Digging in Sand

“I didn’t realize I had signed up to dig holes,” Felix, one of the mercenaries that had accompanied David, complained.

“Stop complaining. We’re all digging,” Will shot back at Felix. “Dig more, talk less and the work will be done faster.”

David stopped his digging and shook the dirt from his robes. The robes were black and made of a coarse material. It allowed a body to breathe and kept it relatively warm but it also attracted sand like a rotting corpse collected flies. He could feel the grains of sand beneath his clothes as they rubbed across his skin and grimaced; he felt like he might never be free of it no matter how many times he might dunk himself in water.

He rubbed his hands over his close-cropped hair in an attempt to brush the sand off his head. A single hand was rubbed over his bearded jaw in an attempt to make his face sand free. He knew it was futile, the more sand he moved the more sand got deposited on his person. The act of brushing the sand away made him feel cleaner even if it wasn’t the reality of things.

“Why don’t you call up some of your servants to do this?” Felix tossed a water-skin to him. “You know… let the dead clear the way for us.”

David looked over Felix as he took a pull from the water-skin. Felix was of a similar size and build as the rest of the mercenaries were. His hair was cropped short and matched his facial stubble in colour. He wore the same tan coloured clothing that the others wore; soaked through with sweat and caked in sand. The mercenary looked as exhausted as the rest of them were.

“Have you found any bodies?” David asked. He tossed the water-skin to Will. “I can’t make them out of thin air.”

It was true, but not entirely so.

David had never animated the dead. He had studied the corpses of numerous living creatures during his life, even been involved in a few grave robberies, but he had yet to create any form of undead. He knew the theory behind it, the rituals and magics used, he knew the powers involved in the act, but he had never participated in the process. He had had the opportunity, he was just not willing to sacrifice his body to do so.

That was the core of necromancy: the necromancer used his own life-force as a spark to get a corpse to accept the necromantic energies around it and reanimate. Death was everywhere, its necromantic energy permeated every thing, living or dead. A necromancer trained to feel this energy and to force it to his will. It was easy enough to do, death liked to play, but the real power came at a cost: the practitioner’s life.

Not all at once, death enjoyed the game far more than the final result. Little bits here and there, unnoticeable at first. Hidden overwhelmingly by the thrill of breaking the natural laws of life. By the time the physical changes started to manifest the thrill had become a need akin to eating, drinking, breathing. Breaking the necromantic cycle became impossible as body, mind, and soul corrupted and started to resemble the constructs the necromancer animated.

If he was to sacrifice himself to his art, David was not going to do it creating mindless zombies and skeletons. He wanted to accomplish something spectacular: he wanted to wrest a soul from the grip of death itself. No soulless automatons for him, he wanted to bring an intelligent, feeling undead into existence. The first undead he would animate would not be one of the common, lesser forms.

“I haven’t seen anything but sand in weeks,” Felix griped.

David smiled a little. That wasn’t entirely true. They had found the remnants of the tower’s garden’s walls the day after they arrived. It had taken that day to excavate the small section of wall; it had provided no clues to their exact location but did provide some shelter and security. They moved their camp and used the wall as part of a more permanent base of operations. The towers and their gardens were identical so it wouldn’t take that long to find the spot where the tower used to stand. The time consuming part would be digging it out from the sand.

They had split into three groups: two of four members each and one with just two people. The two largest groups went to the most likely areas for the tower remains to be located. Robert and David each headed one of the groups. The final, smaller group stayed by the originally discovered wall segment to set up the base camp; it would be more secure to threats.

So far David’s group had had no luck in their search.

What they had found was sand, and a lot of it. They found a small number of stones among the grains of sand, none larger than a man’s head, but they were too few to mean anything. They hadn’t found anything like a structure and the sun was rising swiftly, they would need to take a break while the sun baked the sand.

“We should head back to camp,” David announced after he glanced at the sky. “We’ll rest and resupply before we get back to it.”

“I can’t wait,” Felix offered. “Warm stew and warm water. Sounds like paradise.”

“We’ll get a chance to rest,” David responded. “We’ll catch up with the others. See where they are in their search. Maybe they’ve had more luck at their site.”

“Do you think we’re digging in the wrong spot?” Will asked as the four men started back to camp.

“I can’t say for sure,” David replied. “I don’t know how much of the tower was left standing. We may have to dig down to floor level. The only thing I can say with any sort of certainty is that, using the wall as a reference, we are digging in one of the two most likely places to find the tower. It’s just a matter of time and luck at this point.”

There was a sense of excitement throughout the camp when they arrived. Robert’s group had already returned. Robert rushed up to David’s group the moment they came into view.

“Did you find the tower?” David asked his brother.

“No,” Robert handed a mug to David. “Something better. Drink.”

David accepted the offered drink while he shot a confused look at his brother. His confusion only increased as he took a sip: water. It was just water: cool, clear, crisp. He had had plenty of water as he worked under the watchful gaze of the sun. He may not have been able to properly gauge the temperature around him but he could tell when he was hungry or thirsty.

The water was fresh, crisp, cool, and clean.

“Show me where you found this!” David’s eyes sparked with excitement.

“Follow me,” Robert smiled.


The Nap’s the Thing

The buzzing of bees, the chirping of birds, the bleating of sheep, and the gentle barking of dogs helped to sway the young man to sleep. The gentle rustle of the wind through the leaves and the soft gurgle of the nearby brook gave him an illusion of safety. The shade of the trees kept the sun’s rays from directly touching his skin and would keep him from burning as he napped.

If there was one thing he was good at it was napping. There was nothing better, in his mind, than a good nap. He knew all the best places to nap around the village.

He had been attached to his regular naps since he was a child. It had been his focus for life to ensure there was always a time for a nap every day. It was a goal he had so far managed to achieve despite the community’s belief that he was lazy, uninspired, and lacked ambition.

He spent his days away from the village and its people. He preferred to be alone, it was easier to be by himself than to deal with the constant questions about his future plans and judgments on his life choices.

He was happy, content, and satisfied with his life.

He had a place of his own: a one room shack he shared with his four hounds. Four large collies he kept as much for companionship as they were or their talents at animal husbandry. All female, they were a wonderful mix of black, orange, white, brown, and golden-red fur. Their markings varied though the colours and length were similar in nature. They provided him with comfort year round and warmth during the colder periods.

The dogs were gifts from his father. They were sisters born in the same litter. Their mother and father were both descended from long lines of sheep and cattle herders; champions both. The girls were naturals at the job, at least a match for their parents, and needed very little in the line of supervision. It was a talent he was happy to take advantage of.

He made his living as a shepherd.

It was an easy job and one that fit well with his world view. The hardest part of the job was guiding the three dozen or so sheep from the barn they slept in to the pasture they would spend the day in as well as the return trip. Once they arrived the sheep were pretty docile and spent the bulk of the day eating, sleeping, and playing. The dogs did most of the work, he just chose their destination and the collies directed the sheep in the right way.

They weren’t his flock, the sheep belonged to his parents. They had recognized his lack of desire to participate in the village’s social niceties at an early age. Along with the dogs they offered a lifetime job for him watching over their flock: one ram, a couple dozen ewes, and a dozen or so lambs.

They were all around him as he prepared to start what was the best part of his day: the nap. The sheep were all about him; the lambs were at play, the adults either eating or sleeping. It was what he liked most about sheep: they shared the same love of napping as he did.

There was a stream that ran through the pasture just beside the small grove of trees he lay in. It was wide but shallow, the water easy going and cool. He made sure to keep some water close to the flock: they would wander less when they were thirsty and it made a good place to store his beer and keep it chilled throughout the day.

He would eat a lunch of dried fruits and vegetables and some salted jerky. He rounded out his food choices with some hardtack and cheese. Although a rarity, he sometimes liked to include a selection of nuts and seeds, whatever were readily available. There were none in the mix of treats in his lunch sack today.

He had remembered to bring his jacket.

It was a woollen jacket that was stuffed with handfuls of thick wool. It was far too heavy a piece of clothing for the current summer weather. Folded up it made a good pillow on which to lay his head, a better solution than using one of the sheep. They had the tendency to get up at seemingly random intervals which disturbed the nap.

The nap was the priority.

His head rested on his folded up jacket. His back was flat against the ground, his legs crossed at the heels. His arms were folded by his sides, his hands rested on his chest. Eyes closed to the world he breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. He allowed the gentle sounds of nature to wash over him as he focused on the rhythmic in-and-out of his breathing. The earthy smell relaxed his mind and eased the stress his body held, before he knew it he had left the waking world and drifted off to sleep.

Within moments it felt as if his body was floating above the ground. Gone was the pressure of the ground against his back, no more grass scratched at his skin, all that was left was the mild chill of the wind as it brushed against his exposed skin.

He was rocking gently in the breeze. It was as if he was in an invisible hammock, his body free of all attachments yet still held in a gentle, invisible cradle: safe and protected.

There would be no dreams, he would not be surrendering that completely as he would still need to monitor the sheep as they grazed. The bleating of the sheep and the barking of the dogs followed a consistent, albeit random, pattern he could latch onto and observe for changes as he napped, half asleep though he was.

It wasn’t as if anything happened most days. When things did occur that was out of the ordinary it had never been beyond the abilities of the dogs to handle it. The odd wild animal that got too close to the flock, a lamb who stumbled too far into the nearby water, a sheep that had wandered a little too far away from the group were the typical emergencies the collies had to deal with. But there was always a chance that something more serious could occur and he needed to be on top of it.

So he kept his ears open and his mind attentive to any changes in the sounds around him.

Like the almost complete silence that had just dropped on him. There was a sudden, distinct lack of animal noises: wild or domestic; insect, bird, or mammal. The sound of flowing water and the air as it blew through the leaves could still be heard but no sounds of life.

He slowly opened his eyes, careful to keep his breathing even and his body still. The sudden silence was alarming but it also suggested a lack of immediate danger. If he didn’t draw any attention to himself he might be able to assess the situation and devise a plan rather than just react.

The first images to hit his eyes confused him.

The ewes stood in a semi-circle of two rows. In front of them stood the lambs, the young ones shifted slightly from foot to foot as they struggled with their natural overabundance of energy. The ram stood as still as a statue behind the second line of ewes.

The four collies were seated behind the sheep. They were arranged at regular intervals in an arc that matched that of the sheep.

Every one of the animals’ attention was caught by the horse which stood in the centre of their half-circle.

The horse towered above his audience. He was tall, lean, and packed with muscle kept just beneath a thick hide that was as white as freshly fallen snow. It was almost blinding in the afternoon sun. His tail and mane were long, thick, and was a shade of white just a smidgen darker than his body was. His hooves were like polished ivory, his eyes the colour of the deepest ocean.

It was the horn in the centre of the horse’s forehead that drew the observer’s eye. The horn was a long as a man’s forearm, it spiraled from the size of a fist at the base up to a razor sharp point at the tip. It sparkled golden every time the horse moved his head.

“Unicorn” was what popped into the shepherd’s mind as he watched the scene in front of him.

The unicorn was beautiful. There was an aura of majesty that emanated from the beast as almost a physical force. His chest was puffed out in pride and strength; he had a regal bearing. Overall the unicorn filled the napper with a sense of awe.

A feeling that was duplicated among the sheep and the dogs.

The unicorn caught the eye of every member of his audience individually. He held each one’s gaze until their tails wagged and then moved on to the next one. He moved through each and every one, including the lambs. When he was finished meeting each one eye-to-eye he turned and walked across the brook. He took one last look at the assembled animals before he sprang into motion and disappeared at a run across the open plain.

As quick as the silence had descended on the shepherd it was gone. Back was the quiet bleating, the hushed growls and barks, the chirping of birds, the buzz of insects, and other sounds associated with nature’s life.

He blinked and blinked again.

He couldn’t explain what he’d just seen. He wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t dreaming. Perhaps a daydream? Maybe he was on the verge of losing his mind?

He blinked one more time. The action reminded him of what was important: the nap.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back into the comforting embrace that was the nap.


“Eat,” Robert thrust a bowl into his brother’s hands.

It was a small, wooden bowl that was filled to the rim with a dark, steaming liquid as thick as mucus. The contents looked unappealing but the aroma was savoury and hinted at a delicious, filling meal. Beneath the surface would be chunks of fried vulture and various bits of vegetables that had previously been dried.

“David,” Robert pushed the bowl forward, “it will warm you.”

“Fine, Robert,” the one called David took the bowl offered to him. A spoon carved from bone was passed into his hand before his brother settled down on the sand beside him.

They ate together in a tent. The sun had set long ago and the temperature had dropped to the point where the mercenaries were wrapped in layers of furs and hides. They were huddled in a handful of tents that ringed a small cooking fire. The group’s day was done, the cold and dark made any attempt to continue their search to be little more than wasted effort. The search would continue at daybreak, taking a break during the heat of midday.

“How sure are you that we’ll find the ruins?” Robert asked between sips. “We have limited water. I’d like to make it out of the desert before we run out.”

“Our wandering is over,” David answered. “We just need to uncover the ruins. A few days of digging and we’ll be done.”

David set the bowl and spoon down at his side. He had his legs folded beneath him as he knelt in the centre of the tent. He absentmindedly smoothed the black robes along his legs as he watched Robert sip the last of the broth from its bowl. David waited as Robert grabbed two mugs and filled them with a sweet smelling wine. They shared a glass in silence.

“All I see is sand,” Robert refilled both glasses. “I can’t fathom how you took ancient maps that no longer match the surroundings and determine this to be the location. Everything just looks the same.”

David smiled. “All I see is sand as well,” he replied. “But I can sense the death around me. It’s focused here.”

“Maybe it’s just animals,” Robert suggested, “insects, even. Life exists in the desert, the cycle still ends in death.”

“No,” David answered. “Death has different flavours. The remnants of an insects life tastes different than a man’s does. Weaker, more diluted, and harder to sense… except in extreme circumstances. The echoes of sentient life are louder and easier to find. It’s like a whisper in your ear, a tap on your shoulder, a shadow in the corner of your eye. More intuition than anything else.”

“What’s waiting for us?” Robert wondered aloud.

“Legends tell us the tower was shattered, swallowed by the desert sands,” David answered. “We should find the ruins of the tower grounds, the basement of the tower should be mostly intact. We may or may not see the rubble that was the tower itself, it’s hard to say. The force needed to destroy a tower is beyond imagination. I have never seen one of the twelve in any state of disrepair, even the ruined tower is just a bit scratched and blackened… or so I am told. There is every possibility that it was reduced to dust and the desert that swallowed it up was actually the remnants of the tower as it disintegrated. There is no way to know, that even took place millennia ago.”

“What dangers?” Robert asked after a moment of thought.

“We could get caught in a sandstorm,” David shrugged. “The structure could cave in under the weight of the sand and trap us underground.”

“What sort of opposition do we face?”

“None,” David took a sip from his glass, “in theory. Anyone who might have survived the collapse of the tower and the burial in sand that followed will have died long ago trapped beneath the desert. They might have survived for a bit but air, water, and food would have run out long ago. Continued survival would only happen if they dug themselves out and moved away.”

“And the dead?” Robert refilled their cups.

“Hard to say,” David admitted. “They could be little more than dust and bones at this point. They could be better preserved, more fleshy, as well. Seems unlikely, I would assume they would have made quite a few feasts for the local insects and vermin.”

“So there won’t be a danger from them?” Robert asked.

“The towers are infused with magic,” David mused. “Old magic. Far older than we realize, far stronger than anyone is capable of harnessing today. Even in the days when the tower fell there was no sorcerer capable of harnessing the power needed to create such a structure. Even the Lady needed to sacrifice the lives of Ravensbrook’s entire population as well as some of that tower’s power. She had to sacrifice the lives of the people and the land to shatter the desert towers. Even that wasn’t enough: the Ravensbrook tower was corrupted and She was imprisoned in the tower for eternity.”

“The enchantment that is entwined in the towers has to have gone somewhere,” David continued after a deep breath. “The nature of magic is destruction and chaos. It takes more skill, more practice, more patience to use the energy to build than it does to cause ruin. The energy that was stored in the tower might have just dissipated into the air. It might have animated the dead or created some other form of life. Or any number of other events, limitless possibilities thanks to chaos.”

“I know there was a lot of death in this area,” he continued. “I can taste it. A tragic loss of many lives in a short span of time. Bodies buried in the ground but without the rituals required to put the essence of life to rest. To bring peace to the dead. But what I don’t sense is any intelligence or deliberation in the mix. If there are any undead waiting for us they’ll be little more than animated corpses: mindless and hungry. Nothing dangerous.”

“Good,” Robert responded. “An easy delve would be a pleasant change.”

“Who said it would be easy?” David laughed. “I never said easy. We have no way to know what shape the underground passages and chambers are in. We don’t know what the air is like. We have no way to know how much sand has seeped into the tunnels or how far down it goes. There might not be any of the more dangerous undead but there is no way to know what else might have moved in. We have no way to know what awaits us in the ground.”

“You couldn’t just let me have this?” Robert complained.

“Not a single time,” responded David.

“Goodnight, brother,” Robert stood up and ducked out of the tent.

The Next Stage

He could feel the eyes of the carrion birds on him as they watched his movement across the sea of sand. He knew his black robed body stood out like a torch in the dark against the golden brown of the sand. The birds were no risk to him, if he died there was no need to hide his body they would find it without too much difficulty.

“They’re really eager to feast on you,” a man joked as he caught up with the robed man at the top of a dune. The speaker shielded his eyes as he looked up to watch the circling birds.

“Vultures aren’t the best taste, but it’ll make a nice change for a meal,” another man had joined them on the dune. “They look well-fed.”

Mercenaries. These men who accompanied him were mercenaries. Along with the two beside him there were an additional seven that trailed slightly behind them. The mercenaries were all dressed alike: light clothing covered their skin shielding them from the sun and coloured to blend into the desert. Each man had a sword strapped to his side and a bow and quiver across their backs. Four of the men pulled sleds of supplied behind them. Every one of them was heavily muscled with hair cropped close to their scalps and a bearded chin.

The man in the robes in contrast wore a heavy robe of black. He was armed with a short, simple staff that was strapped to his hip. His skin was pale, his hair as short as that of the mercenaries, a beard ringed his face, and his body, though hidden, was the equal of any other man with him.

“A meal that wasn’t dried and salted would be a welcome change,” the robed man answered.

“Will,” the first mercenary to speak began, “can turn anything into a meal fit for a king. We’ll set up camp here and wait out the heat of the day in the shade of the tents.”

“Good,” the second mercenary offered, “I can’t wait to get out of this sun. How can you stand to be draped all in black? We have been wandering for days, is it much farther? Are we lost in this godless desert?”

He hadn’t though about that aspect of his clothing in years. Although he cared more for his living body than most of his brethren he still shared some similarities to them. Like all of his brethren, exposure to the necromantic arts had removed his ability to fell hot or cold or any temperature in between. No more did he shiver, no more did he sweat. It was a blessing in that he could wear his robes in any weather without discomfort. The downside to lacking a sense of hot or cold was that some of his brethren died from exposure to extreme temperatures.

“We’re not lost,” the man in the black robes replied. “We’re close now.”

“Are you sure, brother?” the first mercenary to speak asked. “I thought this tower was on the edge of the desert. An oasis wasn’t it? All I see is sand.”

“That was true in ages past,” the black robed man answered. “Where you’re standing, Robert, was at one time as green as any forest. There was farmland, livestock, and a booming population at the centre of which was Thymon’s Oasis and its tower. That was centuries ago, before the Lady buried the tower under the sands. The desert expanded over the ages since the destruction of the tower. It consumed the green and hid the ruins beneath the sands and beyond any maps or the memories of local guides. The mists of time and myth hid the tower’s location from the world.”

“How do you know we’re close?” the man called Robert asked.

“I can feel it,” the robed man smiled. “The dead call to me. The cries get stronger and stronger with each step.”

This was only partially true. The dead were all around him, everywhere and always. Death occurred on every inch of the world and there were always some who were unwilling to quiet and move on. These voices cried out to the necromancers, it allowed the members of his brethren to find new corpses to experiment on or to animate as servants. Robbing graveyards for corpses tended to draw attention to a necromancer’s existence, honing his ability to hear the dead’s calls had an infinite benefit to his practice of necromancy. But it was a passive skill and not useful for long range tracking of a specific corpse or location. All he could really discern was that there was a lot of death that occurred nearby.

It was the voice that had sent him here. The voice that had told him to seek out the former oasis and its buried tower. It had told him where to go and what to look for. The instructions may not have allowed him to pinpoint his destination on a map, but it did put him close enough for him to find his way.

“A mysterious voice told me where to find it” wasn’t really an explanation that would be easily accepted, or understood. He followed the voice’s instructions without question but he wasn’t sure he understood what was going on himself.

“Good,” Robert said. “I’d rather not disappear among the sands. The sooner we can find this tower, the sooner we can return to civilization.”

“I’ll be happy to be free of these overly hot days and frozen nights,” the second mercenary chimed in. “Fresh water, a soft bed, no sand in my clothes, a woman on my arm. I could go on for days on what I am missing out on while being in this desert.”

“You won’t be returning to your comforts any time soon,” the robed man responded. “But the hardest part will be done soon. You’ll return a rich man, once it is all done.”

“I like the sound of that,” the second mercenary clapped a hand on a robed shoulder. “For now, I’ll settle for some shade. The tents are up.”

“Come,” Robert addressed his brother, “let us get out of this sun. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, we’ll sleep. When it cools down we’ll find the tower and begin the next stage.”




Two Lights

“I am going to miss this view.”

“I can see why you were always out here in the mornings,” Shan glanced at Welsley. The two women were together on the balcony of the Light’s chamber in the tower at Norasburg. The morning sun rose over the Great Forest to the East, the reddish-orange light of the sunrise washed over the women as they quietly watched the world come into view.

The dots of light from the fires within the soldiers’ camps across the river had started to vanish, washed out by the sun’s growing light. The soldiers were already beginning their day and it wouldn’t be long before all the fires would disappear, they would return again at day’s end and the sun had set.

They had spent a great deal of their time on the balcony the last few days. It was an ideal spot to discuss the future, the past, and the dangers that lay on the far side of the forest. It had the added benefit of giving them a bird’s eye view of the journey of Commander Mortimer, his troops, and Samuel. The beginning of the journey was easily watched, but at this point all that could be seen was the beginning of the road that was being cut through the trees.

It had been about a week since the expedition had left Norasburg for Shatterook. They had seen Samuel, and Mortimer, off at first light; Samuel was to guide Mortimer and his mounted troops first to Shatterook and then to the edge of the wasteland that surrounded the tower at Ravensbrook. At the wasteland the mounted soldiers would join in with the patrols meant to keep any necromancers from rejoining the Lady.

A couple columns of infantry would follow behind the cavalry. Their job was to escort the army’s support staff and camp followers as well as carve out the initial route through the forest. Repeated journeys along the new road would expand its width and firm up the surface. Travels would also determine most often used camp grounds which would eventually evolve into military outposts and forts to defend travellers. In the future the road would become a major artery for traffic both military and trade.

“Can you feel it, Shan?” Welsley asked. “There is an excitement in the air. An anxiety building all around us. The world has changed. The tower cities, especially Norasburg, are on the cusp of a new world. It is a change as important as when the Goddess first claimed the towers as her own.”

“All I feel is calm, Your Eminence,” Shan answered. “Since I heard the voice calm is all I’ve felt.”

“Call me Welsley,” Welsley replied. “Light Koarl in public or formal situations but never ‘Your Eminence.’ Not anymore. We’re equals now. Friends and allies.”

“Friends and allies, Welsley,” Shan nodded, “but never equals.”

Welsley smiled.

“You’ve been calm for as long as I’ve known you,” she shifted the conversation back to her chosen topic. “Perhaps what you’re feeling is the calm before the storm. Change is upon us but its final form is still hidden.”

Shan nodded. Every quiet moment of her days was filled by the repetition and the analysis of those words: “I have plans for you.” She had turned the words over and over in her mind in an attempt to connect them to the events going on around her. Nothing that had happened to her so far felt like anything more than tangentially connected. The words were a mysterious prophecy.

“Before you even know it,” Welsley continued, “all you will be able to see across the river will be farms and ranches, crops and cattle. The town that surrounds the tower will grow, buildings will be built closer together like honeycombs in a bee hive. Gone will be the lazy, relaxed days you are used to. Norasburg will become a true city, complete with all the challenges of one. Like Morton, Norasburg will be exposed to outsiders with different ways of living and thinking. It will take a leader capable of remaining calm. It will take a leader like you.”

“I have lived my entire life in Norasburg,” Shan said. “I know nothing of large cities. Any advice you could offer would be welcome.”

“You won’t like it,” Welsley warned.

Shan replied with a shrug.

“There is only one thing to remember,” Welsley started. “The Goddess may be perfect but the women who interpreted her will, her mind, her desires, were not. Far from it, they couldn’t agree on even the simplest things. As a result every tower, and every Guiding Light, interprets her laws differently. Moving between tower cities can be a culture shock. It is even worse for people who come from outside cultures.”

“Are you concerned with your move to Falson Peak?” Shan wondered.

“I’ve done what I could to make the transition easier,” Welsley sighed. “Mortimer is too far away to be a danger. The Council of Lights supports the change. I’ll travel with a force composed of a mix of soldiers from every tower to punctuate the point. I suspect the only real resistance will be from the family itself. In the long run, the Falsons will be little more than an inconvenience. The people will accept the will of the council.”

There was silence as both women considered their futures.

“What concerns you?” Welsley asked Shan.

“I was just thinking about the stories I heard growing up,” Shan answered. “In those tales the monster is always defeated by the heroes. The world always returns to normal.”

“The heroine meets her love and they live happily ever after,” Welsley finished with a laugh. “I grew up with the same stories. The truth: the monster often wins, true love rarely meets, and the world changes… not always for the better. The Falsons are removed from power, the Lady cut off from the world. It’s close enough to a happy ending.”

Welsley sighed and stretched her arms above her head.

“I am going to miss this view.”


Esther stood back and examined her work. It was incomplete but time would fix that. At this point it was a test of what might be used to lock up the wasteland from entry or exit.

There was no way they could build a wall of stone or wood fast enough to seal the wasteland fast enough to keep a new generation of necromancers from slipping in. Stone would take too much time to quarry and transport to the wall’s location. Wood, although weaker than stone, would be faster to build but the quantity needed would devastate the Great Forest. The lost trees would take centuries, maybe millennia, to replace and leave the denizens of the forest, human and animal, without homes. The damage caused might never be reversed, it was an unacceptable risk as far as Esther was concerned.

A living wall seemed a better option: brambles and thorns made useful fences. It wasn’t hard to convince the vines and brambles to grow along the edge of the border shared with the wasteland, the plants on the living side of the border were happy to cooperate. The wall was three people deep, rose to the height of three men, and ran along the border for about a mile.

There was an identically sized wall built on the wasteland side of the border. It was built from the greasy black thorned vines that were the only life found in the wastes. The bloodthirsty vines were willing to help but not without a cost: fresh blood. Just a token sacrifice; a few drops here, a few drops there. Enough to whet the plants’ appetite but not enough to cause lasting harm to the donor. It was a price Esther was willing to pay.

The sheer amount of thorns would make it a daunting task to break through: slow and painful. The bloodthirsty, almost sentient, vines of the wastes would further impede progress as they fought for a chance to taste warm blood and living flesh. The wall would only grow thicker and more impassable as time went by.

A solution that could be accomplished without the need to damage nature.

It was not a job Esther would be able to complete on her own. Not in a reasonable time period at any rate. For that she would need the help of her order.

Order was probably too structured a term to apply to her brothers and sisters of the faith. There was no structure, no hierarchy, among this order. There were no holy dates, no organized assemblies, no ritualized training, no connection between adherents except for a love and respect for the natural world and a willingness to protect it. More of a loose collection of like-minded people than an ideological order.

They had been willing to come together for the task: a chance to keep an abomination from spreading its evil through the world.

Not all members of her order were graced with nature’s favour. Those that were were not all blessed in the same fashion. There were only a handful, maybe two handfuls, who possessed similar abilities to her. Talking to and control of vegetation was just one form that nature’s favour could take. Those that possessed it were already at work on different points around the border supported by their own guard of Shatterook soldiers.

“Impressive as always, my love,” Thomas offered from just behind her.

“It will serve its function well,” Esther replied. “When our side blooms come spring it will also be a monument of beauty. Reborn year after year. Once the wasteland is surrounded it will be a testament to the power of nature. A vision easier to look at than the desolate wastes.”

“They’ll add towers on this side of the wall,” Thomas added, “at regular intervals. Throw in a handful of forts to house the troops, stable the horses, and provide general maintenance and the Lady and Her followers will be cut off from each other. Permanently, with a little luck.”

“The abomination will be sealed away by the nature She would corrupt,” Esther smiled at the thought. “It’s almost poetic.”

“The most beautifully crafted poem I have ever heard,” Thomas agreed.

“Indeed it is,” Esther laughed.

“Let’s sit and eat,” Thomas gestured to a small table set up among the tents of the camp. There were plates of dried fruits, vegetables, and meats as well as a pitcher of water and one of wine set up for their enjoyment. A couple of chairs waited to be used at the table.

“Maybe a quick break,” she agreed. “I’d like to get another section up today. Two, it possible.”

“You’ll need your strength,” Thomas agreed. “Eat.”

“How are you faring, husband?” Esther asked.

“The wound is healing nicely,” Thomas smiled. “The boredom will be cured when we start construction of our first tower in the morning. It beats standing before a group of the wealthiest families arguing for gold to support a military presence along this border indefinitely. I would not trade places with Craig or Abeth for anything.”

“I wonder how long that will last,” Esther mused. “Once we have sealed off her influence, how many generations will it take before people forget the danger that lurks behind the wall? Will it happen all at once or will if be a slow siphoning of gold away from the wall’s garrison? It will happen. People forget. Out of sight, out of mind.”

They both focused on their meal. Silence accompanied them.


Shan would not see the council the next day or the day after that. It would be a week before the Council would summon her and hear her report.

She filled her time waiting at a table in the archives; quill in hand and surrounded by parchment. She recorded her experiences with razor sharp detail. The only breaks she took was for sleep and bathroom breaks; she took her meals in the archives normally joined by Samuel and other members of the Illuminated.

Her days ended with a visit for Welsley Koarl, the Guiding Light of Norasburg. The young Light would drift into the room and read a handful of randomly selected pages and then leave. Throughout the visit, Light Koarl would ask about Shan’s day: “had she eaten?”, “taken the time to stroll in the gardens?”, “taken a break just to chat?”, “slept?” The Light laughed off any attempt to shift the conversation to the Council of Lights and their seemingly endless meetings.

Shan was summoned early on the morning of the seventh day to present her experience to the Council.

There were twelve sets of chairs and tables set in a ring about the room: one for each tower, including the missing Light of Falson Peak. Each table sported a quill, some ink and a stack of paper for note taking. A pitcher of water and one of wine rested on every table along with a pair of cups. The meeting was closed to all but the Lights and anyone who might be called to provide testimony, no servants were allowed in during the day.

In the centre of the circle was a podium and a stool. A pitcher of water and a cup to drink it from waited on the podium; the wine and the writing tools were absent. This was intended for short-term recounting of information, for questioning by the Council, it was not intended to be used by a long-term participant in the discussion.

The sun had just begun to rise when Shan found herself in the centre of this chamber. She arose before sunrise and had snacked on dried fruit while she planned her day. She had collected an armful of candles and a pitcher of water and was just about to ascend the stairs to the archives when she ran into Morah. Her fellow Illuminated took the burden from her arms and sent her on her way to the Council of Lights.

She stood behind the podium and waited as the Lights slowly trickled into the room. The Lights were quiet as they took their places at their individual tables. No greetings, or other acknowledgements, were offered by anyone as they took their seats.

Shan had never been to a Council of Lights. To the best of her recollection there had never been a Council held at Norasburg, most certainly there had never been one at the tower in her lifetime. The tower cities were basically kingdoms unto themselves and cooperation between them was only grudgingly given. It took a major event, like the death of a Guiding Light, to bring these ruling women together.

“Good morning,” Shan felt the hand of Light Koarl softly touch her shoulder. “There is no need to be nervous. Once we begin, you’ll share your experience as detailed as you can. When you are finished the Lights will ask questions to clear up any confusion they might have. After that you’ll be released. You might be called back if the Council needs further clarifications. We’ll begin soon.”

Shan nodded as Welsley smiled and left to take her seat.

“We are all here,” Welsley announced. She took a quick look around the room before she continued, “close the door.”

There was silence as the guards exited the room and closed the doors behind them.

“Shan,” Welsley looked at the Illuminated, “you may begin when you are ready.”

The room was oddly silent as Shan relayed her story. Throughout her retelling the only sounds outside of breathing was the occasional scribble of a quill, the shuffle of some papers, or the pour of a liquid into a cup. No voices interrupted, no questions were asked as she spoke of her journey across the river to investigate the disappearance of the woodsmen. She shared her journey through the forest and her sojourn at the ruined tower. She left nothing out about her rushed exit from the wasteland and her return to Norasburg.

“She claimed to be the Goddess?” one of the Guiding Lights asked after Shan had finished speaking.

“Yes,” Shan answered. “She claimed to be one of the members of the group that overthrew the old tower kings.”

“Light Falson referred to her as the Sister,” Welsley added.

“Was the voice you heard as you left the same as Hers?” the same woman asked.

“It was definitely a different voice,” Shan answered.

“Do you think She will release Light Falson?” This question came from a different Guiding Light.

“Never,” Shan shook her head. “Light Falson’s only hope is that the Lady’s rage will be so great that she’ll be killed immediately. The Lady’s obsession is too great, She would never be able to release either of the Falsons.”

There was silence.

“No more questions?” Welsley asked. She waited a moment then added, “Thank-you, Shan. You have given us a lot to discuss. You are free to leave.”

Shan found herself back in front of the Council of Lights the next afternoon.

“We have spent a great deal of time debating among ourselves,” Light Koarl explained, “as a group we agree with your opinion: Light Falson is lost to us. We can only hope the Goddess grants her a swift and painless death. We have little time to mourn, however, as the tower cities face a danger we have never faced before.”

“To that end,” Welsley continued, “we will be adding contingents from every tower to the garrison across the river. These troops will be permanently hosted, we’ll adjust numbers as needed but the garrison is there to stay. Commander Mortimer and his soldiers will be sent to bolster the border guard set up by the people of Shatterook. They will be under the command of the Shatterook forces but it should provide the Falson forces with a small measure of vengeance.”

“I will be taking control of the tower at Falson Peak,” Welsley added.

“You are leaving Norasburg?” Shan asked.

“Yes, it is the Goddess’ will,” Light Koarl remarked.

“Who will be overseeing Norasburg?” Shan wondered aloud.

Welsley smiled, “You will, Light Shan.”

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