Chapter 10

  We had crossed the Sothar Memorial Bridge in silence. The massive, iron structure seemed to groan under our weight, or perhaps it was just the resonance of the dead souls that made us feel it. The silence was so dense that Gravor’s sarcastic comments ceased—even he seemed to respect the dark reverence of this place.

  The moment we reached the other end of the bridge and Luken’s boots touched the immaculate, living rock of the Black Woods territory again, it happened.

  A magical, barely noticeable pulse was triggered. It was not an explosion, no thunderclap, but an ultra-low frequency perceived not by the ear, but by the marrow. It felt as if a massive, invisible seal was briefly activated and then gently settled back to rest.

  The pulse not only echoed in the rocks but also seemed to spread into the nearby forests, ringing softly there. The birds abruptly fell silent; the foliage trembled unnaturally for a moment.

  Shit.

  The reaction was instinctive and simultaneous among all of us. The coldness of the discovery settled over the heat of historical rage.

  “They now know of our arrival,” I informed the others. My voice was low and strained. I hardly needed to explain; they understood exactly what had happened. The entire bridge had been a gigantic, magical sensor that instantly registered any physical crossing.

  Maira, recovering quickly from the surprise, commented hesitantly: “Perhaps. The guards received an impulse that something crossed the border. But they can’t see us yet… presumably.” She nervously scanned the area with her black, focused eyes, looking for optical magic.

  “Unless they have Astral Transmission technology,” Arik added. His voice was flat and devoid of emotion, but the implied danger was significant.

  I only nodded, feeling Gravor’s knowledge flow through my mind.

  Astral Transmission was an extremely expensive, though magically based, communication or espionage capability. It was not a simple mirror spell. The technique required specialized crystals and high magical capacity, as it could create a real-time projection of other, distant locations. And without the crystals, it required even more power. Through it, one could not only see but even communicate with people on the other side. The Cryptomancers had probably not used the technique at the inn, as it was a difficult art that, until now, only noble houses with unlimited resources and kings possessed.

  “Exactly,” I thought aloud, adding to my own considerations. “That’s not everyday magic. It requires a permanent anchor and special training…”

  Vin shook her head, her face expressionless, but her eyes sparked. Her confirmation was sober and paralyzing in its danger.

  “They have it,” Vin answered. “Definitely.”

  She crossed her arms and looked at us one by one. “During my ‘relationship’ with Thivan Sothar, I saw quite a bit in the palace. They used Astral Transmission for secure communication with distant military outposts in the North and South. It wasn't a secret how it was done, only why it was done.”

  She spat out the word 'relationship' with contempt. “Thivan loved to showcase this technology to demonstrate his power. He had crystals at every strategic control point in the realm. And the Sothar Memorial Bridge is the most strategic control point of all.”

  The full, unvarnished meaning struck Luken.

  They are not just seeing us; they can observe us in real-time. Our faces, our equipment, the complete composition of the group.

  “That means, right now…” Maira began, her voice now barely a whisper.

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  “Right now,” I finished, Gravor’s anger echoing within me, “they know that I, the Paladin who supposedly disappeared abroad, am back. They see Vin, the thief of the royal house. They see Arik, the Ashblood with the demonic blood. And they see you, Maira, a servant of the Plague Father.”

  I shook my head. “This is no longer an arrival. This is an open declaration of war on Thivan Sothar. He is not just waiting for us. He is actively preparing.”

  I looked across the former fields of the dead, into the dark, forested foothills of the Black Woods. The landscape suddenly seemed hostile and vigilant.

  Thivan has seen us. He knows who his enemies are, and above all, who his betrayer is.

  I felt the cold steel of betrayal and confrontation in my stomach. “We need to get off the road. Immediately. And we need a new plan.”

  -

  “We need a new plan, my Lord,” Corven said with a dry, respectful urgency in his voice. He stood stiffly in the heated command area of the large tent that served as Reyn’s mobile headquarters.

  The tent camp was near the northern border, at the crossing to the Midlands. The Broken Heart of the East (Caleon) was still a few hundred miles away, but the army had advanced far in the five days since the march began. The troops were resting; the bustling activity of the camp—the sharpening of weapons on whetstones, the clanking of armor, the muffled commands—was the only backdrop noise.

  Corven, the former Champion of the Lord of Shadow and Storm, had to deliver bad news. Although Corven was still Reyn's personally most powerful warrior, Reyn would never forget the knight's retreat before the battle. The relationship was characterized by respect, but also cold distance.

  “What is the problem?” Reyn asked sharply. His voice was deep and authoritative. He was sitting at a massive map table, the map of Tirros marked with notations and magical glowing trails.

  Naturally, he could not ignore the concerns of his people, regardless of the relationship between them. Corven, especially, was important to him; even if he was no longer entirely in Reyn’s favor, his expertise as an experienced strategist was beneficial for the upcoming crusade.

  Therefore, the Lord of Storm felt almost—but only almost—a spark of uncertainty when he saw how hurried and restless the Warrior-Knight seemed. Corven was almost sinking into his own heavy armor. He was definitely feeling uncertainty—fear of the consequences of this news.

  “The rumors, the messengers, they say… they…” Corven stammered frantically, his eyes darting nervously between Reyn and the tent door. He then composed himself by clasping his hands behind his back, while Reyn waited impatiently, the lightning in his eyes already flickering.

  “The news is spreading,” he now said more calmly, fear replaced by the necessity of duty, “that Caleon is being reunified. By Prince Thivan Sothar. All major houses—including the Grey Lords—have sealed the new alliance. The Broken Heart is no longer broken.”

  Silence. A tense, gloomy silence filled the tent. The energy in Reyn's presence pressed down on the air. Only the sharpening of weapons on whetstones and the other busy activity in the camp could still be heard.

  Without a word, Reyn sat down at the table. He reached for a fresh piece of parchment and a dark quill. He immediately began to write, his movements precise and cold. Corven dared not disturb him—the penalty for interrupting the Lord in his concentration was well known to him.

  The only sign of the Lord of Shadow and Storm’s tension were the uncontrolled purple lightning bolts that briefly and irregularly snaked around his left arm, filling the air with the smell of ozone. He absorbed the information and transformed it directly into strategy.

  Corven waited silently; the five minutes felt like an eternity.

  Suddenly, Reyn stopped. He put the quill aside and wordlessly motioned Corven with a quick hand gesture to take the three described pieces of parchment, all marked with Reyn’s unmistakable signature.

  “Caleon as a unified power is an obstacle we cannot ignore,” Reyn now said, his voice monotonous and very dangerous. “Sothar has sowed chaos for ten years to reap order. The goal is good; the method is obstructive to our purpose. His unified magic and stubborn army will cost us time we do not have.”

  He fixed his gaze on Corven. “But Sothar has made a major political mistake. He has unified the realm, but only the realm of men. The enemies of the Expulsion are still out there. And they hate Caleon more than they hate us.”

  “Deliver these letters to the representatives of possible allies in the North,” Reyn commanded, his voice growing sharper. “The Orcs, the Dark Elves, and the last neutral Barbarian Clans. All of them were ostracized or persecuted by Caleon.”

  Reyn smiled coldly. “Tell them that I can offer them lucrative deals if they join us to defeat Caleon. Our goals intersect perfectly here. The Orcs want their old land back. The Dark Elves want revenge for the Inquisition. And the Barbarians hate every form of centralized, human rule.”

  He leaned forward. “I invite them with pleasure to discuss the details. I will offer them more than freedom. I offer them dominion over what remains.”

  Wordlessly, Corven took the three parchments, bowed deeply, and left the tent. He knew what he held in his hand: alliances with the historical enemies of the entire human civilization.

  Reyn sat alone at his table. He stared at the map, at the red-marked Caleon.

  Thivan, you build walls. But I will tear them down with the weapons of your own history.