Herald of death

Sylas steps towards the wounded man. Vertigo takes him as the stenches of burning cloth, sizzling flesh, and fresh blood invade his senses. He stumbles, his sight blurring at the edges as pain contracts his brain. The blood-pumping urgency of rushing to help wavers, and every one of his senses fills him with disgust.

"Don't you have a healing potion?" Hawryn asks, pointing at one of Liliana's satchels.

"No," she answers.

Perplexion crosses Hawryn's expression for a mere second. He grabs a piece of uncharred cloth and kneels beside the wounded man. With minimal manipulation, he wraps it around the man's chest, binding the arrow in place.

Burning acid climbs Sylas' throat, threatening to jump out as the air turns acrid. Ice freezes his feet, fingers, and face, making him realize the berry Liliana gave him isn't affecting him anymore.

"Sylas!" Liliana calls, looking offended as if she had to call him several times.

Her voice snaps him out of the cacophony of sickening sensations. He places a hand over his mouth and nose and approaches. Looking around, he realizes that black smoke spewed out by the wagons is pooling around them.

Hawryn unfurls a rug alongside the man, its charred edges smothered by the snow. With Liliana's help, he lays down the wounded and drags him out of the smoke's reach.

A wagon explodes, propelling burning trails of liquid fire in the air.

"Protect yourself!" Liliana commands. She grabs the edge of her cape and shields both herself and the wounded.

"Heat resistance," Sylas murmurs, lifting his own cape. Liquid impacts splatter against it and drool to the ground. Feeling the rising heat of clinging flames, Sylas tears off the cape from his shoulders and throws it into the snow.

A cough breaks through the noise of crackling flames from beyond the dark smoke. It is light and shallow, not the loud cough of an adult. A small form falls from one of the carts, visible only as a dark shape beyond a wall of flames.

Staring at it, Sylas realizes the child is locked between the three carts and won't find an escape by himself. He looks back at Liliana and Hawryn to find them focused on dragging their wounded away. His heart hammers in his chest as he stands frozen in place.

"Mom?!" the little voice screams.

Liliana rushes to Sylas' side but stops, held back by the wall of fire as it roars. The flames rise high, snapping at the air like hungry maws.

Sylas stares into the blaze, the shape of the child torn by the shifting fire. He steps forward, protecting his eyes. Pain spikes in his nerves, phantom sensations of burns before the flames even touch him. His ability protects him from the fire, but he doesn't know for how long or how well.

Beyond the wall of flames, the world turns into a haze of dark smoke. Sylas drops to a low crouch. A burst of flame flares nearby – one of the wagon's wheels collapsed. Avoiding the projections, Sylas dashes the last few meters and dives down beside the child.

The girl is no older than seven. She's smeared with soot, with one arm burnt and twisted under her. But her eyes are open, wide, and terrified.

"I've got you," Sylas comforts, his throat burning. He scoops the girl into his arms.

The child whimpers at the touch but clings to Sylas' armor, burying her face in his gambeson.

The fire roars, growing evermore.

Sylas lifts his head to see a narrow corridor of black smoke flanked by closing flames. He barrels towards it, each breath burning his lungs.

Another vial explodes from inside the same cart as before, hurling a raging fireball at Sylas.

Sylas contorts to shield the child behind his back and smacks away the smoldering oil with the vambrace of his right arm. The flames spread across his forearm, biting through his armor in seconds. He breaches the gap in the fire shoulder first and tumbles outside.

Escaping the smoke, Sylas digs his right forearm into the snow, smothering the flames raging on his armor and flesh. The fire doesn't subside; rather, it seems like boiling, spreading crackling embers.

Hawryn grabs Sylas' elbow and the edge of his vambrace to tear it off and throw it further away. The piece of leather curls on itself like a dying spider as it burns away. "Let me see your wound," Hawryn asks.

"Tend to her first," Sylas orders, pushing the girl towards Hawryn. Despite his ability, Sylas' forearm feels like it has been stabbed over and over again. He looks down to see it red with blisters and chunks of torn skin. His armor suffered a lot more than he did. The cotton in his gambeson shriveled, the leather pieces cracked, and the string of his bow threatens to snap.

Liliana storms over, her expression shifting from fear to concern as she looks over Sylas' wounds. Kneeling beside him, she glances at the unconscious child before grabbing Sylas' right hand and elbow. She sighs. "You are lucky you only got one arm burnt. Fire is extremely dangerous; a gust of wind and you could have been reduced to ashes. You may have an ability to resist heat, but burnt air will still suffocate you."

Sylas doesn't try to retort, his mind too clouded by the fumes. He pushes on his healthy arm to rise to his knees. He looks back at the collapsing carts, their flames filling the air with the stench of burnt flesh.

"Let's go," Liliana commands, looking at Hawryn. "We'll get the wounded back to camp. You find the recruits and bring them back too; we need to end their training."

Hawryn nods as he finishes inspecting his patient. "She's alive, but I'll need to make sure the burns don't fester while she heals. Walf has potions for the emergencies; they'll both need one."

"Go fetch the recruits," Liliana reiterates.

From the shadow of his tent, Sylas observes the returning duos as he watches over the two wounded survivors. They are sleeping, drugged by the unguents applied to their burns and painkiller herbs.

"How is the arm?" Liliana asks as she enters.

Sylas looks down at his bandaged right forearm. He moves his fingers and is flayed by dozens of needles stabbing into the burned area. Glancing at the two unconscious caravanners, he feels like complaining about his pain would be egoistical. "Fine, I guess."

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"So, you don't need any of this?" Liliana asks. She shows the waterskin she was hiding behind her back, shaking it to cause an audible slush.

"What is it?" Sylas asks, feeling his throat dry as he realizes he didn't drink anything in over a day.

"Wine and herbs," Liliana answers. "It won't heal you faster, but it will numb the pain. Don't drink too much though; the herbs make it stronger than spirits."

"Thanks, but I can't," Sylas says, refusing the wineskin with a hand motion. With the men-at-arms back at camp, it is time to investigate the situation. He grabs his sword, which he laid beside himself, to reattach it to his belt. "We need to find who did this, and it will be easier sober."

Liliana interposes herself to stop him from stepping outside. "You will go nowhere until you are healed. The unguent Hawryn gave you needs a few hours, and you need sleep."

"She cried for her mom. She will wake up an orphan, and I don't want to tell her I have no idea who did this," Sylas says, anger rising. He stops himself and takes a deep breath to calm himself. "I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just… I can't get the smell out of my mind."

Liliana places a hand on his left arm. Her blank expression breaks into sadness for an instant before she regains her composure. "I get it; I've made cases personal before. But you need rest to see things clearly, or you'll… make mistakes."

Sylas glances at Liliana to look into her eyes, unsure of how to respond. Questions pop in his mind, but he notices the wounded man stirring to life.

The man's gaze sweeps the tent, finding the girl beside him to then search in the darkened corners. "It's dark in there. Is that Callan?"

Sylas follows the man's gaze to find an elongated pile of supplies in the corner.

Liliana approaches the straw bed. "I'm sorry; you are the only two survivors."

The man stares in the distance for a moment, lost in his emotions.

"Do you know who attacked you?" Liliana asks. She walks to the bedside, sitting on a stool left next to the bed. "What do you remember?"

"Not much. We –" He coughs out a sliver of blood. "They hit me second, and I immediately felt dizzy and fell. I think I remember them talking, but I didn't understand a word."

"A poisoned arrow struck close to your heart. You should avoid any unnecessary movement until we are sure the potion we gave you healed the wound," Liliana explains. "Do you remember anything else?"

"I felt hot, like waking up drenched in sweat only to fall back asleep," the man adds. He looks away from Liliana, trying to hide reddening eyes.

Liliana stands up from her stool and nods for Sylas to move outside with her. She closes the flap behind them. "I'd hope the kid will have more to tell us, but I know she will be a mess when she wakes up."

"And Hawryn said she will be out for a while," Sylas adds. The corporal told him the smoke suffocated her long enough to risk memory loss. "Guess we'll have to find something else."

"I told you to get some rest," Liliana reiterates. She motions for Storis to approach.

"I don't need rest; I'm fine," Sylas complains. He stares at her as Storis comes near.

"Corporal, make sure our wounded sergeant remains in the camp until he's well rested," Liliana orders. She gives Storis a hard stare before leaving to join Hawryn at the camp's edge.

Sylas sighs. He looks at the corporal beside him. "Technically, if I were to order you to ignore her order, would you have to follow my order?"

"With all due respect, Sir. When it comes to a soldier's health, I've the authority to tie you to your bed," Storis retorts. Sylas could swear he saw a fleeting smirk on the hard man's face.

"Well, my bed is requisitioned by our survivors," Sylas says.

"Remain in the camp and I won't bother you," Storis concedes.

Sylas looks around at the assembled, unoccupied soldiers. He asks, "If we have enemies who use arrows and siege tactics, shouldn't we make this place siege-proof? Keep them occupied so they don't ask questions until we have answers for them."

Storis looks around. "I'm thinking a wooden palisade, a ditch with spikes, and a single point of entry. It should keep them busy for a while."

"I'll draw it with ropes; can you get them to chop trees? I'll need… four to build a drying fire. Six to dig the palisade's foundations. Two on forging nails; I've seen iron veins on the mountain flank. But that means I'll need at least another two to build a bloomery, and I'll need to make them an anvil. And, I'm guessing three to make ropes; we don't have enough." Sylas paces before Storis as he thinks of anything he might be missing.

"I'm already down to one on tree chopping," Storis interrupts. He points at their supply cart. "And we don't have enough shovels or axes, not to mention any smithing hammers."

"I have one," Sylas says. He stares at the corporal, realizing the magnitude of the job. "It's too much, isn't it?"

Storis lets out a short laugh. "We use the same camp spot from one batch of recruits to the next; it isn't supposed to be a fortress. Plus, we couldn't leave it there, it could be used by bandits to attack the villages."

"Then what about moving to one of the villages?" Sylas asks.

Storis takes a moment to think. "The position here gives us better access to the main road. But it's useless if we can't defend it. We should talk to Sergeant Eirlys about moving once she and Hawryn are back."

"They were there a moment ago," Sylas comments, searching for them.

"They left to investigate the attacked caravan's surroundings," Storis reveals.

"And she made sure I wouldn't follow right before leaving," Sylas states, annoyed. He remembers all the strange events during their survival exercise, starting with the fight Liliana hid from him. He turns his gaze to stare at Storis. "I'm beginning to think you four have been given orders I'm not privy to. Tell me, corporal, what is really happening?"

Storis stares back at Sylas, expressionless. "I'm not aware of any special order besides the usual training of new recruits. You are certainly a special case, but I wasn't given any hidden instruction concerning you, sir."

Sylas sighs. "I'm sorry, I'm getting angry again. I need something to do to keep that godsforsaken sight out of my mind."

"Might I suggest tending to your gear?" Storis offers. He nods towards a group of guards repairing the damage suffered by their armors and spears. "I find it soothing in times of stress."

Sylas stares at the boys, his temper smoldering as he witnesses what he could only qualify as crimes against their gear. "I'll join them, at the very least to rescue their armors from the warts they call repairs."

Sitting on a tree trunk laid beside a fire, Sylas watches a mixture of tree bark slowly cooking into a tanning agent for the quivers and the pelt's remains. He uses a rasp to smooth the edges of his bow and improve its aesthetic.

In the night, he cannot see past the camp's edge, where duos of guards patrol with torches. Clouds obscure the sky, hiding the two moons and their light.

Walf approaches after waking up a dozing-off duo. He leans above the pot to see it simmering. He asks, "Can't find sleep, sir?"

"Every time I close my eyes, I see the flames and smell the smoke. Too long, and I hear the screams," Sylas says.

Walf sits in front of him, across the boiling tannins. "That bad. If you need it, I have some wine to make you forget today's worry and let you get some sleep."

"It's not only about today. I think it rekindled some bad memories," Sylas says. He grabs the stick he left beside the fire to stir his concoction. "Not so long ago my village was raided. Everything was on fire, and I stood frozen as my neighbors were slaughtered. If it wasn't for one miraculously present adventurer, I wouldn't be here today."

Walf stares in silence, deep in his thoughts. As a pair of guards pass by on their patrol, he inspects them in detail before returning to Sylas. "Not long after I joined the guard, we found a ghoul lair in the city. I can still smell the blood and rot. We all lived through something that marked us forever, but I can tell you that it will get easier."

"The kids certainly didn't, not with how infantile they act," Sylas comments.

"Some of them went through pretty rough stuff, but nothing as recent as you." Walf falls silent as a pair passes near them. "There will come a time when each of them will have lived through so much you won't recognize them. That includes you."

"I hope there is a better way. The adventurer I mentioned had none of the … haunted look I see in you, Storis, or Hawryn." Satisfied by the smell and color, Sylas grabs the pot to move it away from the fire.

Walf snorts a laugh. "I've never met a real adventurer who wasn't a wreck. They are people who can tear through dozens of their kin without a second thought. With all due respect, you can't imagine the horrors they see from monsters and men alike. If he seemed polite, measured, patient, and more, I can assure you it was a façade, like with nobles. Scratch the surface and you will see they aren't human anymore."

"I hope it isn't so absolute," Sylas comments. He turns his head as he hears a voice coming from the camp's edge.

"We are under attack!" Jule screams from afar.