Eyes cast down and toying with the reins between her fingers, Merrin turned briefly, gaze meeting Adeila's for a fleeting moment. "Two," she replied, after a short pause, now scanning the forest ahead. "He's twenty-one."

In the silence that followed, she found herself recalling T'mor as he had been five years ago, before she'd left. They had not been close, not then. She wondered, a touch wistfully, if he recalled the black eye she'd given him just after Yule that year. That, strangely, was a subject safe to dwell upon, unlike many. Merrin straightened, grasping at the opportunity to think of something else, anything else. "We weren't always," she added, glancing up once more. Adeila's expression, which spoke of interest still, emboldened her to continue, if only for the purpose of distracting herself. "Jayen...Jayen's four years older. The oldest. I was...very close to him. Before." Another glance. "Before Vryngard, and becoming a dragonrider."

_________________

"Ah," Adeila said quietly, pausing briefly to cast a reproving glance back at Svit, who was currently investigating the possibility of clinging to the horse's tail for a more interesting ride. Once Svit had sulkily returned to her shoulder, Adeila turned her attention back to Merrin.

"It's quite odd," she commented. "I certainly see your brother often enough, what with his various minor mishaps at the smithy, but the subject of family has never truly come up in our talks. I'm afraid I still know very little, though he did make mention a few times of his sister, the dragonrider. From what I understand, you are the first in your family. How did you come to be one?"

"You've heard enough stories about dragonriders, I'm sure," said Merrin, the briefest of wistful grins tugging up one corner of her mouth. "From the tales..." she trailed off, still toying with the reins, and gave a little shrug. "I think I was spoiled for anything else."

Certainly her five years at Vryngard had been difficult. The once-thriving dragonrider base at Vryngard had dwindled to nearly a mere social hierarchy, where the younger sons and daughters of nobles were cast off to see what they could make of themselves. Dragon eggs were given not on strength of character, but to appease whichever noble house had offered a candidate. Looking back, Merrin wondered how many people had been puzzled that a peasant would even try.

She took a breath, and glanced up at Adeila, tentatively inquiring, "You have stayed in one village all your life, then?" An image of the little fishing community...and then another, of a tiny village razed to the ground, two thousand years back in time...flashed briefly. Merrin didn't quite visibly cringe at the thought. "I'm sorry...I mean...it must be so very different, to leave now."

_________________

Adeila waved a hand dismissively, fixing her gaze on the path before them. "It is...a change," she said at length. "My family moved to the village when I was just over a year of age, so it is the only home that I remember. But I have spent...oh, nearly fifty years, now, in one place. I suppose I'm well overdue for a bit of change."

She unconsciously cast a glance behind them, in the direction of her home, though it had long since been hidden from sight. Adeila felt uncharacteristically torn, wanting both to accompany the pair to whatever task the gods had laid before them, and to be with her village in its most desperate hour. As far as they were from the war, the stories all revealed one indisputable truth: the Meiltha did not show mercy.

Realizing that Merrin was still watching her, she smiled warmly. "It will be alright," she said, both to the young woman and to herself. "It will be alright. The gods do not forsake their own."

The treetops were gilded in sunlit gold, and their branches, stirred by the wind, hung above the trail in tangles of bobbing shadows. On the left, that same wind skipped over the dunes, which rippled like giant waves. Weather was warm, tempered by the ocean despite the northern chill that threatened from the mountains. The horses plodded on, content to blink dumbly at the dirt beneath their hooves. Ahead, the ruins of Thyrault had vanished behind the forest's shoulder.

This danger - it just seemed so surreal, so impossible. It was simply beyond rationality for Kendath to look to the blindingly blue skies and see them blotted out with dragons' wings. But the threat lingered, so he dared to tilt his head only twice. After the second time, he disgustedly nailed his gaze back to the road and resolved that paranoia would get him nowhere.

He hated irony. He hated how easily he'd fallen into that trap of security, that trap of unassuming complacence that the white sands and smiling faces had so enticed him into. He'd let down his guard - what was the matter with him? An all too familiar voice, detached and dispassionate, answered him. "What happened to the rest of your brains? An assassin can have all the hidden daggers in the world, but those daggers are useless if he doesn't keep his wits about to use them. Never - never - let down your guard. How much do you trust me, imbecile? I don't care how much promise you show - one more mistake like that and I'll be plucking my blade out of your spine, you hear?" Of course, the old Meiltha weapons master had meant every word he'd said. Some students just never realized that until it was too late.

Was it too late now? How much did the Meiltha already know? They shouldn't have stayed; they should have left without a word at the first ray of daybreak. They thought they'd found safety in the small innocent community... small innocent community... hah. Meiltha mages were powerful but far from omniscient. Someone had told. Someone had gotten wind of legendary Merrin Dragonrider the Chosen One, and someone had sold that information to the Meiltha. Who, though? It wasn't as though Merrin had paraded her name through the streets. The only ones with an inkling of an idea were T'mor and...

Adeila. T'mor and Adeila. To doubt the former was irrational. But the latter...

"...the gods do not forsake their own."

Kendath drew on the reins, and his mount fell back in line with its fellows. He appraised Adeila in the corner of his eye. For all he knew, the healer had done them nothing but good. Certainly her intentions appeared altruistic - a desire to aid their quest topped with a sprinkling of wanderlust - but spies, Meiltha spies especially, were elite.

"I don't understand how they found us," he said, facing no one in particular but scrutinizing Adeila in his peripheral vision. "Meiltha scrying pools are good, but not that good. We stayed in one place for a night and a morning. Unless the Ironlegs is waiting for us behind the next tree, I doubt news travels that quickly afoot. Was anyone watching the skies last night?"

_________________

"They seem not at all willing to inform me about leaving, but then again why would they?"

Garthag muttered quietly to himself as he rallied his horse into a gallop in order to catch up with the trio, he was already aware of Adeila sneaking from her cottage and going after Merrin. Garthag had expected something like this of her, she was not all what she seemed at first glance and she would have to be dealt with. Whether she was just another neutral party joining in for their own reasons or serving either the meiltha or the renegade`s was something that might have to be forced out of her. Garthag liked to see where all of his assets were and so that he could use at will, but this, unaccounted factor was exactly what he hated.

Merrin and Kendath always seemed reasonable, simple enough to be pushed around or annoyed, but Adeila was different. For one she was had already shown an unshakable will and determination, not that Kendath or Merrin lacked any, but they were frail unlike Adeila. Garthag didn`t know her too well or have any idea of her affections or weakness, it would be a hard task to get rid of the old hag without violence. Finally he caught sight of the trio and calmed down his horses gallop into a steady walk that still allowed him to gain on them. Finally when he arrived to their side, he simply threw a careless look at them, but gazed a bit longer at Adeila with a vicious intent.

"So eager to leave me behind? My, you apparently show little gratitude after all the advice and aid I have given you, not even warning me about the incoming Meiltha? How rude, I was forced to even resort to thievery and threats in order to know that, not to mention get this horse.

Don`t worry, no villager was left behind because of me, I saw them all flee for their lives... Quite lucky group of peasants they are, getting a warning before the Meiltha could spring on them and slaughter them down to the very last child.... well at least the meiltha might get some sa..."

Garthag spoke at first like business as usual, but decided to stop the pointless prattle before going too far as he knew that the mention of slaughtering of the children might just be a little bit too much for Merrin. Not that Garthag honestly cared for what she felt, but his `friends` would all gladly slit his throat, if they were not under these circumstances.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Adeila visibly paled at the mention of slaughter, but said nothing in reply. Men, women, defenseless children...families....None of them were warriors to begin with, and with the only true healer in the village riding off in the opposite direction....Adeila checked that thought before it could finish. They would get out. They had to get out.

"I did not think to check," she confessed in response to Kendath query. "I had a good deal of cleaning up to do, as well as a tonic to prepare for the girl that I was visiting earlier, and I was not aware at the time that it was necessary. I did send Svit out to the garden for a moment to fetch some fresh dragonstooth for the healing salve, but he did not act as though anything were amiss." She considered it for a moment before continuing pensively. "I was under the impression that you told only T'mor and myself of your identity. Unless someone was hiding inside my home, they could not have heard our conversation. I have it specificially shielded against such a thing, in favor of confidentiality for my patients. I cannot imagine how...." Adeila trailed off with a helpless motion.

She closed her eyes briefly, saying nothing. "The Meiltha..." she began slowly, with a glance in first Kendath's and then Merrin's direction. "They are after only us, yes? They will not pursue those who have escaped?"

Merrin had cast Kendath a look, immediate and somewhat startled, the moment he voiced what seemed to her undue suspicion of Adeila. If the healer had had any intentions other than benign, why would she not have left neat daggers in all their backs while they slept? As far as suspected treachery went...Merrin eyed Garthag briefly, over her shoulder. His expression was nearly as telling as a stone wall. She turned around, her own countenance troubled. It made far more sense to suspect him. Truth be told, she had hardly contemplated how the Meiltha knew their location. A little chagrined, the corner of Merrin's mouth twisted down. Had she been - was she still - so thoughtlessly afraid?

Adeila didn't appear to have caught Kendath's meaning behind the inquiry. Merrin cast him one more sidelong glance, but was silent on the subject, especially in light of Garthag's proximity.

"No," she said aloud, looking at Adeila. Was it presumptuous of her to think she was any authority on the Meiltha? At the thought, she recalled Ironlegs and stiffened almost imperceptibly in her saddle. Firsthand experience, she had. She swallowed. "No. They can be...cruel..." this with an uneasy half-glance at Kendath, "but it would needlessly waste their time to go after villagers."

Unless they needed information. A chill swept through Merrin at the thought. Meiltha did not acquire information by asking politely, in her experience. But perhaps if they'd been able to pinpoint her location as far as that tiny village, they knew that their quarry made for Thyrault, and needed no telling.

Be that as it may...was there really any way to know? She looked at Adeila once more. "As long as they're all safely away. Far enough to discourage pursuit."

How long? How long before that village was ransacked, razed in search of them...in search of her? And how many? Merrin hardly knew which frightened her more; Ironlegs and elite Meiltha trackers and mages, or an entire army. Surely they could hardly afford to send very many, she uneasily tried to reassure herself. The only conclusion that she resulted with was that no matter how many, they could move with alacrity.

Swallowing a caged sense of panic once more, Merrin spurred her horse into a trot. But even thinking of Thyrault was hardly thinking of a haven.

---

The sun was still high in the sky, past its brilliant noonday zenith but no less intense, when the forest began to recede. The trees, which for most of the party's travel had been enormous behemoths likely never once cleared or cut, spaced themselves less thickly and diminished in size as the ground rose and began to turn rocky.

Out from the reassuring - if insubstantial - protection of an overhanging leafy canopy, Merrin found herself constantly scanning the skies. The fact that she only ever once glimpsed the silhouette of a dragon, and even then she was not quite sure it wasn't merely a reflection of sunlight, did nothing to mitigate her anxiety.

The raise in the land, which hinted at mountains jutting up once the coastline receded, acted almost as a pedestal for Thyrault's gleaming walls of white stone. The sun burst against its pristine spires in small explosions of dazzling brilliance. Merrin could relax, just the smallest amount, at its likeness to Vryngard.

Both, they found, were perched at vantage points unerringly strategic for the surrounding area. The ocean would have been distinctly visible from even the smaller towers, and possibly from the formidable walltop. Closer up, vines crept up the walls, a precursor to the ruin Merrin imagined would occupy this same location one hundred, two hundred years later. She wondered, briefly, why it was not more ruined now.

As they ascended a short, sharp rise, her horse shied at something unseen. Caught off guard, Merrin fumbled to calm it, grasping hastily for the reins. She got a handful of mane, with the needed leather somewhere in between. There was time for her to scan the ground once, confused, before the stallion rose onto its back hooves, whinnying uneasily, and with an involuntary exclamation she had to fling her arms hastily around its neck to keep from sliding off.

Snorting, the horse settled skittishly back onto four hooves and she straightened, this time making sure to collect the reins in one hand. Hesitating, she reached to pat it, murmuring reassurances. The whites of its eyes still showed in a distinct display of uneasiness. Merrin glanced up, frowning. There was nothing to suggest a threat, only the walls of Thyrault looming. The sun was still high and casting little shadow.

Instinctively, she scanned the skies. Nothing. In bemusement Merrin turned to direct it once more up the short distance, and the horse balked altogether. This time she slid hastily off, reaching for its bridle, this time casting a confused look up at the silent city. "It won't go near," she said in perplexity, looking at the others. "I can't think why...?"

_________________

((Reindeer's been having trouble getting on A-U, so I'm posting this for him.))
------------

Jhoran woke up with a start, lying in bed momentarily, before sitting up and opening his eyes. The sun was slanting in through the window, illuminating something that wasn’t there—people. There was no one else in the hut—no silent footsteps, no creaking floorboards. Apparently, while his body had taken Adeila’s advice and kept him asleep for hours beyond what he was used to, something had happened. He reached down and picked up his scimitar from where it lay on the floor by the bed, then quietly stood up, drawing his weapon as he did so.



His arm was still in a sling, but it felt fine—the healer’s herbs and skill had worked wonders. He felt weaker than he normally did, yet the pain from his wounds was gone, for the most part. He sent a silent prayer to the gods for her safety and good fortune—she surely deserved something of that magnitude for her efforts.



Stepping softly, he walked around the room. Nothing belonging to Kendath, Garthag, Kiril, or Merrin remained, and there were several strings of herbs missing that had been hanging from the rafters when he had last fallen asleep. The pack that had been neatly stowed in a corner was gone, as well.



A quick glance in the other rooms of the house confirmed his opinion—the others had left, and not by force, or there would have been signs of violence or of a more hasty departure. Why they had not awakened him he could not imagine, yet he would surely not let the Chosen of the gods wander around with only Kendath and a malevolent wizard to protect her. He sheathed his scimitar, buckled on his swordbelt, and headed out of the house quickly.



He blinked. At the other end of the little village, in the small space before the treeline, the villagers were milling around in something synonymous with mass confusion. In the midst of it all, a lone woman was shouting at everyone, which was different than what everyone else was doing because she actually seemed to be trying to organize things. The village leader, perhaps? If so, then she was who he needed to talk to.



After getting close, he discovered that forward movement was much harder than it had looked from the doorway, because the mass of villagers bustling back and forth and getting supplies, with some already heading off into the forest, made an unstable labyrinth of sorts, with ever-shifting pathways to get to the village leader. However, he finally managed to reach her, and received a surprised look.



“I thought you left already!” she burst out. “By Olda’s thrice-cursed fishing net, if you bring them down on us….” she trailed off, and Jhoran blinked again, but his mind was working fast. It seemed as though Merrin, Kendath, and Garthag had all left the village, running from something. A plural something. He realized with a sigh that it could only be one thing.



“Was there a confrontation with Meiltha?” he asked. She nodded, her look of surprise fading into something more resembling confusion.



“They neglected to tell me before they left,” he said with a sigh and a frustrated look. While stony expressions came naturally to him, he found that they didn’t do a good job of convincing people to speak to him. “Can you tell me which way they went?” he asked.



“Aye, I can do that, at the least,” the woman replied. “They were heading to Thyrault. Surely you saw it, as they did?”



Jhoran nodded. He had seen it from the back of the sea dragon, and moreover, he had seen it on maps. “I’ve seen it.”



He smiled. “You have my thanks,” he said, “and may the gods spare you from the Meiltha.”



It didn’t seems as though Merrin and Kendath could have a very large lead on him, so he set off on foot, not wanting to take any of the provisions that the villagers would most certainly need before they reached safety, yet not having any of his own. He would have to forage, for both food and shelter, but he had done so many, many times before in his life, and this time he had the advantage of having been healed. A remarkable woman, that healer.



Still wondering how Adeila had managed to get the herbs to act so quickly, he set off on the road in the direction of Thyrault, following the solitary group of hoof prints.

Previous experience with skittish horses suggested that Kendath dismount from his as soon as possible. As soon as his foot left the stirrup, the stallion reared, its forelegs raking the air, and he had to lunge to catch the reins. The beast jerked its head and almost dislocated his arm sockets. Its back hooves skidded against the rim of the bluff, and for a moment it seemed like it'd go over the edge, when a knife of wind sliced among the twisting spires above and blew its mane back into its face.

Wind doesn't whine. Wind doesn't grate against one's teeth and claw through one's skin like nails. At least, it's not supposed to. The horse settled back on all four hooves, its withers trembling. Subconsciously, Kendath pulled tight his cloak and cringed against its warm flank. His hair whipped into his eyes, and he shut them, counted to ten. The wind faded, slithering off Thyrault's groaning walls with a sibiliant whisper. A single ray of sunlight dribbled down from behind the clouds.

Kendath took a breath. "All right. Let's go." And added, as a muttered afterthought, "Before we lose our nerve."

The gates of Thyrault towered before them, under the vines as pristine as they might have looked a few millennia ago. They tethered their horses in a copse of trees at the bottom of the bluff. Their boots thudded with eerie echoes against the ancient, crumbled cobblestones that remained from a merchant road. As they passed through the walls, black arrow slits on the twin guard towers glared down at them.

Ahead of them, the empty streets of Thyrault beckoned. Behind them, the monumental gates banged shut.

-----

Commander Rolan and his men welcomed him with open arms. But then again, it was only polite of them to do so.

His velvety robes murmuring against the stone floor, the Lich glided across the chamber without a glance at the skeletal warriors that prostrated at his feet. They moaned in adoration, their fleshless chins kissing the floor. They knew a master when they beheld one. This, however, did little to impress him. After all, he was used to it.

The lone figure in the center of the chamber still boasted armor that gleamed in the torchlight, with russet-tinged patches of silver winking from the millennia of dust and grime. His movements were mechanical yet oddly graceful, and his breastplate grated as he raised his arms. His lips cracked in what passed for a rictus of a grin. "Welcome, emissary of the Shadowers. You have come a long way. Archmage, is it?"

"No," the Lich replied flatly, without offense, without emotion. "No, not Archmage. But you may call me Lord, as I hail you Commander Rolan, once esteemed warrior of the Renegades."

The noise that issued from Commander Rolan's rotting throat sounded like glass shards raking across stone. The most courageous of men would have wet his breeches at that, but the Lich only looked on with patient dispassion. He waited for Commander Rolan to finsh laughing. "Warrior of the Renegades!" the gaunt figure gasped, sobering with remarkable abruptness. "Does this" - he swept a gauntleted arm around the chamber - "does this look blessed by the gods to you?"

The Lich looked. It might have been a weapons room once, disregarding the swords rusting in their scabbards and the racks gnawed away by a thousand years of termites. Dashing. His fellow conversationist sounded authentically bitter. Except he really didn't care. "Formalities, my dear Commander," he said dryly. "You were Renegade warrior once, and so I name you thus. As I was once lord, but does this look like a lord's finery to you?" He waved the question away. "What matters is this. The gods charged you to stand vigil over this tomb, did they not?"

The skeletal men stirred. Commander Rolan gnashed what remained of his teeth. "Charged! Two thousand years ago! They no longer - "

"And then they forsook you, turned their backs on you, yet trusted you to hold true to that duty, did they not?" the Lich continued, as though he'd never been interrupted.

"Trivial matters of the past, great Lord. I don't see why - "

"What if I told you that the gods have a pet? A little pretty vassal filled to the brim with divine blessings?"

Commander Rolan's skeletal fingers skittered across the pommel of his morning star. "Go on."

The Lich smiled under the silken shadows of his hood. He glanced around, as though to make certain none of the other warriors were listening. Then, for full measure, he leaned in. "Would you like for me to tell you a secret, Commander?"

-----

This obscure village by the sea was, surprisingly enough, almost as amusing as an afternoon of chess in the command tent. It was refreshing. A tad inconvenient, perhaps, but High General Ironlegs liked it.

Of course, he was fully aware that his men were bored. Nothing boosted morale more than a razing of a helpless village, a slaughtering of an amateur militia, and a carting-off of young women. Not that Ironlegs enjoyed any of the three. The officers could do as they liked when he wasn't around, but he preferred a battle against men who knew how to properly hold their swords. However, this village's militia was a rare exception. It was about as amusing to watch as a toddler taking its first steps, and even more so to interact with.

"Lyssa, did you say?"

"That's Mayor Lyssa to you, Meiltha fool!"

The High General bared his fangs in what most people desperately hoped was a friendly smile. "Very well, Mayor Lyssa," he conceded, and the utter absence of mockery in his rumbling baritone made Lyssa narrow her eyes. He continued pacing, around and around the three score of villagers gathered in the commons. The men followed his feline movements in the corners of their eyes and clutched their hoes tighter to their chests. Ironlegs returned their stares with a curt nod, and they hurriedly glued their eyes elsewhere. "Is this your army, Mayor Lyssa?"

A few of the Meiltha soldiers lounging around the town square snickered, but they hastily sobered when their general displayed no sign of humor. Instead he continued pacing, around and around, the muscles in his legs rippling like molten steel in the sunlight. He frowned at Lyssa's silence. "I asked you a question, Mayor."

Lyssa's jaw tightened. In a clipped voice, she answered, "Yes." Then, louder, "Yes, Meiltha. This is my army. Do you know why we'll prove victorious today?" Without waiting for a reponse, she answered herself, "Because we fight for a cause, Meiltha. And when these men... when these brave, noble men lie resting on the field, that cause will be preserved."

High General Ironlegs deemed this worthy of consideration, and went as far as to cease his pacing to ponder her words. "Impressive," he admitted, nodding at his men as though to gain their agreement. He paused a moment longer, then said quietly, "Your women and children are gone, aren't they." Another pause. Long, excruciating.

"I know where they are."

Despite her clenched fists, despite her adamantine will, Lyssa began to tremble.

"Now," Ironlegs continued, softly, soothingly. "Perhaps you can tell me of Mistress Merrin Dragonrider and the gods-kissing traitor."

Half an hour later, sixty-three bodies lay cooling in the village commons. Half an hour later, one sea dragon - the one who'd come with her land-crawling cousins to bring the message to the High General, the one who'd been listening in all along - was gliding along the water toward the abandoned city of Thyrault.

_________________

Merrin started, whirling, as the pair of gates behind them shut with a grating clang. A shiver crept up her spine. How many years had it been since those gates had moved...

Don't think about it. Don't think. Turning, moistening her lips nervously, she trotted to catch up, and like the others eyed her surroundings with more than a touch of wary anticipation. Inside, the walls were no less white, but they looked less gleaming and pristine...bleached by the sun, and reminiscent of dry bones long devoid of flesh. Merrin shuddered at the thought.

Taking a breath, she raised a hand and briefly felt her fingertips tingle with the suggestion of white fire. The action was purely to reassure herself.

The main thoroughfare curved as the wall did, angling into a square with a long-dry fountain in its middle. A slender mermaid, her white marble eyes sightless and her streamlined body pitted from age, was captured in midmotion where water might have once plumed over the wide basin. For the briefest moment, Merrin could imagine the street teeming, servant girls dipping their empty water jars in the fountain. She paused for a moment, reaching to brush her fingertips across the white marble.

Another chill wind swept across the uneven cobblestones, incongruent with the still-blazing sun. It caught her cloak, snapping the silver-grey fabric out before Merrin caught at it with a hand, shivering. In no mood to admire the long-dry fountain any more, Merrin turned to sweep the city with her eyes. It rose by degrees, gradually, to the highest pinnacle rising from what she assumed must be the central palace.

To break the silence seemed almost taboo. "That way," said Merrin, indicating. A chill skittered down her spine as if to confirm her words. She swallowed. Thyrault was far from uninhabited.

The action felt superfluous, and the tingle of fire at her fingertips was far more reassuring, but Merrin wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her saber, drawing some slight confidence from its solidity under her hand. She only scanned the empty, dark windows that lined the streets once. Ahead. Look ahead.

She knew as well as any of them that any threat beyond the physical was her responsibility, and her responsibility only - despite Garthag's intermittent and entirely unreliable bursts of magic - but it didn't stop her drawing closer to Kendath as they walked. Was it only her that felt cold despite the sun overhead?

"Do you - do you feel that?" she inquired hesitantly. "It reminds me..." and, with a surge of apprehension, Merrin knew what it reminded her of. A clifftop swept by freezing wind, overlooking a bloody clash of forces that could only end in disaster. A battle two thousand years ago...

An image flashed in her head, a faceless cowl turning toward her, and Merrin's fingers tightened around the hilt of her saber.

_________________

Adeila instictively pulled drew her cloak closer against the unnatural chill that hung in the air. Svit remained on her shoulder, trembling but refusing to crawl inside the protection of the cloak. Adeila had been a healer for nearly three decades, and as such was no stranger to death. She could sense the presence of life and the lack thereof as naturally as one might observe that it was a bit chilly outside, or that a room was dark. And what she sensed here disturbed her far more deeply than anything else that she had ever witnessed.

There were stories, of course. Whispers of the unnatural demise of the city and the wraiths that now roamed its streets. Rumors of an unseen menace. But these tales were often considered to be myths at best - ghost stories to be told by naughty children who were up past their bedtime. No rational adult believed that there was anything unusual about the ruined city, save that it had well endured the test of time, a trait that was often attributed to craftsmanship rather than anything supernatural.

Yet no rational adult ever ventured near the empty white walls, and no rational adult dared utter its name, save in whispers. Though the stories had long since died out, the intrinsic sense of foreboding remained.

As they walked through the cold, silent, forsaken city, Adeila was inclined to believe that the children had known best all along. There was a pall that clung to the air in the city like a heavy mantle, bearing down on all who dared enter. Many had died here, but this was not death. Death felt empty, but strangely peaceful. There was no peace here. The icy wind that whipped through deserted streets carried an almost voicelike quality - hints and whispers of the lives that once thrived in this pristine city of the gods. Death felt final, the life of an individual coming to a close. But the air in Thyrault bore no such sense of closure. There was no finality to it - only waiting. Something waited, concealed from human eyes. It was waiting...and watching.

They were not alone.

....apologies for the short post, but....until Jhoran reaches the city, there's not that much for him to be doing.

-------------------------

Jhoran picked the berries off of the bush, careful to not take too many or too clustered--if the Meiltha came along behind, as seemed certain, then a pillaged berry bush would be a dead giveaway that others besides animals had passed here. Accustomed as he was to flying with Dawn, walking was more tedious than it was for the average person, and he was taking time to make sure he wasn't leaving a trail, which meant that he wasn't going fast, at best.

About to pop the berries into his mouth, he frowned and picked a bug out from among them. They certainly weren't things that he liked to eat. He flicked it onto the ground, then ate the berries. As the flavour flooded his mouth, he froze. Hoofbeats rang on the road behind him, and he knew that he had not passed Merrin, Kendath, and Adeila yet. Slowly easing himself further into the foliage, he loosened his scimitar in its scabbard.

The horse trotted into view, and Jhoran had only to see the harness to realize that it was Meiltha. A forward scout. The rider peered around at the trees hedging the road in, yet confidence oozed out of him. Jhoran silently drew his scimitar completely. Overconfidence always begged to be exploited.

As the scout drew abreast of Jhoran, the dragonrider changed his strategy, deciding that the distance between the trees and the rider was too great to be covered swiftly enough. Instead, he drew and threw his dagger in a quick motion. It hit the Meiltha in the throat with a sickening thunk, and the rider toppled, still holding the reins.

Jhoran darted out of the forest, grabbing the reins before the horse could tear them out of the hands of its dead rider, and vaulted into the saddle, severing the Meiltha's hand as he did so, so that the corpse no longer dragged at the bridle. The hand could be pried off later.

Digging in his heels, he started the horse off on the road at a much faster clip than he had been going--now he was outrunning the Meiltha.

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Empty threats. The wind that hissed between the walls, the chill that slid its fingers through the air. Empty threats, all of them, and Kendath almost - almost - wished that whatever lurked in this forsaken place would hurry up and attack them already. Physical foes he could handle, even unnatural ones like the Meiltha necromancers were so fond of dragging from the netherplane. As long as blade shattered bone, it was tangible; it was familiar. But this foreboding, this ever-growing mantle on his mind, this he had no way of battling.

Their enemies were crushing them, sensation by sensation, shiver by shiver, before they even reached the palace.

Gold still gilded the gates to the wealthy district, and it winked in a taunting parody of welcome as they passed through. The marble edifices expanded on either side of them, their shadows groping at the ornate fountains and sheltered gardens, where the carcasses of flowers bent beneath a sun that was blinding one moment and muted the next. The intruders' footsteps thudded across the crumbled cobblestones. Suddenly, without comprehending how, they were standing before the narrow footbridge of the palace.

By all appearances, nothing set the palace apart from the rest of Thyrault. The same cracked marble, the same windows that leered out like hollow eye sockets. The battlements that had once repelled armies stood humiliated before the vines that infiltrated them now. Gryphons frozen in vigilance, their rubied eyes squinting from the corrosion of the surrounding stone, perched in intervals on either side of the span.

It was, perhaps, an extraordinary feat that Kendath had walked half the length of Thyrault without flinching. Now he stood at the threshold of the entire reason they'd entered in the first place, and he was terrified out of his mind.

He stole a glance at Adeila. She was ashen, but she appeared to be weathering this remarkably well, for a healer from a secluded fishing village. Despite his suspicions, he had to admire her fortitude. That, or the purse of whoever might have recruited her. His gaze slid over to Merrin, whose fingers paled against the hilt of her sabre. The wind snapped her cloak around her slender shoulders, which quivered no matter how straight she stood. His hand crept up to her arm and offered it a squeeze, as much for his own sake as for hers. She, at least, was flesh and blood.

No turning back. Swallowing his apprehension, he set his foot onto the footbridge.

And those threats ceased to be empty.

His head exploded - no, something exploded in his head. Heart stifling his breath, blood searing through his veins with exquisite agony, he fell to his knees, his eyes squeezed shut against the bursts of white and scarlet. Someone was screaming, and then a foreign voice joined his own.

"Won't surrender! Never surrender! Not taken, not taken... WE'LL NEVER FALL!"

Laughter echoed, hoarse and mirthless, but who - how - Because the voice was no longer one but a thousand, screaming through the blood choking their throats as they poured forth, again and again, driving against those once-pristine walls, yet no one cared because this was battle, when steel clashed on steel and ten lives, twenty lives, didn't matter... nothing mattered...

"Never fall. Never fall." The reflection of flames writhed like serpents against the blade's icy steel. A gauntleted fist closed around the hilt. "You can't take us. No... we'll never..." Again that mirthless laughter. The armored figure turned towards its victim, blade lifted high. Loathing twisted its face... that face...

"Death will not defeat me," whispered the man on the ground. His own sword lay, snapped in twain, beside his severed hand. "The honor of the gods endures beyond death."

The Meiltha general only sneered and brought his blade down.

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The saber blade was insubstantial, the mere flickering suggestion of an insignificant weapon. From pure instinct Merrin brought it up to parry a blow...but the blow wasn't there. As if in a dream, she turned - so slowly - aware that Kendath had been somewhere to her right, Adeila behind her. She didn't know how she was still standing. Flashes of steel, fleeting as her own appeared, slashed through the air briefly and were gone. The storm of battle roared in her ears. Flashes of black, crimson, blinding white seared the air.

A dragon crashed to earth in the horrible vision that enveloped them, one wing crumpled and unusable. Blood pooled beneath it. Merrin could hear its dying gasps, its vibrant sapphire eyes glazing in death. The rider doubled over in the agony she felt through their mental link, her screams mingling with the unbearable noise all around them.

Fire seared. Another wyrm, black as night, sprayed flame at the pair. Words, even breath, choking in her throat, Merrin fought the numbing incapability to move. Vermilion fire - dark fire - white fire -

She screamed her wordless defiance, the saber in her hand forgotten, and flung out a hand even as flame turned her fingertips white. It mingled with the flood of crimson, mingled and overran. The world turned blazing, blinding white...

...and Merrin was on her hands and knees, choking for breath, on the solid flagstones of the footbridge. She reeled and had to lean on the crumbling rail for support when she got to her feet, until her head cleared of fiery images and her ears stopped ringing. A step forward brought a renewed onslaught. This time Merrin squeezed her eyes shut, fists clenched so hard they ached, and drove the mental explosion away. When she opened them all was as it had been. But there was nothing to keep it so.

Her heart was thudding loud enough to be heard by every spirit in this gods-cursed place. Merrin breathed in, out. "I don't know how long we have," she gasped, probing for that terrible overwhelming tide of battle. "Go. Let's go."

She said a prayer for every step of the footbridge.

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When Merrin hastened on, Kendath remained for a moment longer, bent double, both hands gripping the pedestal of a stone gryphon. Summon the vision again, summon it, bring it back - but no, was he mad? Just for a second though, long enough to again see that face. That face, with its sneering lips and blue-gray eyes. No. No, it wasn't possible, not two thousand years ago, not bearing the sword of a Meiltha warlord. He had enough on his mind, without his imagination running rampant.

Two more breaths, inhale, exhale, before he straightened. The gryphon's ruby eyes glinted, laughing at him. He swallowed and returned its stare. Flexing his fists at his sides as though preparing for battle, he hurried after Merrin.

By the time they'd passed between the charred palace gates, the clouds had darkened to a drab shade, not quite gray and not quite brown, as clouds often do in the silence before the storm. Kendath stopped three steps beyond the gates, uncertain of what he was seeing.

The courtyard didn't exist. It had existed once, he realized upon moving away from the shadow of the gatehouse. Once, it might have been expansive, with the keep dominating its center surrounded by barracks and mews. Now, what he'd initially thought to be a black void was, in actuality, a crater. Sometime during the battle two thousand years ago, a fireball of impossible proportions might have sailed over the battlements and struck the courtyard with such force that everything - keep and outbuildings - had incinerated on impact. All that remained now was the indentation, the blackened, empty crater where even the most scraggly hints of life dared not venture.

Perhaps not quite so empty. At its very bottom was a recess, a darker hole that drew the shadows. Pale sunlight flashed from behind the blanket of clouds and fell upon what looked like stairs.

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