Spoiler: Chapter 32 - Gold In Ashes - Part 1
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“I will never surrender to the likes of you, vile serpent!”
“Then your death is your own doing,” Willow growled viciously.
A blinding ray of rippling light was hurled towards her, tendrils of searing white unfurling through the air at frightening speed. With eery grace, Willow slipped under the beam and out of its path.
They had entered the Tower of Polydorus, scaled it’s winding case of stairs and infiltrated the guarded home of the infamous wizard. The aged man had been too preoccupied with Bor’s brash entrance to notice Willow slip passed unseen. And so she had taken the opportunity as it had presented itself. She had leapt from the shadows with her blade flashing and drawn it tightly to his throat. The wizard would have held much information; he could have proved quite useful to the Forsaken and their goals. But even surrounded on all sides by four powerful foes – he spat in the face of surrender. He tore himself from her grasp, grunting against the pain of her blade slicing the layer of flesh along his throat, hands tracing intricate patterns in the air as his magic exploded throughout the room. Great clashes of vibrant hued arcane might shattered against the skin and armour of the Forsaken, tearing through the wooden furniture and blazing the stacks of parchment and books. As the curve of Pellius’ mighty swing came cleaving downward towards the wizard, Willow turned her head to avoid the cascade of scarlet that showered through the air.
“Well,” she pursed, as the wizard’s body fell limp to the floor, “That could have gone better.”
“You’re telling me,” Garvana huffed, patting out the embers upon the lengths of her hair that had swelled in the wizard’s blast of arcane flame, “Why don’t they ever just surrender?”
“Because there’s a horde of bugbears in the city,” Bor shrugged, “Why would they trust our offer?”
Willow shook her head as she checked over the limp form for signs of life. When she felt no pulse nor breath, she turned her attentions to the chamber. She strolled towards the writing desk by the far wall, skimming the details of the open tome upon it’s wooden plank. As she flicked through the pages, her brows rose, realising she was reading the journal of Polydorus.
“He was waiting for the Duke,” she said aloud, “He had means to transport himself away, but he was awaiting the Duke’s arrival, sure of his survival.”
“Would’ve been waiting a while,” Bor scoffed.
She chuckled, lifting the book from the table and continuing to peruse its pages. Willow knew that Polydorus had been known as a great seer, one of the highest regarded in the land of Talingarde. Though even that title held little weight amongst the Mitran church and its faithful. Magic had always been looked upon with suspicion, witches and wizards shunned from a society so heavily entrenched in it’s religious ways. Only the divine powers of Mitra’s blessed healers were regarded with warmth and welcoming. Polydorus had recorded his motive for awaiting the Duke. When Fire-Axe’s horde approached, he had promised Duke Martin that if he could get himself to Polydorus’ tower, then the wizard would teleport him to the safety of Matharyn. The Duke had laughed in his face, believing his defences and military prowess would safeguard the city. It had been only two days later that the city had fallen. And so Polydorus had remained in his tower, awaiting the Duke, set on keeping his promise in hopes of changing the way wizards and magic users alike were viewed by the Talrien people.
Willow stowed the journal into her pack to read later, before she continued sifting through the mess of parchment and paper. Hidden under the heaped layers, amongst ramblings of sorcery and musings of fate and time, she came across a curious scrap of untanned hide. Black jagged writing carved along it’s skin, as if the words had been etched by a claw.
“The Stormborn King,” Willow muttered to herself.
“What have you found, my lady?” Pellius asked, stepping along side her to see the leather clutched in her hands.
“A letter,” she frowned, “Most curious.”
He skimmed the letter’s contents, brow pulling low, “Do you know of this, Lord of All Eagles?”
“I believe I have heard of him,” she nodded, “Only old tales of a great winged beast that dwells in the Caer Bryr.”
“What does it say?” Garvana asked from across the room.
“To Polydorus,” she read, “Seer of Daveryn, Unwinged but wise. Behold, I the Stormborn King need your counsel. I have taken Chargammon’s whelp, the black dragon Jeratheon Knightsbane. He foolishly tried to lay claim to my dominion and by talon and thunderbolt did we humble the night hunter. My heart speaks to slay this monster and see his evil forever removed from both earth and sky. Still, I worry this would bring the wrath of his sire. So I send to you. What say the stars? Will the death of Jerathon invite disaster or will it bring only justice and relief? I await your word. I remain the Lord of All Eagles and the Stormborn King.”
“Chargammon and Jeratheon?” Garvana repeated thoughtfully, “I saw their names only a moment ago…”
She quickly returned to the heavily laden bookshelf, retrieving a quilled book bound in reddened leather. Her brow furrowed as she flicked the pages, lifting as she found the passage she was looking for.
“Yes, here they are,” she said excitedly, “Chargammon and Jeratheon, two of the five greatest dragons in the land of Talingarde.”
Willow’s curiosity piqued, as her feet swiftly took her Garvana’s side, her eyes scouring the page.
“An elder wyrm,” she said warily, “The vilest serpent in a nest of vipers.”
“Perhaps recusing his young would gain us his favour?” Garvana offered.
Willow scoffed, “We are just as likely to gain our own deaths at his hand for the deed. The black dragon is the most wicked and foul of them all. He answers to no one; he lives by no code nor moral. He knows only the death and destruction of his own whims.”
“I think it best we avoid interfering,” Pellius said seriously, “We do not need to draw his eye.”
Garvana ceded their point with a huff, slipping the book into her pouch. As Willow smiled towards the eager and enthusiastic woman, the strange script written upon a thick tome caught her sight. An odd twinge of familiarity sparked as her eyes drank in the runic letters. She strolled to the shelf on the eastern wall, careful hands lifting the tome from its casing. The words were carved in a peculiar variation of the celestial tongue, much like the undecipherable words written in the book they had found in the private library of Saint Marcarius. Opening the tome, she grinned to find the script written in common tongue.
“Pellius,” she called, strolling to his side, “Take a look at this. It is a cipher, written by Bedemus himself! Do you remember the book we found in the cathedral of Valtaerna?”
“The one we could not translate?” he asked.
“The very one,” Willow nodded, “If I am correct, we can use this to translate it! Bedemus is a truly remarkable scolar, his work transcends on from this plane to many others. How curious we would come across this here…”
As they continued their search of the wizard’s tower, they found many curiosities and oddities. Looking around the wizard’s impressive collection of lore and literature, Willow’s heart sank at the thought of the savage bugbears burning the lot to ashes.
“We should send for our men,” she said to Pellius, eyes scanning the rich wealth of knowledge held within the stone walls, “Order them to remove the books from the tower. I wish very much to see this knowledge preserved.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied cordially, “Such should not be left to the carnage of war…”

The warm spring sun arched high over head, signalling that noon was upon them. The last of winter’s snow had melted over the prior passing weeks, its water churning with the heavy layers of ash upon the ground, coating the cobblestone in a sickly blackened sludge. Looking down in displeasure, Willow thought of the endless task each night, cleaning the soot stains from the leather of her boots. It was lucky, she thought as she made her way through the mess, that she had people who endured the task for her.
They headed east towards Goldenhall, searching the ruins of buildings along their way, finding little save scattered coins and charred belongings. As they meandered through the once vibrant district, now a burnt husk of its former glory, a peculiar sight unfolded. A lone intact building, wedged between the scorched beams of two others that had not faired so well. Though it was not only its condition that made this strange mahogany bricked structure seem far out of place. Its curved awnings and furled tiled roof was unlike any that had stood along the merchant district before it. The metal beams held an eery golden shimmer as if magic itself danced along their surface. In its arched doorway stood a man of deep ebony skin, standing almost as tall as the seven foot high arch, with piercing crystal blue eyes that radiated from under his hooded gaze. As Willow’s distracted footsteps took her slowly towards him, he grinned a knowing and sultry smile.
“He is awaiting you,” his deep baritone lilt crooned.
She found her sight transfixed to his figure, his words barely penetrating her mind. When they did register, she found herself unable to reply, merely inclining her head in response. She heard the muffled words of the others, the scuff of their following steps behind her. But she paid them no mind as she approached him, eyes locked to his as he stepped aside to allow her entry. Curious, she thought. Though she found her mind too preoccupied to think on it further.
“Dravith,” she rasped to Sith, ordering to him to wait outside.
The waft of spirited and heavy incense smothered her nose, its strong scent clouding her vision. She stepped over the threshold, as if stepping into another realm. Beaded charms and smoking string tied herbs hung from the walls. Splashes of effervescent colours hung in drapes and ribbons from the ceilings, wooden carved symbols strung with twine from ornate hooks that dangled from the roof. The air fogged by trails of slender smoke, drifting from embers that burned in sealed clay bowls, creating a curtain of white mist that sheltered the inner chamber from view. Cautiously, Willow’s quiet steps pushed through the haze. She waved her hand to clear the pale sheet, revealing a round table draped in silk of ruby and scarlet. At the head of the table sat a man of small stature, a face wrinkled with lines of age and wisdom, speckled ashen hair combed slick to his scalp. As his sunken eyes of hazel found Willow’s line of sight, his pointed grey moustache lifted into a smile.
“Ah yes,” he said softly, “I have been expecting you.”
Willow did not speak, she only smiled and looked on curiously. He slowly pulled an odd deck of cards from his robes, placing the neat pile upon the silk. There were four vacant chairs surrounding his table, one of which Willow instinctively approached. She was too distracted to notice Pellius pulling the chair out for her, but with eyes locked on the aged man, she sat and simply waited for his direction. After the others took their seats, the man finally spoke again.
“You have a question,” he said to Willow, rearranging his thick parchment cards, “You may ask it.”
Though she frowned, her mind seemed to know it’s answer.
“Tell me,” she said softly, her eyes still searching his, “Of Adrastus Thorn…”
As a small intake of breath was heard from Garvana, the corner of the man’s lip lifted as if Willow had spoken the exact words he had expected. He lifted his cards from the table, retrieving specific ones and shuffling them in his fingers. He held them out to her, face down.
“The suit of tomes,” he said, “Select a card, young one.”
With unsure hands, Willow reached for the centre card. As her fingers lingered along its edge, she changed her mind, reaching instead for the card on the far left. She drew it from his hand, turning it over to reveal a strange picture of a pained man, an arc of blue lightening connecting to his head from the finger of a god.
“Ah, the vision,” he nodded, “Intriguing. If it chooses to reveal itself in the harrowing, it will have much to divulge to you…”
Willow watched carefully as he returned the cards to his deck and his eyes glazed over as he shuffled them methodically.
“The past…” he said ruminatively, dealing three cards face up.
“The present,” dealing another three, “And the future.”
As he dealt his final card – his brows rose.
“The cards speak of a feigned knowledge, no – an ignorance of knowledge. It reveals something of a great power, or of great truth, hidden or hiding. The present; speaks of wisdom and intellect, strong enough to see a things true worth, even beyond the layers of shrouded time. The past? Ah, yes! The mountain man, a true match. It is a conflict. The future holds an unavoidable conflict with that no longer in his control…”
He nodded his head to himself, in clear understanding of something not visible or perceivable by Willow. Nor the others, judging by the looks on their faces.
“Can you tell me no more, wise one?” she pressed, “What of this truth or power? What of the power out of his control?”
He smiled, lifting his gaze to hers.
“That is all the cards choose to reveal at this time.”
As if dismissing her from his presence, he turned to Bor expectantly, brow arched high.
“And what of you?” he questioned, “What do you wish to ask?”
For a moment, Willow thought she would be given a peek into the enigma that was the solemn troubled orc. For a moment, he seemed as if he would ask something of his past.
“What of the king’s army?” he asked, a guarded expression clouding his face, “How do we defeat it?”
The harrower’s head tilted slightly, almost as if he was disappointed with the question he had been asked. If Willow would guess, she would have said the man seemed as if the disappointment was due to a clear missed opportunity.
“Let us see then…” he began.
Willow was only half listening as the aged man drew his cards and spoke their explanation. Although she heard of an enslavement and a force that may still intervene, she was far too busy musing over the riddled answers she had received. The past was no more clear than before. The present could have been interpreted as the Forsaken, found imprisoned and awaiting death; Thorn saw their potential to become what they were now. It was the future that was truly intriguing. A conflict of that which he no longer had control. There was an array of options that could have fit the bill, yet there was one she could not ignore. The Forsaken themselves…
“The cyclone,” the harrowers words broke into her reverie, “An unnatural force, guided somehow, as if by the hand of gods. Opposed by the paladin, through hardship and foolhardiness.”
“By the gods?” Bor repeated.
“As if by them,” the harrower corrected, “The cards are not clear in their meaning, the cyclone is in an opposed position, it is an unnatural force that will guide its way…”
The aged man turned his gaze to Pellius, a small sly smile upon his lips, as if he knew something of him that was unknown to the Forsaken. His eyes seemed set to tempt and entice, as if they were daring him to ask the question he knew lingered on Pellius’ tongue. The two men simply stared at each other, before Pellius lowered his head in what seemed like defeat.
“Will I ever be free of the Knot?” came his solemn question.
In unison, Bor and Garvana raised their brows, confused or shocked by his words. Willow’s did not raise, they pulled tight into a frown, her eyes searching the room as if expecting someone or something to appear from the shadows. It was a dangerous thought to speak aloud, no matter how recently the same thing had been drifting through her mind.
“Intriguing,” was all the harrower replied, pulling selected cards from his deck.
As Pellius drew a card from the offered hand, the others awaited the reading with bated breath. Unaware or uncaring of the suspense; the harrower leisurely laid his hand.
“Ah,” he said finally, “The hourglass. Its position represents fate, or the will of the gods. And the mute hag aligned here – a true match. It speaks of bonds more powerful than words. A blood pact, a contract, a knot; it is brother against brother. The present is misaligned; it is a driving force that urges you to push onward for strength. As for the future, look here, the owl. It is wisdom that holds all together. It is the bond that keeps each piece from falling. But it is near the great constellation, far too close to the edge; it may be broken yet!”

Left with more questions than they had answers, the four of them thanked the strange harrower and rose from their seats. As Willow reached the curtains last, and the others exited the building, she paused at the threshold.
“You have another question for me, do you not child?” he asked knowingly, “One of a more personal nature…”
Slowly, Willow turned to face him. Her brow arched as she simmered the temptation to delve too far into the elusive and complex world of harrowing.
“You may ask,” he said with a small smile, “But you may not find the answers you seek. The art of harrowing is never clear cut and plain. The answers are always left open to your own interpretation. You can only hope you interpret them correctly.”
She stared at him, mind racing with indecision. The question she would ask would be one that could reveal a key part of her own past and future. The harrower simply awaited her reply patiently.
“Willow?” called Pellius, peering his head back through the doorway.
“Continue on,” she said to him, “I will follow shortly.”
With a curious look of intrigue, he inclined his head, turning from the door way. Willow waited until he was gone from view before she returned to her seat by the circular table. After a sharp intake of breath, she met the harrower’s gaze once again.
“Why did my family betray me?” she asked quietly, “Why did they turn me in?”
“Ah yes,” he smiled slyly, “That is indeed the question your heart longs to ask. Let us see…”
He fanned the cards within in fingers, drawing specific ones into a slender pile by his right. Once he was done, he lifted the small pile in offering to her.
“The suit of stars,” he rasped, “Select a single card.”
Again, she was unsure of which to take. With little to lose, she closed her eyes and reached for them, drawing one from his grasp. As she held it out to him, his brows rose ever so slightly.
“The eclipse,” he mused, “A card of self doubt and lack of purpose. Though whether theirs or your own is unclear. This card will have much to reveal if it chooses to appear in the harrowing…”
He dealt his nine cards, eyes glazing over as he meticulously placed down each one. When he had finished, he slowly nodded his head.
“The rakshasa!” he crooned, “A true match! The card speaks of a domination, one who is forced against their will. Though by what, or whom, is not for me to say.”
He frowned at his second row of cards.
“The beating, though it is misaligned and too far from the left lying star. It speaks of a relentless assault, spanning farther than a lifetime. If the card had revealed itself to another, it would signify the breaking point. But you, I think not. Still, his parallel position to the jester warns of impatience. Do not rush, beware the foolhardy course. Not all is as it seems. And the veil, a second true match. Your family have been fooled by illusions and false promises, it is their lust for gain that have served them into imprudence.”
Delicately arranged words that spoke in riddles of romantic story. Yet, Willow found no answers in his musing.
“Why is it the eclipse does not show itself, wise one?” she frowned.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “You are not ready for the knowledge it holds.”
As Willow opened to mouth to speak, he halted her with a gentle lift of his hand.
“That is all,” he smiled, “The cards wish to reveal at this time…”

It was later that afternoon that the four of them found themselves wandering through the streets of Argentyne on route back to their camp in Tythers. As they turned down the cobblestone road into a slender alley, a shortcut they had discovered in their travels, they were greeted by a grotesque and ominous scene. A head of a large ogre, freshly cut from it’s body, impaled upon an iron spike. In a flash, they had their weapons drawn upon approach.
“It has not been there long,” Pellius surmised, “The blood is fresh and red.”
Sith’s deep growl of warning sounded a moment before a scatter of footsteps from the far end of the alley had them look up to see the silhouette of a man escape around the corner. Without warning, Garvana took off into a run in pursuit.
“Garvana!” Willow growled, “Do not be so rash!”
Having either ignored or not heard Willow’s words, the woman clad in heavy steel armour, loudly disappeared around the corner.
“Damn her,” Willow cursed, eyes scanning the rooftops, “Quickly, go after her! It could be a trap, I’ll follow behind. Vystrynivvi.”
As the illusion rippled across her flesh and vanished her from sight, Pellius and Bor nodded, running towards the sounds of loud clanking of armour.
“Sith, tithmirr Pellius!” Willow commanded him to follow.
The mighty warhound growled his understanding, leaping into a frightening sprint, keeping close on Pellius’ heels. Willow kept pace with the others, remaining a few feet behind, her footsteps light and her sight sharp. As they rounded the corner towards a blind alley, Willow lost sight of them as she slowed her steps to strain her ears. On instinct she flattened herself to the barely standing wall of a charred building, seconds before a group of more than twenty men barreled out from the surrounding buildings. Most wore ragged and soiled uniforms, stained by soot and dirt, as if they hadn’t been washed since the fall of Daveryn. The others wore the rags of peasants, craftsmen and dockworkers, townsfolk with little martial experience. As they flooded passed Willow unaware of her presence, she watched them close off the opening to alley and aim their crossbows in practiced efficiency. These were not a band of elite warriors; these were simple guards, foot-soldiers and men.
“FIRE!” bellowed a masculine voice, unseen from the far end of the long alleyway.
As they let loose their first round of bolts, Willow leapt into action. She lunged for the closest guard, carving fatally through his flesh with ease, gracefully spinning to follow through and down the one to his right.
“SITH!” she roared her command, “NESSITH MIRR FIRITH!”
As her terrifying dance of death continued, her blade cleanly slicing through the horrorstricken outclassed lines of men, Sith snarled and prowled back towards her. With a howl of a pure ferocious beast, he craned his maw wide, funneling a torrent of searing fire that rippled hungrily towards the ranks. As the heat neared, Willow crouched low with a grin to spring herself high into the air, feeling the flames lick her flesh as she soared above them. As she descended, the chorus of agony cried from the procession of guards, the sounds of suffering and torture melding with the smoldering crackle of fire. A single wave of flame was enough to kill or incapacitate all but one of the soldiers. The lucky man who managed to skirt the edge of the flame looked on in soul wrenching dread. He turned and fled, not a sound escaping his lips. As Willow quickly sprinted into the alley, she saw another league of mirrored numbers guarding the far side of the pass. At their centre stood tall man with wide broad shoulders, roughly cut sable locks, matching the thick protruding hair atop his lip. He was no peasant nor simple guard, this man stared down his demise with military prowess. As a small pellet of flame launched high into the air, the sound of Garvana’s laugh had a cringe of distaste ripple along Willow’s spine. The bead soared towards a soldier standing in the front rank. As it collided with his chest, the inferno fulminated outwards in scorching and scalding copper flames. The fire raged around him, furling in tendrils of fiery wrath, blistering flesh and igniting fabric. The ranks of twenty men were set ablaze in a luminous shatter of sweltering scarlet flames. As they fell, Bor stepped towards their leader, in a slow and tauntingly confident pace.
“You dare challenge us?” he growled venomously, “You wish to burn and die like the others? Or do you wish to bleed?”
Fear washed over the man’s face. Fear in its purest form; the knowledge of his own death a certainty. For a moment, Willow thought he may overcome it and stand fast against them. But she knew fear to be a powerful thing. When it took hold, when it found you clutched within its grip – hope and bravery were inutile.
The man convulsed in panic, the terror morphing his once arrogant face, his feet struggling to move beneath him. As Bor took another step forward, he finally found the initiative to run. His scream came deep from the pit of his stomach, his steps launched him towards the crossroad, stumbled and staggered stride. Yet, he was not fast enough to escape. Bor lunged with strong muscular legs, his vicious greatsword swinging wide, cleaving the fleeing man in a single stroke. The only three surviving men from the back ranks wasted no time. As their captain fell, they split and fled.
“Sith! Tith-lashh-mirr,” Willow commanded fiercely, “Pishnisti mer vitish!”
The warhound growled his assent, bounding in chase after the men.
“Bring one back alive?” Pellius queried, a slow grin sliding upon his lips.
“What?” Willow frowned, “Do we not need one for questioning?”
At that, his grin only grew.
“You do realize… the hounds jaw is filled with flame, right my lady?”
“Oh!” she laughed in realization, “Right…”
When the rumble of Sith’s returning footsteps could be heard, Willow could not help but grin. As he trotted back to her, proud of his quick and efficient catch, she laughed at her own foolishness.
“Hirr mer trath,” she chuckled in praise, stepping out of the way as he dropped his smouldering prize.
“Who is he?” asked Garvana, standing over the leaders body.
“Captain Ricon Harbold would be my best guess,” Willow said, turning to her while running her fingers through the simmering fur upon Sith’s side, “The head of the resistance. Brueder mentioned he was hiding in the sewers beneath Argentyne.”
“Do you suppose there are more of them?” Pellius asked.
“Perhaps,” Willow shrugged, “Though it is doubtful. They would not have thrown away so many men here if they had more in reserve.”
“Agreed,” Pellius nodded, “But perhaps we should be sure. Will you command Sith to track their scent?”
Willow smiled, eyes scanning the ground.
“It will be faster if I follow their steps,” she said, pointing to the heavy clear prints leading out of the north pass, “Frightened men have no time to cover their tracks.”
Pellius smirked, nodding his head, sight still on the body of the captain, “Do you wish to be accompanied, my lady?”
After whispering the command to activate her ring, Willow crept slowly and unnoticed to his side.
“My lady?” he asked, turning to where she was with a frown.
She leant forward until her lips were an inch from his ear, “They shall never know I am coming if I follow alone…”