Chapter 35
The consensus of Shattering scholars, including the esteemed Paxtus Libras, was that the realm not only implicated the Stars for the destruction of its lands, but also, for the desertion and degradation of the people post-Shattering.
The result of this abhorrence was absent prayer, pitiful dedication, and ultimately dismissal of the Stars.
The Decline and Fall of the Constellations
“WHAT IN THE STARS?” ASTRAIA gawked at the mead hall, trying to digest the scene unfolding around her.
In the center of the hall was a long firepit that was sunk into the ground.
A boar was being roasted on a spit, the alluring smell of meat mixed with mead clinging to the walls.
There were several long tables on either side of the hall with patrons drinking and laughing.
On one end of the hall was an open space where two burly men were shirtless, circling each other as others jeered.
One man landed a punch, knocking the other to the ground with a loud crash.
The entire room cheered, raising their mugs of ale in congratulations.
Her boots stuck to the floor as she walked, caked in mead, and she stifled a gag when she noticed a man vomiting into a bowl at one table.
Draven strode through the crowd without hesitation, making his way to the barkeep at a counter on one side.
Several men were sitting at tables gambling while serving girls sat on their laps, wearing clothes that left little to the imagination.
A few of the women ogled Draven as he passed, batting their lashes and smiling at him.
It took all of Astraia’s restraint not to melt their faces off. She glared at each of them, flashing a speck of Power in her eyes. The women paled, shrinking back in their chairs or falling off the men’s laps. Astraia smiled, keeping her head held high as she walked behind Draven.
After speaking to the barkeep, Draven turned to her and shouted over the loud pandemonium, “He’s there, in the pit.”
He nodded toward the fighting ring at the end of the hall just as a roar went up from the onlookers.
Astraia took off toward the fight, pushing past drunkards and bar maids until she was at the pit.
The crowd pressed around her, but she managed to wiggle between two men in furs who smelled of stale ale and urine.
She scrunched her nose, but it barely bothered her—compared to the smell of rotting corpses from Plague, it was a perfume.
There were two men sparring, using nothing but their fists and intuition.
Neither men wore shirts, their muscular frames exposed for the Stars and everyone to witness.
One of the men was slightly larger and moved with the grace of a lame horse, his footwork sloppy and unsteady.
The other man, a behemoth in his own right with longer dark hair that fell just below his shoulders, tattoos and scars riddling his tanned body, took advantage of the other brute’s weakness.
The dark-haired warrior sidestepped punches and spun out of reach, far quicker and more agile on his feet than his opponent.
The crowd goaded them both, screaming for one to finish the other.
She could not decipher what they said, but she did pick up “Bj?rn” being shouted multiple times toward the dark-haired man—the same name she heard Draven speak to the guard.
The Bear was clearly the more proficient fighter in the ring.
The oaf opposite him sprang forward, throwing a side punch, but the Bear was too fast, evading his punch and rebounding with an uppercut to his jaw.
A blood-curdling crack rose over the howling crowd as the man’s jaw broke and blood splattered the ring.
The injured man groaned, falling backward with the force of the punch, and hit the ground with a thud.
The Bear did not waver. He jumped on top of his opponent and began to punch him relentlessly with the force of a hammer driving in nails.
The man tried to shield his face, but it was no use.
Blood sprayed from his eyes, mouth, nose as he took the beating.
The crowd was in a frenzy, some shouting for the oaf to move while others were cheering on the Bear.
Astraia watched as he delivered one final blow, and the man on the ground went limp, eyes closed. Blood began to trickle out of his ear, and without even looking for the rise of his chest, she knew he was dead.
Another man stepped into the pit, grabbing the Bear’s fist and raising it high in the air. The onlookers cheered, men clapping each other on their backs, women screaming his name.
It made her ill.
The Bear stood, sweat dripping down his back, blood coating his hands, and walked out of the ring without looking back at the man he just killed.
She watched him stride over to a corner table, slumping down in the chair. A woman brought him a pint of ale, and he downed it instantly, wiping the blood off his hands onto his pants. He gestured for more ale and flung his head back, resting it on the wall behind him.
Now was her chance.
She pushed back through the throng of people, toward the corner where the Bear sat.
At first, she was worried the crowd would follow her, eager to congratulate their champion, but another set of brutes had entered the pit, and they had already forgotten the life taken for their sport, moving on to the next victim.
Taking a deep breath, she brushed her hand over her tether in comfort. Marching up to the Bear’s table, she pulled out the chair across from him and sat, leaning back against the wooden frame.
His eyebrows shot up as she sat down, then his face turned into a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snarled in the common tongue.
This caught her by surprise, but she ignored him. She picked up the mug of ale the barmaid had just delivered and took a sip, the liquid burning her throat as she swallowed.
“You’re the one they call the Bear?” she asked, narrowing her eyes on him as she set her mug down on the sticky worn table.
“Depends on who’s asking.” He lowered his voice, challenging her.
Before she could answer, her bonds leapt to her core, dry, soothing heat wrapping around her waist and flowing into her hands and feet. There was no need to turn around to know who had walked up behind her.
“Watch your tone, or I’ll give you a fight you don’t walk away from,” Draven growled, looming over her.
The Bear eyed him, then stood, bare chest glistening in the firelight from sweat and blood as he stalked over to stand toe to toe with Draven. Astraia’s breath hitched, and she stood, prepared to flare if need be. The two warriors stared each other down, their lips pressed into a firm line.
The Bear’s arms moved, but before Astraia could intercept, he clamped his hands on Draven’s upper arms as Draven did the same.
“Good to see you, Arcas,” Draven said, a smile on his face.
“And you. It’s been too long, brother,” the Bear, or Arcas, replied, then pounded Draven on the back. “Sit. Drink.” Arcas gestured for them both to sit and waved down the barmaid for more ale.
Astraia’s mouth dropped, then she snapped her mouth closed, fuming.
Another half-truth the bounty hunter kept from her.
At this rate, she could fill the Aetherdeep Sea with the secrets of this insufferable man.
She slammed her hands down on the table, heat rising to her face as she stared at the pair of them.
“Stars help me, if someone does not tell me what is going on, I will murder both of you and make it look like Dominion took you,” she snarled through gritted teeth, holding tightly to her tether, ready to unleash fury on them both and watch their grins boil off their faces.
Arcas chuckled, reclining in his chair. “Who’s this lovely creature?”
“My name is Traia, but you will call me Deathbringer if you don’t answer me,” she retorted, casting Draven a loathsome look.
“Sit down before you cause a scene, and we’ll talk,” Draven replied flatly.
Seething, she lowered herself into the chair and crossed her arms. Power banged on the door in her mind, feeding off her irritation and aching to tear apart the mead hall. She bit the inside of her cheek to refocus her mind and calm her bond.
“I’m waiting,” she murmured.
“Arcas and I fought in many battles together. I have known him for years,” Draven explained. “When you told me about the Bear being your informant in Asynjur, I had my suspicions it was Arcas.”
“You could have just told me.” She raised her voice, unable to control her indignation.
“I told you some truths can be dangerous. I wanted to be sure.”
“Wait…” Arcas interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. A few tendrils of his hair fell in front of his face as he eyed her in disbelief. “You are the contact in Volpes?”
“Well…secondhand. Lord Caelan has been the one receiving your messages.” She held his stare, refusing to succumb to whatever egotistical game he was playing.
“Perfect. An entitled elite has been my contact.” He threw his hands up, slamming them down on the table.
“That entitled elite has been scouting and hunting wraiths with the information you sent him. So, I would watch your tone, Bear,” she snapped, absently feeling for her dagger in case she needed to rid him of his tongue before he said anything else that vexed her.
His fingers curled inward into fists, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands.
“Easy. We don’t want trouble. We just want information,” Draven interjected, glancing between her and Arcas.
“Six wraiths riding Nyrekh were found on a scouting mission a few days back. Four of them were killed. But we still do not know where they are coming from and where they disappear to. When your correspondence stopped coming, we set out in hopes of finding you to see what else you knew.”
Arcas paused, staring at the table, then he blinked and looked directly at Astraia. His dark eyes were foreboding, eerily similar to the starless skies that blanketed the realm every night. “My correspondence stopped arriving?”
“Yes…we assumed it was because you did not have more new information,” she replied.
He cursed, rubbing a hand over his face, dried blood still caked his knuckles. “I’ve been sending falcon correspondence. They must have been intercepted along their route. Someone who does not want me to share what I have discovered…” He trailed off, muttering to himself.
“What do you know?” Astraia lowered her voice, leaning closer to him.
The crowd behind her at the pit drowned out any other sounds from the hall, and she hoped it was loud enough to muffle their conversation as well.
“The wraiths are multiplying. I do not know how. But more are pouring into Virellia, the Peaks, everywhere.” His voice was just above a whisper, only loud enough for the three of them to hear above the commotion. “They are coming from the Celestial Wastes.”
Astraia’s heart sank.
The Wastes were uninhabitable, a destroyed forest from the aftershock of the Shattering, burned to ash.
There were petrified trees and stumps that served as tombstones for the Starwood groves, but nothing else remained.
The only place that fared worse was the Shardlands, the point of direct impact when the Stars collided with the realm.
It would be nearly impossible to find the horde’s hive.
She could see Draven’s mind working out the same issue that she had, his brows furrowed in concentration. They would have to find another way to intercept the wraiths and destroy the horde. Infiltrating the Wastes was not an option—it was a death march.
“How do you know?” Draven asked.
“I’ve been following them. Tracking their movements.
They’re attacking small outlying villages, probing the protection of the different provinces for weaknesses.
They never linger long, disappearing into shadow, but they reappear right along the northwest border of the Wastes and Skyforge Peaks.
That’s when I’ll see them ride across the border and disappear again. ”
Arcas took a long swig of ale, sighing as he set his mug down. It was quiet for several moments, each of them mulling over what they had discovered. Then Draven stood, sticking out his hand toward Arcas. Arcas rose to meet him, grasping his arm at the elbow in a sacred embrace of warriors.
“My thanks, Arcas,” Draven said, nodding.
“Kom heill, bróeir,” Arcas replied, a softness to his tone.
Draven only stared and sighed.
“Langt megi year reykja.” Arcas shook his head and released his grip.
“Heilsa tér,” Draven responded and gestured for Astraia to follow him.
She paused when she rose from her seat, grappling with what to say to the warrior.
“My thanks, Arcas.” She smiled, nodding.
He dipped his head back at her, his face expressionless.
She turned and followed Draven out of the pandemonium of the mead hall without a second glance back. As she mounted Orion and they made their way out of the town, she could not help but feel they were leaving more than just the Bear behind.