Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
“Stop.” Gran Hesta raised her arm in front of Elara. “We’re almost there.”
All thoughts of her moment up in the trees with Fenn the previous night vanished as Rynna’s focus snapped back to the mission.
She turned to the Unit Leader. “Scout Formation Two?”
He nodded. “Find where they’re holding the children, get a general count and location of the bandits. I’ll stay with Gran Hesta and find a defensible position we can fall back to if needed. We’ll regroup there and decide how to engage the enemy.”
Elara’s lips parted, and her hands fidgeted at her sides. “You’re not coming with us?”
“You’re all more than capable of scouting non-Hollow-born fighters. Get in, get out, and look for my markers. We’ve drilled this a thousand times.”
“If we can sneak up on that old tomcat, we can do this.” Bran grinned, reaching out to gently bump Elara’s shoulder.
“It took us half a day just to get close enough without being mauled!” She swatted him on the head.
“Yeah, but we got him eventually.”
“The cat didn’t want to kill us.” Taren adjusted the throwing knives strapped to his belt. “This will be different.”
“Exactly!” Elara began, but Rynna cut her off.
“They’re counting on us,” she said, her gaze shifting toward Gran Hesta, whose brow only furrowed deeper.
“And we can do this.” She paused, glancing back at the group. “Besides, you two are the best at sneaking. I’ll be stuck with the loudmouth over here.” She tilted her head toward Bran.
“Hey!” The boy protested, only to immediately slap his hands over his mouth and hiss, “I can totally sneak!”
Elara’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yeah, we’ll be fine,” she said, her voice steadier now as she looked to Taren.
“Just stay low, stay quiet, and follow my lead,” he said.
Elara’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded.
Then, without another word, the two Novices took off in a silent sprint toward the west of where the village would be.
“Rynna, I can stay quiet,” Bran complained, watching Elara and Taren disappear into the distance.
“Then show me.” She took off toward the east, expecting Bran to follow without another word.
Fenn usually assigned her and Taren to lead scouting missions, knowing they could stay focused and make quick decisions under pressure.
Elara’s fear sometimes got the better of her, and Bran tended to get distracted or act impulsively when faced with confrontation.
Rynna hoped this wasn’t a situation where she’d have to rein him in to keep him safe.
While Bran guarded her inside flank, she moved through the thick marsh grass. Her tunic, damp from the humid air, clung to her skin. She knew Bran’s eyes would be darting to every shadow and every rustle of wind through the tall reeds as they approached the outskirts of Gran Hesta’s home.
Normally, a village like this would be bustling, even at dawn. There would be fishermen hauling nets and mothers tending to their homes, but it was eerily quiet. No sounds of life. Just empty homes with doors slightly ajar.
“Where is everyone?” Bran echoed her thoughts, his voice barely audible as he crouched low to her left.
“I’m not sure,” Rynna replied, her gut churning. Something was very wrong.
The village stood eerily quiet, its homes built from rough, worn timber, with sagging roofs.
Cracked lanterns dangled from doorways, their flames long extinguished, leaving the streets bathed in an unsettling gloom.
In the distance, she spotted the blackened remains of a burned-down warehouse, its charred frame rising up like a skeletal hand against the pale sky.
“There are the warehouses Gran Hesta mentioned.” She pointed deeper into the village. The structures looked abandoned, but it was the best place to set up an opium operation that she could see. “Let’s head that way.”
Bran nodded. His usual cocky grin was gone, replaced by a tight-lipped frown as they crept toward the burned-out warehouse. Behind it, two more large warehouses stood, their weathered walls looming ominously in the morning light.
This must be where they store their food for the winter.
Her brow furrowed. Then, just as she was about to round a corner, Bran grabbed her shirt and yanked her back, pulling her down behind a stack of barrels outside what looked like an abandoned shop.
He pointed silently ahead with his free hand as Rynna eased into the shadows beside him, her heart quickening.
A group of villagers, their movements slow and mechanical, shuffled out of the nearest warehouse. They were of varying ages, some old and frail, others barely teenagers. Each carried large clay jars in both hands, moving as if under a heavy trance. Strangely, there were no guards in sight.
Bran tensed beside her, his muscles coiling as if he were about to spring forward, but Rynna’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into their hiding spot.
Wait, she mouthed and pointed from her eyes to the villagers, silently urging him not to move. Watch.
The villagers…they didn’t seem alive. Their eyes were white and glossy, their skin pale and mottled, hanging loosely over their bones. One man’s jaw hung slack, flies crawling over his face, yet he made no move to brush them away.
Are they dead? Her blood ran cold.
As the villagers drew closer, she tightened her grip on Bran’s arm, not trusting him to stay still in the face of whatever this was.
Her heart pounded as they shuffled past, but then she saw it.
There was a faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of their chests.
They were probably alive, but only just.
Thank the stars. She did not need another world with zombies.
Rynna glanced sideways at Bran, hands flexing in worry. There was more going on here than we thought, more than they’d been told.
The villagers continued to shamble through the winding streets, the clay jars clutched tightly in their arms. The homes they passed were small, sagging from time and neglect, walls worn and cracked.
But as they rounded a corner, a large house loomed ahead, different from the humble dwellings around it.
The structure was bigger, with polished wooden beams and fresh finishes.
Funneling toward the front door, they moved in eerie unison past a man who stood at the entrance. He glanced around nervously, his fingers rubbing against the long sword tied to his hip.
Stay here, she signaled to Bran, her fingers moving swiftly in the coded signals of their Reach.
Bran shook his head. No, he mouthed, ready to argue.
Rynna frowned and pointed toward the man at the door, crinkling her nose, and made the symbol for Hollow-born with her hands.
The man didn’t carry himself like a Hollow-born, his stance too loose, too anxious, but she could smell it on him, around him.
Source power. Or at least something close to it, faint but unmistakable.
If he wasn’t a Hollow-born, then someone inside that house was.
Bran clenched his fists and tried to push around her, but Rynna shoved him against the wall of the building they hid behind.
That’s an order, Novice, she signed, her eyes hard.
His jaw dropped, mouth opening and closing. She’d never taken such a firm hand with him before.
Please, she mouthed.
Fine. He exhaled dramatically, but his shoulders relaxed as he added, Be careful.
Rynna winked, then turned and sprinted up the side of the building, just like Fenn had done the day before on the cliff, quick, fluid movements, every step precise.
Bran’s eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open as she scaled the wall.
Unlike the previous day’s training, though, she did it without her faux Source.
If they had someone with sensing skills, she knew they’d be on the lookout for Hollow-born techniques being used in the vicinity.
Moving swiftly across the rooftops, her feet barely made a sound as she leaped from one to the next, her body low.
She darted through the shadows, every jump measured, every landing silent.
Soon, she neared the far side of the large estate and dropped into a crouch, blending seamlessly with the darkness cast by the nearby trees.
A large skylight window opened below, showing what had likely once been a grand dining area.
She carefully lowered herself onto its edge, peering inside.
The room was dimly lit, but her eyes quickly adjusted.
A large table was piled high with the same clay jars the villagers had been carrying, and a masked man moved slowly between them.
He placed a hand on each jar's lid, closing his eyes for a moment before drawing various symbols onto them with a steady hand.
“This was a good batch.” The man scribbled notes into a small pad. “At least fifty percent high yield. And five percent super high yield, enough to render even the strongest Hollow-born inert.”
Fuck. Rynna's pulse quickened. What were they planning if their targets were Hollow-born? This wasn’t just a band of opium thugs.
Once all the new jars were added to the table, the doorman grunted. “Send them back, will you? They’re giving me the creeps.”
“What?” Notebook man looked up. “Oh, yes, of course. I need space to work anyhow.”
He made a few swift arcane symbols with one hand, then touched two fingers to his forehead, whispering words she couldn’t quite hear. As soon as he lowered his hand, the villagers turned in unison and began filing out of the room as if on cue.
“Are you happy now, Bain?” He pulled his notepad back out.
“Ecstatic.” The first man sank into a chair in the corner. He scowled at the departing villagers, then called out, “Master! That’s the last of the latest production run. We’re ready for phase two whenever they get here.”
Rynna tensed from her hidden vantage point, hoping Bran had stayed put where she’d left him.
“Good,” came a voice from the room's far end. It was high-pitched, shrill, almost a squawk. “If the new batch of Veilroot is ready, it’s time to welcome our guests.”