"The horses are breathing blood."
Corvan's voice cut through the darkness. Thorne stopped his mount. Raised his hand. The line halted.
Three thousand warriors had charged through Erathil's gates at dawn. Now, six hours into the ride across barren plains, the first horses stumbled and fell.
Kaelen dismounted, knelt beside a fallen mare. Blood streamed from its nose—black against the earth.
"What is this?"
"Ashlung."
Thorne looked to the horizon where black earth began.
"We have reached the Blightlands."
Ahead, dead trees rose like skeletal fingers against the night sky. The ground was not brown or grey but black, scorched through to bedrock.
A warrior rode forward.
"Commander. We should go around. My father spoke of these lands. He said—"
"Your father is not here. I am."
Thorne kicked his horse forward. It baulked. He drove his heels in. The horse stepped onto black earth.
The air changed immediately. Thick. Heavy. Each breath choked them with ash.
Behind him, three thousand warriors entered the Blightlands.
. . .
Verrian rode through the Blackvein Pass as dawn broke clear and bright.
Five thousand warriors followed, ranks straight as spear shafts. Not one had fallen. Not one struggled.
The pass was wide, the path smooth. Water ran clean in streams beside the road.
General Mordane rode up beside him.
"We make excellent time, my lord. At this pace, we reach the Peak by sunset tomorrow."
"Earlier."
Verrian studied the map.
"We will camp at the base by midday tomorrow, ascend at dawn the following day."
Behind them, Korrath and Blackwood commanded the rear ranks. Every warrior marched fresh, well-fed, ready.
Mordane studied him.
"Do you ever wonder if Thorne chose the wiser path?"
"No."
"When we meet—"
"When we meet, his warriors will be broken. Mine will be rested, ready, and victorious."
Verrian's mouth curved.
"Suffering builds corpses. I need warriors who can fight."
They rode in silence for a mile.
"And the girl?"
"She will come to me. She has no choice."
Verrian touched the pendant at his chest.
"When she reaches the Peak, the pendant will pull her towards me."
"And if she resists?"
"She will not."
. . .
Within an hour in the Blightlands, ash rose from the ground with every step. It hung in the air, refused to settle.
A warrior began coughing. Then another. Then dozens.
Kaelen wrapped cloth across her face, but ash found its way through.
"How far does this stretch?"
Thorne did not turn.
"Fifty miles. Perhaps more."
"We cannot breathe here for fifty miles."
"We can. Or we die."
Dead trees lined the path—branches twisted, reaching. No grass. No insects. No birds.
A young warrior doubled over in his saddle and spat black blood onto the ground.
"I cannot—"
He fell. His horse kept walking, dragging him until others pulled him free.
"Leave him."
Corvan turned to him.
"Commander—"
"He will slow us. Leave him."
The warrior did not rise.
Behind them, more warriors fell. Some toppled from saddles. Some collapsed, unable to draw breath through ash-thick air.
By midnight, they had lost two hundred.
Kaelen rode beside a young warrior named Ansel. He coughed every few minutes, each time bringing up more black blood.
"What is your name?"
His voice came rough, broken.
"Ansel."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"You have family?"
"A sister. Ellyn. In the eastern villages."
Ansel coughed again. Bent over his horse's neck.
"She makes bread. Burns it every time."
He straightened, kept riding.
"Tell me about her."
"She is twelve. Too young to lose her brother."
"Then you will not let her."
Kaelen kept pace beside him.
"Breathe. Just breathe."
They rode through ash that rose to their horses' knees.
. . .
Malachar stumbled through the wasteland, blade in one hand, his free hand pressed against the wound in his side.
Half a day since the ash-figures first emerged from the wasteland. Half a day of fighting—striking, killing, watching them reform. Dozens fell. Hundreds. But they kept rising from the ground, reforming from dust and bone.
He had been forced to run.
Now he walked through a landscape of black stone and dead earth, following the distant shape of the Sundered Peak.
Blood dripped from three deep wounds. His right leg barely held his weight.
Verrian. You will answer for this.
Movement behind him. Malachar turned.
Three ash-figures emerged from the ground, fifty paces back. Then six. Then twelve.
They did not rush. They followed, patient as death.
Malachar forced himself forward. Each step sent fire through his wounded leg.
The Peak grew larger on the horizon. Perhaps ten miles distant.
Ten miles he would have to walk whilst bleeding, whilst pursued, whilst exhaustion pulled at him.
I will reach you, Verrian.
He walked.
Behind him, the ash-figures followed.
. . .
Dawn broke grey and dim. Sunlight barely penetrated the ash-thick air.
Thorne raised his hand. The line of warriors halted.
"We rest briefly. No fires. Three swallows of water per warrior, no more."
Warriors collapsed where they stood. Some died there.
Corvan approached with the count.
"We have lost four hundred and thirty since entering the Blightlands. Two thousand five hundred and seventy. No more."
Thorne studied the warriors sprawled across black earth.
"How much further?"
"The Blightlands end in twenty miles. Then Hollowglass Canyon begins."
Kaelen dropped beside Thorne.
"We have lost nearly five hundred warriors, and we have not even reached the canyon."
"I know."
"At this rate—"
"At this rate, we will reach the Peak with whoever survives. That is enough."
She stared at him.
"Enough for what?"
"To fight."
A warrior stumbled forward—older, scarred, each breath a struggle.
"Commander. Rear scouts report movement behind us. Perhaps three miles back now."
Thorne stood.
"How many?"
"We still cannot tell. But they gain on us."
Kaelen looked back into the ash.
"Could it be Verrian's outriders?"
"No."
Thorne began walking amongst the collapsed warriors.
"Verrian rides the Blackvein Pass. Something else hunts us."
"What?"
"Does not matter. If they reach us, we fight them. If they do not, we ignore them."
He raised his voice.
"On your feet. We ride now."
Groans. Protests. But they rose.
Moments later, they rode deeper into the Blightlands.
. . .
Lord Draconis stood at the edge of the ravine, watching engineers work on the rope bridge.
Riven approached.
"My lord. The bridge will hold perhaps fifty warriors at once."
"Then we cross slowly."
"Verrian will reach the Peak ahead of us."
"I know."
Draconis turned to Riven.
"But Verrian cannot wake the dragon heart. Only the girl can."
"She rides with Thorne through the Ashmark Trail. They may not survive."
"They will survive."
Draconis watched the first warriors test the bridge.
"Thorne is too stubborn to die on a trail. He will reach the Peak with whatever warriors remain."
"And then?"
"Then we place ourselves between Verrian and the girl. Let them destroy each other whilst we wait for the right moment."
Riven studied Draconis.
"You do not intend to fight Verrian directly."
"Five thousand against my two thousand. Only a fool engages those odds."
Draconis mounted his horse.
"No. We wait. We watch. And when both forces have bled each other, we take what remains."
The first warriors began crossing the bridge.
. . .
Twenty miles became thirty. Thirty became forty.
Warriors fell every mile. Some quickly. Some after hours of struggle.
Ansel still rode. Grey lips. Sunken eyes.
Kaelen stayed beside him.
"Talk to me. About Mara."
"She wants to be a baker. Like our mother was."
His words came slowly, slurred.
"Mother died three years past. Fever."
"I am sorry."
"Mara tries. But she burns it every time."
He smiled despite the blood on his teeth.
"I should have taught her better. Before I left."
"You will teach her when you return."
"I will not return."
Kaelen grabbed his reins.
"You will."
Ansel looked at her.
"No, my lady. But tell her I tried."
He slumped forward and slid from his horse. Hit the ground. Silence.
Kaelen started to dismount, but Thorne rode past and blocked her path.
"Do not stop. If you stop, you join him."
"He deserves—"
"He is dead. You are not. Keep moving."
Kaelen stared at Ansel's body disappearing into ash behind them.
Ellyn. I am sorry.
A warrior shouted from the rear.
"Behind us! Something comes!"
Thorne wheeled his horse.
Through the ash, shapes moved. Not human. Seven feet tall, skeletal, limbs bending backwards.
"What are they?"
Corvan drew his sword.
"Ashwalkers. Legends say they are men who died in the Blightlands, animated by whatever poison fills this place."
"Legends."
Thorne watched the shapes draw closer.
"Legends do not carry swords."
The shapes emerged from the ash—bodies made of ash packed hard over centuries, bone showing through. Green flames burned in empty sockets.
Twenty of them. Thirty. Fifty.
"Form ranks! Spears forward!"
Warriors dismounted and formed a wall of shields. Spears bristled outward.
The Ashwalkers charged.
The first creature reached the line and impaled itself on three spears. It did not slow. The creature grabbed the spears, dragged itself forward along the shafts, and reached for the warriors holding them.
One warrior screamed as ash-fingers closed round his throat. His scream cut off. He crumbled to dust.
"Fall back! Mount and ride!"
Warriors scrambled for horses. The Ashwalkers cut through them in seconds.
Thorne's blade passed through the first Ashwalker's neck. Its head fell. Its body kept moving, grabbed a warrior, and pulled him down.
"They cannot be killed! Ride!"
One thousand warriors fled. Behind them, Ashwalkers consumed the slow ones, the wounded, the unlucky.
They rode for three miles before the Ashwalkers stopped pursuing. Something held them at the border.
Corvan counted the survivors.
"Less than seventeen hundred answered the count."
Over three hundred lost to the Ashwalkers in mere minutes.
Thorne did not respond. He rode forward towards the wall of stone that marked the Blightlands' edge.
. . .
The Blightlands ended at a wall of stone that rose five hundred feet straight up.
Thorne halted the line of warriors.
"The canyon lies beyond. We climb."
Warriors stared at the wall.
"Commander." Corvan dismounted. "We have lost over thirteen hundred warriors. Those who remain can barely breathe. If we climb now—"
"Then more will die. I know."
Thorne began removing gear from his horse—everything not essential. Weapons, water, rope. Nothing else.
"Strip your mounts. Take only what you can carry on your back."
Warriors moved with the slowness of drugged men. Many stood, staring at the wall.
One warrior dropped his sword and sat in the ash.
"I cannot."
Another sat beside him.
"I cannot either."
Then three more. Then ten.
Thorne walked to the sitting warriors.
"Stand."
They did not move.
"I said stand."
The first warrior looked up.
"We followed you into death, Commander. We have walked through ash that chokes us. We have watched friends fall. And now you ask us to climb five hundred feet of stone."
Thorne drew his sword.
"I ask nothing. I order."
The warrior did not flinch.
"Then kill me here. It will be faster than what waits above."
Thorne raised his blade.
Kaelen stepped between them.
"Commander. Enough."
She faced the sitting warriors.
"You are right. The climb will kill many of you. Perhaps most. But if you sit here, you die regardless."
She pointed back towards the Blightlands.
"The Ashwalkers wait in that darkness. And they will return when night falls."
The warriors looked at each other.
"At least if you climb, you choose how you die. Fighting. Moving forward. Not sitting in ash waiting for monsters to consume you."
Silence.
Then the first warrior stood. Then another. Then all of them.
"We climb."
Thorne sheathed his sword. Turned to the wall. Began climbing.
One thousand six hundred and eighty warriors followed.
. . .
The wall was not stone but ash packed hard over centuries. It crumbled under every handhold.
Fifty feet up, a warrior lost his grip and fell silently past the others.
One hundred feet up, another fell.
Kaelen climbed between Thorne above and Corvan below. Her fingers bled where ash-rock tore the gloves.
Do not look down. Do not think. Just climb.
Two hundred feet. Three hundred.
A warrior above screamed. The ash-rock beneath his feet gave way. He plummeted past Kaelen. Struck the ground below.
"Keep moving!"
Thorne's voice carried down the wall.
Four hundred feet. Five hundred.
The top appeared—a jagged edge against the grey sky.
Thorne hauled himself over, turned, and pulled Kaelen up beside him.
Below, one thousand four hundred and twenty warriors still climbed.
One by one, they reached the top. Collapsed. Gasped for air that was somehow cleaner here, above the ash.
Corvan was the last over the edge. He fell to his knees.
"How many did we lose?"
Thorne counted the warriors sprawled across the summit.
"Two hundred and sixty on the climb. Fourteen hundred reached the top."
He pointed beyond the wall's edge, where land dropped away into a massive canyon.
"Hollowglass Canyon. Ten miles across. The heat will be worse than the ash."
A warrior stood despite shaking legs.
"Then we face it, Commander."
Another stood. Then another. Then all one thousand four hundred and twenty.
But they did not descend immediately. Thorne made them rest briefly. Drink. Eat what little remained.
Because what lay below made the Blightlands look merciful.
. . .
Verrian's scouts returned as his force made camp for the night.
"My lord. We spotted movement on the eastern ridge. Lord Draconis approaches with perhaps two thousand warriors."
"How far?"
"A day behind us. Perhaps less."
Mordane joined Verrian at the map.
"Draconis. I thought he sided with you."
"He did."
Verrian traced the routes on the map.
"But Draconis serves only himself. If he believes I will claim too much power at the Peak, he will move against me."
"Should we prepare for battle?"
"No."
Verrian rolled up the map.
"Let him come. By the time Draconis reaches the Peak, I will control the dragon's heart. His two thousand warriors will kneel or die."
Korrath approached from the camp.
"My lord. The warriors ask how much further."
"A day. We reach the Peak's base by midday tomorrow."
Verrian looked up at the distant mountain, its peak hidden in clouds.
"And then we claim what should have been ours a century ago."
A voice spoke from the darkness behind them.
"Will you?"
. . .
End of Chapter 22
. . .
Next Chapter Preview: Ghosts and Stone
Verrian's father's ghost returns with a warning about the actual cost of power. Malachar bleeds out, fighting endless ash-figures as vengeance slips from his grasp. Thorne loses hundreds in Hollowglass Canyon's heat. Skeletal guardians block the final path to the Peak—and Thorne refuses to turn back.