ensue panic, killing one, marking another for death. Poisons in our lungs, slowing our reactions...their shorter blades able to bring death, before one could discern friend or foe. Panic to disorder, and the battle lost before it truly be joined. The fire debt paid as our drugged body is burnt to a slow roast. Do you know, how it feels to burn, Second? It's not very pleasant."
Deathly silence prevailed for a moment. Bravarion had finally managed to calm the infantry it seemed. But the cavalry, his strength needed him now. Gerrard had lost his voice...managed barely a croak: "Past...Logan's...How? Then...then what are they waiting for?"
"A signal."
A shrill bird cry echoed from right off the trail they followed. A response came, all too human. A cry of death. Shouting. Another scream. A Qalam whispered and then the very mist came alive with hot-searing, living, flame. The flame spread into the 3rd company's ranks, igniting cloth, charring flesh and smelting metal. The mist took human form, seemingly everywhere at once. Darting in from behind, sound muffled, throat slit with effortless grace.
Gerrard called the Cavalry into battle, there was still time if he could find Bravarion and establish formation. He drew his blade just in time to deflect the dagger aimed for his throat. Eyes widened to adjust to the dim light, the enemy was spotted, clad all in grey nearly blended into the mist but off-balance. Gerrard decided to press the advantage and called his mount to a charge. Leant over to one-side to reach the crouched assailant, Gerrard slashed in a wide down-arc.
In the midst of battle, with blades flashing in close quarters a dodge would be suicide. So the assailant planted his feet in the moist earth and met the slash with a defensive parry. Steel clashed with steel; the outcome instant, decisive. The dhuunvaasi though exceptionally nimble and fast had missed his chance, caught off-balance his dagger flew out of his hand barely managing to deflect Gerrard's blow enough to make it non-fatal.
Gerrard relished this dance. The cursed demons had led a strong attack and his troops were in disarray, but he would still claim blood. The Rhovan cut a short circle and went into a hasty, half-charge to finish the wounded dhuunvaasi off. And as if fate had truly turned with him the mist began to lessen. He was half amused that his adversary made no attempt to flee. Foolish bravado on a day ripe for dying.
Five paces. Gerrard readied his killing blow, a cross-slash to decapitate, he was fond of trophies.
Two paces. An obsidian blade landed with a audible thud right infront of the dhuunvaasi. Gerrard recongnized the blade...that traitor would pay for this futile help.
One pace, Gerrard slashed...and then his world was engulfed in darkness so impenetrable, that even sound could not pierce its confines. In those last moments of his life, Gerrard knew fear. He cried out but his voice was drowned in blood.
"Retreat! Retreat!" a man with Bravarion’s voice was calling out, once as a plea and then just an echo. In time the trees muffled even these cries, and the ground swallowed up the lost, with only the crackle of flames remaining.
The lone dhuunvaasi spoke: "Will you stay, this time ?" A feminine voice.
"Not yet, Logan's debt to us is still unpaid. Har Karz Adah."
He brought his raven to a gallop, and never looked back.
