Morning mist clung to the Diontel like wet wool, muting the river’s rush and the nearby clang of bridles. From a low rise Astalia caught sight of three hulking silhouettes on nightmare mounts, their hunched backs swaying with the jerky roll of Horror‑stock—horses with skin like black basalt and limbs too long. They were loping straight for the stone‑ribbed ford, the last shield for the villages near the Diontel. Even at this distance she knew the threat: only Tul rode beasts that way.
She raised a clenched fist—the silent command for halt. Leather creaked as three horses snorted and stamped to an uneasy stop beside her.
Ryaldon—acting scout‑captain—dropped to the mud with a wet squelch. He shook out a rain‑stained field map, its edges frayed from a dozen patrols, and drove a gloved finger into the parchment.
“Here—the ford garrison,” he said, tapping hard enough to tear the parchment. “Three Tul on Horror‑stock will smash it before any relief can ride.”
Astalia heard the tremor beneath his steadiness. Ryaldon’s father had fallen in a minor Tul incursion—or so they claimed. Ryaldon had no memory of his father, not since the Tul consumed any trace of the man. Tul ate more than flesh, no one related to their victims could forget that unique pain.
Alvain, the Kiel archer of their trio, slid from her mare, Fogwood bow already strung; the pale timber could shear bone at forty paces. “Give me the ridge and I’ll hamstring those mounts before they know we’re here.” She tried for calm, yet the nock clicked against the string, betraying the tremor in her fingers.
Telvar—tall, taciturn—rested a steady hand on the living emerald‑grass blade across his back, its edge pulsing faint chlorophyll green and giving off a scent like crushed spring weeds. A small charm of braided bison fur dangled from the hilt, a gift from the younger brother he’d left among the Zherenkhan herds. I will bring him home to that boy, Astalia promised in silence.
Astalia swung down last. A new gust rolled in—a fetid sweetness of rot steeped in cloves and iron. She tapped her tongue against the glass capsule tucked behind a molar: TulBane. One bite would thrust her into the Crest’s cold limbo, then hours of numb darkness she’d endured before. Yet for her three charges it wouldn’t be that simple. For them, TulBane represented true death, the last firewall against a Tul feast.
“I will invoke the Right of Return if I must,” she warned, helmet visor nodding toward the south road. “Backtrack, alert the ford—live.”
Ryaldon shook his head, rain‑dark hair clinging to his brow. “They’ll hit the bridge before we can warn anyone. We strike here.” His gloved hand indicated a narrow basalt saddle where the path pinched to single‑file between jagged outcrops. “You turn the slope to sword‑grass, we hamstring their mounts, then we run like spooked Axebeaks for the river.”
Alvain exhaled, the tremor in her fingers stilling as resolve snapped into place; she checked the bowstring’s tension with a crisp twang. Beside her, Telvar cinched the leather shroud over his blade, the steel giving a muffled hum before its glow vanished.
Astalia’s gaze swept the pupils she had picked in Aslavain—they lacked an immortal Venerate crests—youth that they were—but that didn’t stop the raw determination bleeding though their every movement. Pride pinched her chest, followed by a knife of dread. “Very well. Ambush only. If anything feels wrong, bite the capsule—better dead than devoured.”
Three solemn nods. The horses seemed to grasp the gravity, stamping and snorting white steam, bridles jingling like distant funeral bells.
They wheeled from the riverbank and climbed the basalt ridge, hooves striking sparks from hissing firegrass that flared like trails of fireflies. Halfway up, Alvain’s mare balked, nostrils quivering at the unseen Tul stench; Telvar’s bay skittered but stilled when he murmured a soft Zherenkhan lullaby.
They dismounted behind a tumble of obsidian‑black rock at the ridge’s crown. Below, the Tul riders advanced, hulking silhouettes against a bleached sky; their mounts’ hoofbeats beat a hungry cadence that made the stone under Astalia’s boots tremble. She knelt, palm to soil, lips shaping the verse‑keys of [Verdant Prison] while her other hand sifted and wove the spell‑strings tied to her saber. Chill bled into her bones—the casting sacrifice as the Sulphen reacted to her working. One perfectly timed weave and the mild slope would erupt into a forest of murderous sword‑grass.
She glanced back. Ryaldon inhaled, shoulders squaring, bow half‑raised. Alvain’s lips moved in a quick breath‑steadying prayer as she nocked her arrow. Telvar slid the final knot loose—emerald blade ready to drink daylight the moment it flew free.
Astalia lowered her visor. “Remember,” she whispered, “the Tul eat memory. Let them take neither your mind nor your name.”
A hush fell—windless, watchful—just as the first Horror‑stock breasted the lower rise, the Tul rider’s serrated teeth flashing in anticipation.
Astalia’s chant clipped shut on the final syllable of [Verdant Prison]. Power slammed through the turf and frost shot up her forearms as the Sulphen took its payment. Around the pinch‑point, firegrass stiffened, then unfurled into a thicket of jagged, emerald knives that hissed like steel being sharpened.
The lead Horror‑stock slammed into the sudden sword‑field. Sinew parted with a wet tear; the beast crumpled, pitching its Tul rider into a shrike‑thorn bush. Black ichor spattered across the slope.
“Loose!” Ryaldon barked.
Alvain’s bowstring thrummed; her iron‑leaf arrow drilled through the fallen Tul’s bicep, pinning it to earth. Astalia dared one sharp exhale—relief curdling into horror—before a deep, mocking laugh rumbled up the hillside.
“Ahhh, meeat thinks itself clever,” the Tul rasped in broken Imperial, serrated teeth grinding every consonant. “My brothers will sup on your memories.” Black blood frothed from his lips as he wrenched upright, arrow still skewering his arm, thorn branches splitting under sheer bulk.
Twin war‑horns blared from the eastern and western ridges—deep, triumphant calls that turned marrow to ice. The thunder of hooves answered, each impact drumming the ridge until pebbles pattered downslope. Only after the noise settled into the bones did shape follow sound: Tul riders atop nightmare mounts, and beneath those pounding hooves a tide of hairless rats the size of dogs, claws staccato‑clicking on stone and eyes gleaming lantern‑bright.
Ryaldon’s bow wavered. “Rats?” he breathed. “Dead gods—what new horror rides with them?”
Astalia’s stomach lurched. Allies or warped vermin—it hardly mattered. The stench of sour musk and copper rose with their chittering, and the odds had just swung beyond hope.
The downed Tul bared twin rows of knives in a grin. “Feast of lowlander flesh, feast of lowlander memories,” he crooned, then roared a harsh litany in his own guttural tongue. One name sliced through the din—Thar Nol Grak. Ryaldon’s eyes widened; even the horses shivered at the sound.
Rats poured over the flattened sword‑grass, piling their own dying kin into a living, bleeding bridge. Claws scraped steel as they clambered upslope toward Telvar—standing ten paces downslope and slightly east of Astalia’s vantage—steady at the choke‑point. Telvar’s emerald blade whipped left and right, yet one vermin locked onto his greave; another scrambled up his back, needle teeth grazing flesh. Behind them, Tul riders began crossing the gore‑slick bridge, their arrival heralded by the rats’ chittering and human screams.
Alvain pivoted, firing two rapid shafts that stapled vermin to the soil. A mountain‑tall Tul barreled after them on foot, hooked glaive whistling overhead. Her next arrow struck its chest, sinking deep. It didn’t slow the ogre’s charge as it barreled past Telvar’s distracted defense. It’s glaive crashed down, splitting Alvain’s pauldron and flesh beneath. Alvain’s scream ripped the air; scarlet drops pattered across her pale Fogwood bow as she lurched back.
Astalia charged downhill, saber raised, but the crush of Tul and vermin slammed shut around her like a closing iron gate. A dog‑sized rat scrambled up Ryaldon’s back, claws seeking a seam in his cuirass, while another mounted Tul thundered in from the right, swinging an iron net studded with obsidian teeth.
We can’t hold—no memory must be taken. The Crest sigil at Astalia’s sternum flared icy pain as she filled her lungs. “TulBane!” Her shout rang like struck bronze across the slope.
Alvain, arm slick with blood, obeyed. She bit down—glass shattered; green venom frothed between her teeth. She slid behind a basalt shard, eyes clouding as life fled. The rats shrieked, circling but refusing the TulBane‑tainted corpse. Dead. Alvain was dead. Astalia crushed her sudden grief, she would grieve later. She focused on the rats, desperate to learn anything she could about the beasts. Perhaps they are some new Bane, Astalia thought as she watched them circle the body—or simply creatures too clever to swallow poison.
Ryaldon blinked through the chaos, recognition flickering in his eyes—then fading, as though he no longer remembered why the map lay in his hand. Understanding dawned; he crushed his capsule. Crimson foam bubbled from his lips, and he toppled, a strange calm smoothing features that no Tul would ever devour.
Telvar tore loose from two clawing rats, but the hamstrung Tul—towering even on one maimed leg—lurched upright and clamped Telvar’s wrist in an iron grip. The warrior’s eyes flared with panic as the Tul yanked him close, serrated jaws descending toward his throat. The emerald blade slipped from nerveless fingers; the bison‑fur charm fluttered like a torn prayer as it fell.
She felt Telvar’s memories wink out—his first shaky sword‑drill, the smoky laughter by a campfire, the scent of bison fur in his brother’s hug—each gutted by the Tul’s greedy gulps of blood. Telvar’s howl cracked the air. On the ground, the emerald blade’s light guttered like a dying ember, its living edge dimming with its master’s every heartbeat.
Roaring, Astalia smashed her sabre across the Tul’s hamstring. Tendon parted with a wet snap. The giant’s return blow ripped her helm off; white stars erupted behind her eyes, warm blood trickling down one temple. In that ringing blur she saw it all: rats surging like a flood, fresh Tul cresting the slope, and their panicked horses already vanishing downslope. The ridge was irretrievably lost.
She drove her molars through the glass capsule. Acid fire surged down her throat; the world heaved sideways. The Crest blazed ice‑cold on her chest as vision tunneled. Through the narrowing frame she glimpsed the rats swarming the fallen emerald blade, tiny claws stroking its dim edge with eerie reverence—as though honoring the warrior they had helped destroy.
Victory howls and war‑horns merged into a single, ragged triumph above her, then stretched thin—strings plucked farther and farther away—as velvet blackness folded over her senses.
