Chapter 3 Hyalite #2
Tharon left her, joining the rest of the group as they ventured out toward the burn. When the sun reached its zenith, they found themselves at the edge of the previous day’s burn. The landscape transformed from forested hills to timbered mountains.
In the valley the firestorm had changed the dense pine forest to an ocean of wheat.
The flowing stalks were a testament to the profound magic that had coursed through the storm.
This crop reflected the immense power it required to so dramatically change the landscape and yield a crop so quickly.
From the edge of the treeline, purple and yellow seed heads swayed in repeating patterns as the wheat blanketed the narrow valley.
The stalks had already grown to a height nearly as tall as Lark’s six feet.
The seed heads were as thick as her muscular thigh, supported by stalks as wide as her arm, just as Paq had described.
“Set scythes to work,” Delger commanded. “Only cut what you can carry back. The far end of the field speaks of other harvesters. Stalks don’t dance that way on their own.”
Lark took up her scythe. Each swing became a meditation she’d felt before. The shick-shick of the blade through sturdy stalks merged with her breathing in a comfortable rhythm. Each arc of the blade quieted the chaos in her mind. The motion felt purposeful. Time lost meaning.
“Lark!” Delger shouted. She straightened, suddenly aware of her solitude in the vast field. The path behind her stretched like a scar through the wheat, leading back to where the others prepared to depart. Their wicker packs bulging as they filed back into a line.
Delger’s suntanned face shone with sweat and concern. She gathered her cut wheat, the weight of it grounding her in the present. The rope at her basket’s base became an anchor as she lashed an additional armful to its crown.
She looked back at the unharvested wheat. “There’s still more,” she began, but Delger’s expression stopped her.
“It will not go to waste,” he said, gesturing toward movement in the distance.
Other harvesters emerged like spirits through the wheat, not human like Lark and Delger.
Some had ears that tapered to elegant points; others had skin unlike human tones, their colors closer to moss and darkening storm clouds.
“We’re not the only ones who hear the fire wheat’s call.
Take more than we can carry, and they’ll remind us why Southerners shouldn’t harvest in their forest.”
“They’re Nordraven orcs,” Lark breathed.
“Their harvesters carry ancient grudges, but they’re not as ruthless as their soldiers,” Delger said. “Be grateful we’ve beaten the wild dragons to this feast.” His eyes swept the crystal-blue expanse overhead.
“Wild dragons will come?” Lark asked.
“Wild dragons answer to no rider’s will. They’re creatures of pure instinct and ancient hunger,” he said. “Come. We move without rest until we reach the village. The forest has its own appetite for what we’ve claimed.”
The return journey became a lesson in endurance, each step a battle against exhaustion and the weight of their harvest. They slogged on through the day and into the night, guided by the light of the three moons.
Every flash of light in her peripheral vision made Lark’s heart leap.
She hoped to again glimpse the mysterious fire woman—that impossible fae being of flame that had appeared like a broken reflection of her own past.
Dawn colored the world in shades of violet, orange, and yellow as they reached the log homes at the edge of the village. Lark added her harvest to the communal pile. Her bundle stood out for its size and also her effort. Delger’s approving touch on her shoulder felt like acceptance, like belonging.
A crowd gathered on the dirt-packed road. Paq’s familiar form bobbed at the edge, as he tried to peer over the press of bodies.
Lark came to his side, and asked, “What’s happening?”
“A messenger from Astral City,” Paq said. “I can’t see him or hear what he’s saying though.”
Lark lifted him by the armpits and hoisted him onto her shoulders.
The messenger stood out among the dull crowd, his patchwork cloak of varying shades of the vermillion red known to represent the Keep throughout history.
His silver, braided hair and waxed mustache were refined and clean.
His brown eyes lingered on Lark with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“That’s right, it happened less than a week ago,” the messenger was saying to an older woman in the group.
“The Nordraven Kings are outraged. They’ve sent troops to comb the area.
I’m only here to give you all fair warning.
You would be wise to clear out of here now.
By this time tomorrow, they’ll be rampaging through here, leaving no survivors. ”
“Northern troops,” Paq said, his legs reflexively tightening on Lark’s shoulders. “They haven’t come this far south in my lifetime.”
“They haven’t?” Lark asked.
“Not here, they go farther to the east where the forest burns less frequently and the armies battle for control of the territory, but here, the Paragons have always held them at bay.”
“Tel Roan was killed,” the messenger said now.
“No!” the crowd argued.
“It’s true. He was beheaded,” the man said. An astonished hush fell over the crowd, many of the villagers whispering in disbelief. “His dragon fled into the forest. No Knight has been able to find Ingamar.”
“Who killed him?” Delger asked, joining the crowd with Tharon and Barson.
“It was none other than Marcel Heartfell,” the messenger said.
“The King of Skol has recovered Marcel’s dragon, White Eye.
The dragon was wounded before Tel was killed, but the rider, he’s still out there.
Marcel is likely wounded and extremely dangerous.
Northern troops are coming this way uncontested as the Astral City Army was sent to support other Paragons from the Vermillion Keep northeast of here.
“Because of the Vermillion Keep’s delay in reaching the scene, The Nordraven troops taking advantage and moving through the area quickly so they’ll be gone when reinforcements arrive from Astral City.
They’re turning over every rock and leaf in search of the purportedly wounded Marcel, their most valuable rider.
They will stop at nothing to destroy the mysterious dragonrider who was working with Tel Roan at the time of his death. ”
“Tel Roan was working with another rider?” Tharon asked, others in the crowd shaking their heads.
“Why do the people shake their heads at that?” Lark asked Paq.
“Tel Roan always worked alone. He never worked with anyone. Everyone around here knows that,” Paq stated firmly, sounding older than his seven years.
“This mystery rider was wearing a uniform of the Vermillion Keep, though the Keep denies contracting any new Paragon dragonrider. This new rider’s dragon was killed in the fight.
They found the beast dead not far from where Tel Roan was slain, near the Floating Islands.
Between the Vermillion Keep’s anger over such a great loss and the North’s outrage that Marcel is missing, you all are not safe here.
Skirmishes in this area along the southern edge of the forest will surely escalate; your village will be caught in the crossfire. ”
“They haven’t found Tel’s dragon?” Delger asked.
“No, Ingamar is most likely missing or dead. If Marcel had taken him back to the North, the Vermillion Keep would know by now. Marcel and the unknown rider are still at large. Don’t accept any newcomers into your community.
These outlaws are dangerous. You must leave here at once and do not plan to return. ”
“But this is our home,” Tharon said in protest.
“Yeah, we should defend it,” Barson added.
“Any resistance and the Nordraven troops will burn your simple log homes to the ground. I offer you fair warning. That is the best I can do for you.”
The townsfolk stirred as the man departed, off to warn others in the area. Lark lowered Paq from her shoulders. He started pacing, rubbing his hands together fiercely, so much so that they started turning red with irritation. Paq wouldn’t look Lark in the eye.
“Paq, what’s wrong?” Lark asked, though something deep within her whispered that she already knew the answer.
“I, um...” His grimace spoke volumes. “How much of the day I brought you into our village do you remember?”
The question tore open empty space as she struggled to recall. “You found me. I was walking...” The words felt hollow, rehearsed. “You led me here, showed me the village. Then to your farm, food, shelter...” Each memory seemed to sit like an ill-fitting mask over something darker, deeper.
Paq groaned, hands twisting together. “That’s not everything.”
“It isn’t? What do you mean?”
“I need to show you,” he said quietly, taking her by the hand and pulling her up the main road while trying to avoid attracting unwanted attention.
Paq led her west, away from the cluster of homes comprising their village.
They walked along the edge of the fields, out to where the road abutted the forest before turning out into the river valley to the south and the rest of Lamar proper.
At the second bend where the road curved back into the forest, Paq stopped.
He steered Lark off the main path and several hundred feet into the forest. There, he pointed to a pile of leaves and woody debris at the base of a wide oak tree.
The pile looked natural at first glance, but suddenly she remembered. Urgently, she cleared away the camouflage to reveal a leather pack made of a quality far beyond their village’s means. The ivory toggle felt cool against her fingers.
Each item she withdrew told its own story of elegance and purpose. Finely made boots, clothing stitched with expensive wool, armor designed for both protection and ease of movement. The blue travel cloak’s autumn leaf filigree caught the morning light.
The weight that remained at the bottom of the bag pulled at her with gravitational force.
As her fingers brushed the rough surface of the stone, something electric shot through her body.
The orb emerged into daylight like a star, its blue light pulsing with a rhythm to match her heartbeat.
The pendant at her throat flared in response, hot enough to brand; a fragment recognizing its whole.
“Is that...” she said, holding her breath.
“I think it’s…” Paq paused as the truth finally broke free. “It’s a Hyalite.”