The Dawn Will Come
68th of Glade, Year 390 of the Age of Sundering
68th of Glade, Year 390 of the Age of Sundering
No matter how many times she had seen it, the scale of destruction the Cult of Mending left behind would never fail to make Veriel’s heart sink. What must have been sturdy stone houses had been destroyed into barely recognizable rubbles, the stones scorched dark by flames. Wooden roofs had cracked and collapsed into themselves. It had been a small town in the middle of a clearing called Weaver’s Rest, known for the baskets they made out of plants from the nearby river.
The Siltori climbed off her horse as she made her through the beaten path, three knights trailing behind her. It didn’t take long for her to start noticing the corpses here and there, rotting and abandoned. She looked back trying to assess her subordinates. It was very likely the first time they saw decaying bodies. Sergeant Jerys Kern’s brown wings fluttered in discomfort, while the younger knights visibly paled.
A traveling peddler had come to their Dawnmartyr camp two days ago, alerting them of its presence. In response to that, the knight-commander had chosen Veriel to be in charge of finding out what happened to said town. The Pathfinders had deemed that it should be a quick and safe exploit since most sightings of the dead had been seen coming from the southwest. Their trackers had also found evidence that it was where signs on the cult had been found.
Meanwhile, the town was located in the north of their camp. All she needed to do was gather the survivors and bring them to the camp so they could help them relocate to a safe city. It would only take about a half-day ride to the town. Easy. So, the young Siltori had chosen two freshly initiated knights and a sergeant to accompany her. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.
Taking the lead, Veriel summoned Iratallin in her hand and scanned their surroundings. “Stay alert and look for any signs of life.”
“Yes, lieutenant.” The dejectedness of Knight Erich Reisinger’s answer almost made her smile. Behind him, Knight Lorgan Arrel parroted the same lifeless reply as he steered the horsedrawn cart.
All of them had grumbled about being chosen by her. About a few dozen knights had been dispatched near Central Ecith to intercept the rising dead that had been growing at a worrying pace. With suspicions of the cult’s involvement, the Dawnmartyrs had gone to investigate and deal with the threat. They must have imagined that it would be full of action and fighting. A battle would be inevitable, of course, but fighting was not the only thing a Dawnmartyr did. Helping civilians who had been affected by the Graveplague was also a big part of their responsibility.
Still, the young woman could empathize with their frustration. She wasn’t any different when she first survived her Reaving initiation. It had been exhilarating and she felt invincible. All she wanted to do was swing her blades. But after years of violence and losing friends, Veriel had learned to enjoy the quiet missions, the ones that allowed her to breathe and still bring some good to the world.
Fortunately, she spotted no threats. The only movement she had caught was from the only building left standing after whatever disaster had struck this place. Perhaps calling it standing was a bit generous. The roof was sagging down to one side with wooden shutters barely hanging on its hinges. A pale face had appeared peering from one of the windows. Veriel assumed that the survivors had gathered there for protection.
Jerys stepped forward and sheathed his blade, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “We’re the Dawnmartyrs. We’re here to help!”
The face disappeared and she immediately heard movements from inside the house. Just like that, the door opened with a painful creak. Villagers covered in dried blood and dirt slowly filtered out, eyes taking in the symbol on their armor.
Despite Erich’s earlier lack of spirit, the young man was the first to approach them to help a limping man out of the house. “You’re safe now.”
Men and women alike burst into tears at his words, perhaps seeing hope for the first time. Veriel turned her head back to survey the eerie silence of the ruined town. There was nothing that she should be alerted with. Yet, her eyes settled on a marking on the wall of a ruined house - eerily resembling a pictograph. It was most likely just leftovers of what the cult had used to destroy the town.
However, Veriel still couldn’t shake the apprehension settling in the pit of her stomach.
