Chapter 7 The Wave Held Still
The Wave Held Still
The journey to Stonewake tested their limits.
Rain pelted the Resh’Agar’s company as they waded through mud and knee-high grass in the Emerald Moores, the fog so thick they could hardly see two hands past their noses.
Twice, wagon wheels had sunk deep into the muck, forcing them to unload supplies and abandon one cart entirely.
Resh’s uncanny sense of direction kept them steady, but tension hummed through every step. The downpour dulled their hearing. The mist swallowed distance. Time vanished. Day and dusk blended. The Emerald Moores lay quiet under the thinning sun—but dusk changed everything.
The Cycle of Dark was descending.
Sometimes, the men heard their own voices echoed back—twisted mimicries that sounded almost human.
“They come!”
“Bring the Anchor!”
A wail. A howl. A scream—human enough to fool prey.
“They’re just varkhounds,” Zarrek snapped when a group of men froze. “Keep moving, unless you want to be their next meal.”
Eventually, runoff from the Spines narrowed their trail.
Foaming water cut across the road like a fresh wound.
The current was a titan, carrying entire trees—felled in the recent thunderstorm—in its embrace.
The horses balked at the crossing. Hooves slipped.
Eyes rolled. Most of the men balked too, even with Zarrek yelling at them.
When they reached the cataract of the Serevyn River, they halted again. A massive waterfall thundered above them, so tall that white mist swallowed its crest. Icy sheets clung to the cliffs overhead, menacing and poised.
Below, the river was swollen with snowmelt. No longer the peaceful current they’d followed days before, it was now a seething monster of whitewater, flying debris, and shattered ice.
“We’ll have to wait it out or find another route,” Resh said, jaw tight.
“There is no other route,” Zarrek replied. “We need to cross before night traps us in this gorge with the hounds.”
They paced the river’s edge, Resh weighing the risks.
Over nineteen years, the Resh’Agar’s Kelvasari company had grown into more than a warband.
It was a fortress in motion, tethered to his will, and now he had to carry it across a river determined to make dust of them.
If he faltered, the current would claim them all.
A hundred warriors, craftsmen, beasts, wagons—the weight of it pressed against his shoulders.
Auryn stayed mounted on Astenos at Resh’s insistence. She didn’t argue. Just stared at the water, like she’d seen it before in another life.
“Once frozen. Now alive,” she declared.
Resh almost smiled. That voice of hers—like some priestess whispering to the bones of the world—always tugged on some ancient part of him long buried.
A scout party tested the crossing. Two horses lost footing.
A wagon nearly overturned. The river was too deep.
Though each wagon wheel was taller than two men, they would still need magic to make this possible.
Decided, Resh raised his arm, calling for the mages.
Six men in brown and orange robes came forward from the crowd.
Each one carried his own conduit—a staff, a focus stone, runes bound to a wand—each method unique to the mage’s training and bloodline.
Zarrek stood close, ready to carry out orders.
“Two mages per wagon,” Resh commanded. “Runes at the ready. Buoyancy cast, one spell per set of wheels, front and back.” He looked between them. “There is no room for pride here. This will drain you. Which of you has the largest mana capacity?”
The mages nodded, their faces set and grim. A few raised their hands. Not enough. There weren’t enough bodies to support all the wagons. Some of these men would need to cast for two crossings.
“Work with Zarrek to establish a rotation. If you assist with the first crossing, you rotate back, recover, assist with the last. If the supplies absorb moisture, we will be stranded without food and rations for weeks.”
Zarrek tapped his shoulder. “If we add two of the less experienced, it could help shoulder the mana cost. Even if they deplete, the healers can care for them on the other side. We can have them support on the final crossing.”
Resh nodded. “Let’s run a test. We can’t afford to waste mana on land. Get the wagons in the water. Assign the scouts to assist the stable hands in keeping the horses calm while they swim. If we can’t pull the wagons across with the men, I will cross and pull from the other side.”
“I can go with them,” Zarrek offered.
“It’s too deep, even for you. Need you here, keeping the men moving. Eight wagons total. Twenty to twenty-five crossing with each. It will take most of the day.”
It was doable. With care. He glanced at the sky, at the crimson clouds of the Bleed chasing them. They had no time to hesitate, and Resh wasn’t one to second-guess his instincts. This was the only way forward, and lingering wasn’t an option. Thus, the company began crossing in waves.
At first, everything went to plan. One of the wagons, lifted with magic, crossed.
Twenty-two men alongside it, Reskala assisting the cooks and crafters.
The scouts helped the stable hands move horses across.
They would need support. Six horses tethered, four stable hands per crossing.
Even if they moved six per crossing, they would still need to move the war horses too.
“Zar, for the next wave, each Reskala takes his own mount across. Draft horses are the priority. We cannot lose even one.”
“It’ll be done.”
Another wave of men pulled a second wagon into position. The mages cast, lifting it aloft. Resh walked between them, resting his hands on their shoulders.
“You’re doing well. Only enough to lift. Let the river do the work. Only support.”
The men crossed with the wagon and horses, stepping onto the opposite shore.
Those watching breathed a sigh of relief.
More prepared to cross next. Resh activated Krathar—his rune of strength—in case any large debris came flying their way.
He stood knee-deep in the freezing water, aiding with his inhuman strength in any way he could.
The men shivered, their teeth chattering.
Six wagons across.
Then seven.
Every wagon was a heartbeat, every crossing another chance to lose everything.
At last, they pulled the final wagon into the river and gathered the remaining men and horses. Close to thirty Reskala, recovering mages, horses, and a few of the stable hands that still had energy to move. Resh tensed.
This had gone well.
Too well.
Better than he could have hoped for, considering the challenge. Zarrek slapped him on the shoulder and opened his mouth to say something when—
A whistle cut through the roaring water. The air split. Not thunder, but something worse. Resh’s head jerked up just in time to see the ice above them crack and break. An avalanche of frozen stone and ice plunged into the river.
The wave came.
A black, towering wall. Shadowed. Soundless.
It would wash away everything—his Reskala, the horses, their supplies.
The wagon would be crushed. They’d be lucky if they had any bodies left to bury.
Men screamed. Braced. Most were treading water when they saw it.
His mind scrambled for a solution. A ward.
A shield. But no magic could hold a wave like that at bay. No magic could—
His eyes moved to Auryn before he understood the reason for it. She sat, still astride Astenos, looking right at him. As though she’d waited for him to meet her eyes. To search for her. To ask.
Because what they needed now was not magic.
It was a miracle.
He said nothing. Made no motion.
But she knew.
Auryn moved before Resh could shout her name.
She spurred Astenos forward, sprinting straight into the rising mist. Her hair flew like a banner, silver and wild.
She raised her hands and magic burst from her like dawn.
Not a cast. Not a spell. Just…power. Raw and brilliant.
Her mouth moved. Eyes lit like twin stars.
The wave stopped.
Stopped.
Suspended in the air like it had turned to stone.
“Auryn,” he breathed—horrified, awed.
She turned toward him, her hands trembling.
Go, she mouthed.
It was a sword through his chest. He moved.
Grabbed the reins of the draft horses. Dragged them and the carts behind him.
Shouted orders. Krathar blazed on his shoulders.
Time stretched and tore. When the last man stumbled across, Resh turned back.
Astenos swam steadily across the river—calm, confident, bearing its tiny rider as though commanded.
Auryn’s hands lowered.
The light fizzled and died.
For a moment, the wave still hung as an executioner’s axe hesitating on the cusp of motion. Then it crashed down, roaring, foaming, hissing behind her like an outraged god denied his pound of flesh. Water splashed everywhere, drenching some of the warriors from head to toe. But none complained.
Dozens of eyes just stared.
In awe.
In fear.
He ran to her side just as she stepped forward.
Whispers followed him like footsteps.
“Did you see that?”
“But…where was her conduit?”
“Was she casting?”
“How? Without words?”
Resh stopped just in front of Astenos, grabbing his reins as Auryn slid down his flank. She landed with grace, though he did not miss the way she stumbled just at the last.
“You just…parted a river,” he uttered.
“Not parted. Reminded.” She mimed the motion of Serevyn with her hands. “It remembers being still. Once.”
Zarrek moved in beside him, golden eyes ablaze, hands clenched into fists. His axe lit with runes—not trust, not triumph—but readiness.
“That wasn’t casting,” he sneered as he stalked toward her. “What are you?”
“I am myself,” she insisted, her spine straight and her chin high. “Would you rather the men have drowned?”