Matt Forbeck - Marked for Death

“Is it always like this?” Brendis asked.

“Ever since the Day of Mourning,” Kandler said, relieved to have something to think about other than Esprл. “This wall of fog rolled out to the edges of what was once Cyre, and no one’s seen a ray of sunshine in the Mournland since, even four years on.”

“I thought we were already in the Mournland,” said Sallah.

Deothen chuckled at that but allowed Kandler to explain.

“Mardakine is on the edge of the Mournland. We’re low enough that the mists rarely reach the crater floor, and we’re close enough to the border that we sometimes see the sun. If the wind blows in the right direction, we can get full days during which you’d think we were in Breland’s green and fertile fields.”

“They say little can live in the Mournland,” said Sallah. “You have a solid people here, but I wondered how even they could manage in such a place.”

“That’s life on the edge,” Kandler said. “If it wasn’t for the crater being right where it is, I don’t think we could make it this close to this place.”

“Then why are you here?” asked Deothen. “This seems an inhospitable place for a town.”

“Everyone in Mardakine except for Burch and me hailed from Cyre-even Temmah. After the Day of Mourning, the people had nowhere else to go.”

“Other refugees fled the place,” Deothen said. “Your people could have joined the others in New Cyre or Sham.”

“That’s deep in Breland, not Gyre.”

“But your King Boranel granted them the land for New Cyre, and the town is run by none other than Prince Oargev. How much more Cyran could it be?”

Kandler laughed. “Look around you. You see this place, how gray and horrible it is? The people of Mardakine love sunlight as much as the next person. No one enjoys living in the shadow of the largest mass grave in recorded history.”

“Then why?”

“Back when there was a Cyre, this crater was part of it. The people of New Cyre hope to one day return to their homeland. The residents of Mardakine live that dream every day.”

“Seems like a nightmare to me,” Levritt said as the hunters trotted further into the mists.

“Boy,” Kandler said, motioning to the mists, “this is nothing. You’re looking at the shroud over the body.”

The mists grew thicker until it was nearly impossible for Kandler to see farther than the horse before him. Burch called a halt. While the others calmed their mounts, which were all a bit unnerved by their strange environs, the shifter pulled out a long length of rope and used it to tie their horses together.

“What’s this about?” Gweir said. “We are experienced riders, and these are the finest horses.”

“You can still get lost,” Burch said. “That would slow us down.”

“Birds lose their way in this stuff and fly into the ground,” Kandler said. “Even I get turned around sometimes, and I’ve been through here dozens of times. The mist is miles thick, and most who wander into it never wander back out again. Burch is the only one I trust here.”

“If you get separated, don’t move,” the shifter told the knights as he double-checked the knots in the line. “Don’t run. You could fall off a cliff or into a gully. Stay where you are and stay quiet.”

“Shouldn’t we yell for help?” asked Brendis.

“Only if you’re already under attack,” Kandler said.

Burch frowned. “Stay quiet. I’ll find you.”

“What if you don’t?” asked Sallah.

Burch walked back to the front of the line and mounted his horse. Just two horses separated him from Sallah, but the mists were already too thick for her to see him.

“Yell all you want then,” Kandler said. “Better to die fighting.”

The hunters fell quiet then. Only the sound of their horses’ hooves broke the silence. The mists muffled the noise as if they were made of cotton. It was like riding through dark, angry clouds, waiting for the storm to break all around. With no sun to guide them, it was impossible to judge the time. Kandler counted for a while but gave up when he neared a thousand.

After what seemed like half a day, Brendis spoke. “How long does it go on like this?” His tone mixed reverence with fear, as if he found himself in the house of an angry god.

“Miles,” said Kandler, “sometimes more than others. Or at least it seems that way. It impossible to tell while you’re in here.”

“Haven’t we already gone for miles?” asked Levritt.

“It’s slow going,” Kandler said. “Burch is barely able to see the trail as it is. You can thank your god we have a trail to follow. It beats falling into a sinkhole or wandering into a trap.”

“Yes,” said Deothen. “I was just thinking how easy it would be to set up an ambush in a place like this. Assuming you could see through the mists.”

“Or turn into it,” said Sallah.

“They won’t chance it,” Kandler said. As the words left his lips, he wondered if he should be as confident as he sounded.

“Why not?” asked Sallah. “They could destroy us before we could draw our blades.” She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword and peered into the mists.

“For one, vampires like to sleep during the day. Two and three, they’re powerful and immortal, so they’re arrogant and think they have all the time they need. Four, they’re cowards. If there’s even an off chance one of us could do something to part the clouds for a minute, they don’t want to mess with us. Five”-Kandler smiled-“because I say so.”

“Who’s being arrogant now?” Sallah asked.

The hunters fell mute again and rode on. After what seemed another few hours, the mists began to thin.

“We must be near the end of it,” said Brendis.

Gweir smiled. “Finally! I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face. I shall almost be glad to hear Levritt whining about how hot it is under his armor again.”

The young knight began to protest, but Deothen cut him off. “You are Knights of the Silver Flame, not children. Behave-”

Deothen’s voice stopped dead as the mists swirled back and revealed the blasted landscape of the Mournland to him for the first time. The hunters found themselves atop the crest of a hill overlooking a wide valley that stretched on for miles to the north and south. The grass their horses trod upon was dead and gray, as were the few trees scattered on the opposite hill in the distance. A tar-black river ran through the center of the valley.

No animals moved here. No birds sang. The only sound was that of the wind rustling through the grass and the scrub and the rumble of distant thunder. The whole of the land lay under the shadow of a thick, unbroken layer of gray cloud. Miles to the north, lightning flashed, but it came down in all colors of the rainbow rather than electric white. Some of the discharges were a bright black.

A trail ran down the hill before the hunters and crossed the river at a shallow ford. The rocks shoved up through the water there like broken bones through skin. Things lay all about the ford, scattered in various formations that were hard on the eyes, as if the mind did not dare to examine them too closely.

“What are those?” Deothen asked as he came to a halt next to Kandler and Burch.

“There was a great battle at that ford on the Day of Mourning,” said Kandler. “Thousands died.”

“But that was years ago,” Deothen said as he made the sign of the flame in front of himself. “Did the victors leave behind the losers’ armor?”

“There were no victors,” said Kandler. “They all died. Those are their bodies.”

Deothen frowned. Sallah’s eyes widened. Gweir and Brendis offered up quick prayers to the Silver Flame. Levritt retched over the side of his horse.