The Adani Chronicles: Birthright
Chapter 8

The Dragonback Mountains ran north and south the entire length of Adan; from the Northern Wastelands all the way to the Amaranthine Sea, where they disappeared into the water reluctantly, a line of islands the final resistance against the inevitable, for the sea swallowed them up several hundred leagues south of the shoreline. Legend said the entire range had once been an army of dragons, a battle line when the forces of Skeðu first marched against the Astra. The immortal agents of Aeos had left their blessed home in the Isle of Emai, far to the East, to confront Skeðu’s army. They held the line just east of Neth Heoran. The greatest of them partnered with the Dawnmages of the Eloni to conjure such a spell as had not been seen in Adan before or since. They soul-bound an Astra by the name of Konn with the greatest elven Dawnmage in history, Tarya Darksbane. The result was the purest form of Light Magic the world had yet seen, so intense that the pair had to wear hoods or helms at all times to avoid blinding their own allies.

It was during the Vast Battle they finally revealed themselves and their full power, working their way deep into the mass of Skeðu’s servants before uncovering themselves. The Light from their faces combined with their bloodcurdling war cry to create a shock wave which turned the battle quickly and permanently to their allies. Great swathes of the dark battlefront were destroyed, turned instantly to ash by the Light. Most of the ones who remained were mowed down by the thousands of Eloni knights and Astran warriors who still lived and fought.

All but the dragons. As old and nearly as powerful as the Astra themselves, the ancient beasts were slowed but not destroyed by the Light, pure as it was. Instead, Konn and Tarya turned them all to stone, trapping them where they stood, creating the Dragonbacks in the process.

Skeðu they banished to The Lorn, the empty space where is Nothing, and bound him there, to pay for his crimes and to prevent his further interference in the fate of Adan. It was said he would someday break free, at the End of Ages; that he would return to the World, break the stone surrounding his dragons, and war again against Aeos and the Astra.

But that was not for many years to come, and in the meantime, the mountain range, steeped as it was in the darkest and lightest of magics in turn, was home to bizarre creatures, dangerous terrain, and the most intense weather in all of Adan. Magic the strength of what Konn and Tarya wielded was not without cost, nor without lasting effect. The pair had died not long after the Vast Battle, untouched by sword or spear or arrow, but burned out from the magic within. In the place where they had stood, in the very midst of what had been Skeðu’s line, there grew up a wood over the centuries. It was a cursed place, most said, comprised of impossibly tall, thick trees that took every sound and reflected it back tenfold. Echowoods, they were named, and they towered over the whole of the Darksbane Forest, black from root to crown. The effect of sunlight shining through such a thick black canopy would be arresting, indeed, but it was not known since none who entered that forest ever returned alive. Some who had traveled near it said the woods echoed with moans, strange cries, and the laughter of children—that, combined with the disappearances, kept all but the most stupid from braving the trees. Even the Val’gren avoided the place.

Echowood, therefore, was exceedingly costly. The strong, dark, limber wood was found deep within the Darksbane; the only way to acquire it was to pull out any branches the river happened to wash down as it flowed through the wood. A small figurine carved from true echowood would make a man rich for life, and the lucky few who had managed to come by an entire felled trunk or thick branch could feed their next three generations off the coin.

But when Ryn had stumbled across a bough as long as she was tall eight years prior, she hadn’t even considered that for a moment. She’d been a bit busy with trouble, actually, fighting a gang of dirty, angry bandits who had a mind to sell her down in the barbarian city of Ongrund, far to the south. They had kicked her feet from under her—she was barely seventeen summers at the time, still young and inexperienced—and her scrabbling fingers had closed around the smooth wood, warm from the sun. Even as one of them yanked her to him by her feet and rolled her onto her back, she’d brought the makeshift staff around with all her might. The branch sang as it moved, striking the bandit full across the head as he straddled her and knocking him completely unconscious to lie in the grass at her side.

Ryn had scrambled to her feet, swinging and spinning the branch as best she knew how, calling on her small knowledge of sword craft—for she had spent many an hour as a child observing the knights and squires in her uncle’s service. When she had temporarily wounded all four of the large men, she had run for it.

She never went anywhere without the rod of echowood after that. Over the years, she had smoothed the knots away, all but the twisted one at the end, large as her two fists together, letting that tangle naturally as it would and using it as a club end when she fought. She painstakingly carved various runes into the beautiful wood, spelled it to resist wear and tear and breakage, with the help of one of the Tribe during her brief time with them—not that it needed it, as echowood was nigh on indestructible—and worked on wielding the thing until she could easily kill with it. It was her most prized possession, as much an extension of her will and body as Kota was.

And they beat her with it.

Kudrack had ordered her Branded that first day after she awoke tied to a tree. The sigil had burned the tender skin of her forearm far worse than seemed warranted, but Ryn was unsurprised by this. She had heard of the Val’gren using such arcane measures in their sacrifices; spells and sigils intended to push the unfortunate victim past the limits of their mental or emotional capacity for pain, even as the physical torment ravaged their bodies. Supposedly, it made the sacrifice more powerful, the complete destruction of an entire person; body, soul, and spirit.

What was a little surprising was that nagrat were using it. The practice was generally looked down upon by the nagrat Large Clans, the ones who still held to their Old Ways, from before the Val’gren had seduced and enslaved their race. The Old Ways made killing a glorious act that directly reflected one’s skill and brought honor to his clan, but torture was eschewed as undignified and pointless.

Clearly Kudrack’s band did not care for the Old Ways.

For five days, it had been the same. The nagrat broke camp every dawn, bound her to the back of a smelly, filthy chimaera like a sack of potatoes, and rode north all day. As the sun neared the western horizon, when she was sore and jangled from her ride, she became the evening entertainment while they awaited their dinner; each night they started off with her hair, jostling her between them, alternately yanking out handfuls of the dark curls and sawing at them with daggers. Then they beat her, poked and prodded her with sticks and spear butts and boots, to see how much she would take. This part Ryn bore silently, refusing to give them the satisfaction, which unfortunately, seemed to make the game more fun for them. It was disheartening; the few times Ryn had been captured in her time alone—once by bandits and once by a small band of nagrat, much less experienced than these, merely a scouting band—her silence had gone far toward frustrating and distracting her enemies, enabling her escape. That trick did not work here, had not worked for nearly a week now.

After supper—at which time she received a clay cup of dirty water, her only nourishment for the day—she had the distinct non-privilege of a few hours with Kudrack. He was both cunning and ruthless with his rack and his tools, she had learned. She had a feeling the nagrat were under strict orders not to kill her—to begrudge their Val’gren Master of the honor would be death—but they were doing their very best to tiptoe right up to the line.

Tonight, Ryn’s thoughts drifted as she awaited Kudrack, strapped cruelly to a makeshift table the nagrat had built from branches and stones. Random twigs and points of rock poked at her, but they were more nuisance than pain, her mind nowhere near here.

Of enemies, she had no short supply. Life on the road was hard, and she knew personally of kobolds, the little man-like creatures interested only in gold and vicious mischief; the hairless ones, re-animated bodies of the dead that sometimes wandered within swamps and other places of filth; sprites and chimaeras and wild animals that would as soon eat her as look at her. There were even regular folk who’d fallen on hard times, or just enjoyed their mean streak—pirates on the sea, bandits on land—who would rob folk before murdering them outright.

All of them Ryn had dealt with personally at least once in her past.

She was mostly sure no experience had ever been this brutal. She came back to the moment as Kudrack stomped toward her—he seemed angry tonight—and without preamble, sliced deeply into the tender skin of her belly with his short knife. He knew enough about human anatomy not to hit any organs, but the pain was incredible anyway, and Ryn whimpered. It was not the first of these small, deep punctures she had received—nor was it likely to be the last—but that in no way meant she’d grown used to the pain of them. To the contrary—the sigil made it such that the pain seemed only to grow, never lessen, under its influence. The bruises and lacerations she’d received three days ago hurt as though they were happening at this very moment, just as badly as the slice she had just been given moments before.

It was intense in a way she wasn’t sure she could handle much more of.

The worst of it was, Kudrack never even asked her any questions. There was no chance to earn a respite while she blathered an aimless answer, nothing with which to distract herself from the ongoing agony. The brute was entirely devoid of commentary the whole time, and Ryn didn’t like to admit how unnerving it was.

Not that she hadn’t tried to remedy that part of the situation. She had tried for four days to goad Kudrack into some sort of response that she could control, even a little bit. She had remained completely silent throughout his torture, just to annoy him. She had screamed insults, threats, and curses. She had cried and even gone so far as to beg for mercy, a break, anything; but he would just smile and continue his work.

Tonight, worn weary by the unrelenting torture, she finally sobbed, hoarsely, “What is it you want from me?!”

Kudrack smiled and slid his crude blade across Ryn’s exposed skin before stabbing again, just to the left of her belly button. The Hunt Chief leaned in, close enough for Ryn to smell the rotting flesh of his last meal on his breath. Her stomach churned with pain and nausea as she tried to jerk away, to no avail. Her bonds were quite snug.

The nagrat sniffed once, enjoying the scent of her fear, licked a smear of blood from her cheek. Ryn flinched, and hated herself for it.

“Kudrack wants you to suffer,” he whispered, and sliced her, hard and deep and fast, from right hip to knee. Ryn screeched in agony. The abuse continued for hours more, for Kudrack was in rare form tonight. The shadows in the forest grew long, and the air grew chill. Ryn stopped shivering after a while, when her body seemed to decide she couldn’t spare the energy for it. Her screaming degenerated into breathless gasps and the occasional moan.

Eventually, the monster decided she’d had enough. Still silent, he snapped his fingers, and two of his lackeys lumbered over, releasing her from the table and yanking her off of it. She shuddered as they jostled her roughly, lances of pain piercing through her bruises and cuts, old and new, but had no more energy to protest. They dragged her across the camp, letting the lower-ranking nagrat jeer and throw stones as she was paraded toward tonight’s precarious-looking lean-to guarded by three massive hunters. They dropped her unceremoniously inside and trussed her up, tying her legs together and restraining her hands behind her back. She wished they’d left her hands in front; she needed to stop the bleeding from her various lacerations if she could.

Left alone with no way to stay warm, Ryn curled into the closest approximation of the fetal position that she could possibly manage, restrained as she was. Her head ended up near her knees in a futile attempt to retain heat and manage some semblance of pressure for her bleeding wounds, but it took a lot of effort to remain in that position with her hands bound behind her back. She was forced to give it up mere minutes later, swallowing a sob as her abdomen began bleeding sluggishly again. She shivered against the dirt, trying not to think about how much pain she was in, trying not to think of her matted, ripped out hair or her tormentors, sitting round a blazing fire and eating venison, something that would normally have smelled tempting, if she wasn’t currently battling crippling nausea in addition to her pain.

Five days. Five days of this nonsense they had put her through, never asking any questions or giving any demands beyond “I want you to suffer”; stabbing, cutting, punching, kicking, all with the undercurrent of that insidious Val’gren magic that wouldn’t allow her body to rest or recover.

Wait.

Ryn’s eyes widened in the darkness as she realized it, kicking herself for not thinking of this days ago. The sigil! The sigil was a good portion of what made this so impossible to bear—the building pain, no break, no rest, just more and more pain til she nearly went mad with it—that was all the sigil’s work! She knew basically where on her arm it was. If she could break it, she could hold out until…well, escape seemed unlikely, given the size of this group, but maybe once she could think straight she’d be able to manage it. She did not dare hope for rescue.

“Hate this,” she heard one of her guards mutter, and found herself agreeing with the brute. It was a damned appalling situation all around. She gleaned a tiny bit of satisfaction that, for whatever reason, her enemies—or at least one of them—was enjoying this about as much as she. Ryn cast about in the darkness for something sharp. A rock, a stick, anything would do. She just needed the tiniest nick on the symbol itself to render it inert. “Should be on the Hunt,” the raspy voice continued. A scuff followed, as though he had kicked the ground in frustration.

Ryn knew the feeling.

“Should,” a second, more nasal, voice agreed. This one’s voice was grating, like the scream of a vixen in heat, and made her cringe. The slight motion made her hiss in discomfort, earning a kick against the lean-to that shook the thing precariously.

“Quiet!” the first guard hissed. “’Fore we make you.” They both chuckled wickedly at the threat.

Ryn resisted the urge to kick back, simply on principle. She needed them to talk to each other, to leave her be. She lay very still. A few moments later, their complaints started up again. “Want to hunt the runt princes,” the nasally one whined, and if his voice had been cringe-worthy before, now it was downright painful. Ryn moved her hands slowly over the ground, praying, hoping for something that could cut her skin. Her stomach lurched as a hard object pricked her finger. A broken piece of wood, as far as she could tell, long enough to reach the blasted burn on her arm. She positioned it slowly, turning it so the point rested at her wrist.

“Gotta catch ’em while they’re away from home,” the growly one said. “Never be able t’snatch ‘em from their stinkin’ city.” Ryn moved the stick’s point carefully up her arm until she felt it touch the aching sigil. At the contact, agony radiated from the brand, and she almost gave up.

Think of Kota. Think of your friends.

Think of yourself.

She pressed, firmly but carefully—she needed to nick the symbol, not kill herself—and swallowed a whimper as she felt the wood sink into her flesh.

“They’s s’pposed to be movin’ south,” the other nagrat carped. “Don’ ev’n know why we stopped for this little slut.” He kicked the side of her lean-to again, and Ryn jumped, hand slipping, causing her to yank the wood far harder than she’d intended across her forearm. She yelped at the pain before she could stop herself.

Deep into their grievances now, the guards ignored her entirely.

“But Râza’ll be pleased t’have her, know?”

Ryn barely heard him. It had worked—the pain of her injuries from days past had lessened considerably, to a much more normal level for old cuts and bruises—but her arm was on fire. The ache was deeper than ever, and she could feel hot blood pouring over her fingers and the wooden shiv.

Oh no.

She felt the ice in her veins, forming thicker with every beat of her traitorous heart. Her arm hurt so badly she had trouble concentrating, and blood continued to pour even though she’d clamped her fingers over it as best she could in her position. Her head screamed with agony, her hearing was going fuzzy, like she was underwater. And through it all, cold flowed its slow but inexorable way through every fiber of her being, numbing.

I am not ready.

The thought struck her like the sky-fire on the plains. She had thought herself prepared for death, near as it often was in her line of work.

The coins are not returned to Talos. I cannot die yet.

So it was thoughts of her lost brother that were the last, before the pain and nausea finally became too much and Ryn’s world went black.

It was nearing sunset when Evin finally realized the truth of where they stood. It had been coming on for nearly two days, ever since they’d defeated the wyvern. Brandt had been energetic, almost sprightly, for the first hour or two after they left their ransacked camp. He had run as though they were racing along the parapet back home, turning ever so often to shout encouragement to Evin, who huffed along behind, carrying Kota as gently as possible on his shoulders, wincing as each breath pulled his own bruised ribs. But as the hours wore on, Brandt had succumbed to his wounds; the sun was high in the sky as he grew silent and pale. Later he slowed, and by midafternoon he had stopped entirely. He’d fought for breath, damaged ribs protesting every intake of oxygen, the pain of his arm making itself known.

Evin had suggested they walk for a bit.

That had been the day before. They had struck camp near sunset, in a cleft of sharp gray rock, despite Brandt’s very vocal protestations. “The nagrat do not stop to rest,” he had growled.

“The nagrat are not near falling where they stand.”

Salted beef and hard bread had been their spartan dinner, for neither of them were daft enough to suggest starting a fire. Evin had changed Brandt’s bandages, applied a salve he’d cobbled together from elderberry and cat’s claw, checked to see if the stubborn man had done any lasting damage to his ribs, and sent his brother to bed. Exhausted beyond measure, he had crawled into his own bedroll minutes later. He’d uttered a quick prayer to the Master of Light that no enemies would replace them this night, for he knew that if they did, their sad little party was unlikely to survive the encounter.

But the darkest hours had passed, uneventful, and now the sun was cresting the horizon while Kota wheezed at his feet, bandages bloody and the heat from a poison-induced fever obvious even through Evin’s clothes. It was a poor sign. He hadn’t mentioned it, and neither had Brandt, but they both knew that the nagrat’s tracks were leading them ever closer to the northern border of Laendor—that they would soon leave friendly lands entirely and be well inside the Val’gren’s own kingdom, Karokhim. There were practical considerations to be made for that—Evin couldn’t imagine Brandt was blind to the fact that Uncle would bust both their heads if he found out they’d been bumbling about in enemy territory; and if they were caught, it would not go well with either of them were their identity to be discovered. He hoped beyond hope that Brandt was wrong, that the nagrat were stopping for frequent, and long, resting periods. That they would be able to somehow sneak into a heavily guarded enemy camp and rescue their friend. That they could do it without being seen, for the nagrat numbered too many to defeat with two of them and a huge lynx, even if they’d been at their peak, and they were none of them at that, certainly.

And there was Kota. Evin knew Brandt’s arm was blazing with pain and hot with fever, but for some incomprehensible biological reason, the saliva of wyvern was non-lethal while its claws held the toxin that could end a life. The lynx had received more than a fair share of said poison, and it showed in his shallow breathing, painfully-fast heartbeat, and the heat that raged through his body. Frankly, Evin was surprised the lynx was still alive. That’s when he realized.

They weren’t going to be able to continue the hunt. How could they, in such a state?

He reached down to bury freezing fingers in Kota’s damp, limp fur. The lynx growled softly at his touch—even that much contact hurt him now—and Evin drew his hand back, stung.

“He worsened overnight.” Brandt’s voice behind him didn’t startle Evin, for he knew his brother’s movements like he knew his own. Instead, he simply nodded once to confirm the elder’s suspicions. Tired as he’d been, Evin had woken every hour to check on Kota, and he had watched the creature fail as the hours passed, hopelessness settling in his breast, right beside the still-festering guilt. It was a near-physical pain now, a knot the size of a small boulder inside his rib cage, squeezing the life out of his very soul.

“We cannot keep up the pursuit,” Brandt continued, softly, as though he expected Evin to push back, to argue with him. The younger wanted to, oh how he wanted to rail and protest and fight the idea that they should leave their guide—their friend—in the hands of the nagrat; but he knew better. Kota would die; there was little anyone could do about it now. Wyvern poison was very much real, as the legends said, and very deadly. Brandt was injured and unable to fight as well as usual. Evin himself was exhausted and badly bruised. They could not take on an entire hunting party of the barbarians like this.

“Thaliondris is not far,” his brother’s voice was low, comforting, and Evin felt a big hand warm on his shoulder. He shivered; he hadn’t realized he was cold. His answer stuck in his throat, and he had to cough before he managed to get it out, thick and quiet.

“Then let us make for the City of Healing, brother.” Evin swallowed against that hard stone of guilt and grief in his chest. “Kota will be more comfortable there, and I want that arm of yours taken proper care of.” He looked up at Brandt, finally, breath catching as he noticed that his brother looked much worse for wear; barely better than their lynx did, even. His eyes were sunken and dull, rimmed with red. His cheeks were bright with fever, scarlet against his gray skin. He even held himself differently, half-slumped and exhausted. The Heir needed Healers, and soon. Immediately.

And yet, his heart was divided still. “But...Ryn?”

Brandt sighed, tired eyes projecting the same regret Evin himself felt. “I am sorry.”

She was poised atop a rocky hill overlooking a valley. She did not recognize the place; green meadows and tidy farms stretched before her, far as the horizon. Neat little roads provided paths between, and as she looked she could make out marketplaces and small towns, great cities and tiny hovels. On either side, magnificent mountains rose from the flat earth, rugged and steep. To her left, the sun shone on white stone—the bones of the mountain range white as any human’s. On these grew mighty forests and strips of rich grasses and wildflowers. Deer and hares and great cats roamed freely, and the birds sang happily.

But a cold wind blew upon her skin from her right, drawing her attention as her skin pimpled with gooseflesh. This mountain range was rugged and beautiful, as well, though in such a different way as to be day and night. Sharp rocks and barely-balanced boulders cracked in the freezing air. Nothing grew at all, the blackened stone foundations of the right-side mountain range visible for all to see. The soil was hard and dry, and only the most twisted of plants grew there, stunted and tough, with thorns to protect them from the wild beasts that roamed. Of those, she could see several kinds—chimaeras, wyvern, a true dragon seated firmly upon one of the taller peaks. He was bigger than anything Ryn had ever seen, easily equal in size to one of the smaller mountains near the fringe of the range, and all black from head to tail tip. He did not appear to see her, roaring now and then and bathing the black mountains with his fiery breath, seemingly for the sheer pleasure of it. Oddly, the fire seemed to possess no heat.

The light faded over the valley, and night came as she watched. The dark rolled across her field of vision, seeming to come from the Black Mountains and the dragon seated upon them, consuming everything it touched. She watched in horror as the inky blackness of night reached the farmhouse nearest it; the moment it contacted the wood of the little house, the structure faded to dust, along with the echoed screams of its inhabitants. Ryn tried to cry out but found her voice silenced, her legs paralyzed, could only stand there and observe as the Dark destroyed everything it kissed, the green valley turning brown and desolate before her very eyes. Ryn resisted the urge to cover her ears at the screams echoing around her—if she did nothing to help, she could at least endure their cries. Tears stung her eyes.

A puff of air tickled her right ear and ruffled her hair, startling her. It rumbled into a low growl as she turned slowly to regard a massive silver chimaera, all black eyes, razor-sharp teeth, and curved claws. The monster stood so close Ryn could smell its putrid breath rolling over her. She stumbled back in silent shock, tripping clumsily on her own feet, as the chimaera followed her with its eyes. Upon its back sat a massive Val’gren, deliberately-patterned ritual scars standing out in sharp relief to the blue light the moon cast on his white skin. Ryn knew little of their culture, though she knew more than most, and the scars were marks of those a Val’gren had killed. This one, staring haughtily down at her, had killed hundreds.

Râza.

Now she remembered! She had heard the name of the Val’gren war chief when her mother told her of the Sons of Laendor. Râza was the one responsible for the death of King Bjorn and nine of his ten sons; the eldest, Prince Hakon, had been the one to defeat him.

Defeat him.

He was defeated. Dead. Gone and doubtless a rotted carcass somewhere in the deep, dark places of the world. Nothing more than a legend now, a tale told to make naughty children mind their parents.

Then why had the guard said Râza would be pleased to have her turned over to him?

A clawing of panic stirred in her gut. The stories only said the Val’gren had been defeated, not killed. What if he was back? She thought, with a jolt of fear, about the reputation she’d been building for the last decade—Draugr, the Phantom, bane of Val’gren scouts and harasser of all things evil. Leyna, the Guardian of Roads. Surely, it was no large stretch, after ten years, for such rumors to have reached the war chief of the justifiably-feared Val’gren.

What had she done?

She heard a shout of her name and tore her eyes from the horrifying creature beside her to two men that seemed to be fighting the encroaching destruction. It took her a moment to recognize them, so bright were they to her eyes, beings of light and courage with flaming swords, pushing back the Dark. Evin, mischief in his eyes and honey in his words, taunted the wraith-like creatures that harried him, while steady Brandt hacked mercilessly at the slender tendrils of Black that kept trying to worm their way between the brothers. They fought back to back and side to side, one indivisible unit, unstoppable and unbearably radiant. Ryn’s heart skipped painfully in her chest and she willed them to run away, even while hoping beyond wild hope they would help her.

They were joined by others, then, others she did not recognize, but that shone just as fiercely. Together, they began to make some headway against the Dark itself. Something told Ryn that safety lay with them, if she could just get there. With hardly a backward glance at the chimaera or its rider, Ryn sprinted toward the knot of heroes.

She tried to sprint, truly she did. As often happens in dreams, her legs felt like lead and she could barely move. Her heart pounded a wild tattoo in her chest, her breath coming in shallow, panicked spurts as she fought to free her legs from the mire. Val’gren surrounded her, slender white fingers inhumanly strong, pulling her hair, bruising her skin. Râza laughed and began riding toward her, slowly, murder in his gaze. Desperate, she screamed:

“Evin!”

Shouting a challenge, both brothers sped toward her, mowing down everything that got in their way.

Ryn bolted upright, disoriented, then immediately moaned as the movement sparked pain in every muscle of her body. Her hands were still tied behind her back, and it was throwing off her balance. The sun shone brightly through the canvas top of her little shelter, warm and pleasant on her skin. Her legs were numb, her back cramped, her shoulders really ached...

She stopped moving as she realized:

Her punctured stomach no longer hurt.

Well, unless a growl of hunger counted as pain. Astra, but she was famished. Ryn looked down and tried to see her skin without the use of her hands, with no luck. Her linen shirt, torn and ripped as it was, still covered what she most wanted to see. She blinked, settling back and trying to take stock of herself.

The pervasive silence struck her, out of place for a traveling camp. Ryn could see a strip of sunlight on the dirt near her thigh. Mid morning...the nagrat should have left already, come and bound her to the back of one of those cursed chimaeras and headed north again. Ryn scooted forward on her rump, not caring she would likely get kicked in the gut for this, and used her foot to push back the scrap of wool that covered the entrance to her lean-to.

Her breath caught in her throat.

They were all dead. Beside the fire, in the doorways of small shelters, slumped at the entrance to her own lean-to; bodies lay, white and still and stiff. Even the chimaeras were dead, their dark fur dull in the morning light.

By Aoes.

Ryn couldn’t imagine a creature, or any force of nature, that could kill an entire camp of nagrat like this, swift and silent and leaving not a scratch; and she wasn’t about to stick around and replace out. Scooting out of the shelter entirely and maneuvering so her back was to one of the dead guards, she felt around until she’d located the utility dagger sheathed at his right hip. She drew it, the rasp over-loud in the quiet forest, and went to work on her bonds. She cringed as the pins and needles sensation began in her fingers.

It took only a moment for the sturdy ties to snap under the sharp blade, but it did take a good while for her hands to be worth anything more than decorative limbs on either side of her torso. When they did finally wake up from their rope-enforced sleep, they tingled and ached and stung most vehemently. Despite that, Ryn cut her legs loose and used protesting hands to work feeling back into her lower extremities too. In all, it was over a quarter hour before she was finally able to stand, sort of. She leaned heavily on the frame of her former prison, working out the last of the kinks and debating the benefits versus risks of looting the bodies.

She hadn’t decided on a course of action yet when the clear, rich tones of a war horn sounded nearby, startling her.