Prologue
All the saké in the world couldn't help Kodama Harumori forget, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't give it a go.
"Another," he demanded, throwing another gold coin onto the counter. It was of foreign make, but that had long since ceased to be an issue. The shopkeeper frowned, pocketed the coin bearing the mark of an Ashfeldian province, and forwarded another flask. It burned as it went down, but Harumori was beyond caring. Anything to replace the vivid images still flashing before his eyes.
"You don't look well," commented the woman beside him.
Harumori groaned. "No," he admitted. "I'm not."
The counter creaked as Satsu leaned against it. The mercenary captain wore clashing items of clothing, favouring the basic styles of Ashfeldian commoners. A few years back that would have been seen as nothing short of treason, but then again, the stuck-up nobles in command had seen Satsu's physical features the same way - especially her light hair and bright green eyes. There was no hiding her mixed heritage. Harumori would have agreed with the other nobles back then, but experience had changed him. He'd seen those haughty nobles slaughtered on the battlefield. He saw Satsu survive. He never made an issue of it again.
"What's the issue?" She asked, waving for her own drink. The shopkeeper scowled, likely wishing the warriors would move on, though he delivered nonetheless.
"Tamura's dead."
Satsu looked at him sharply. "He is? Since when?"
"Three days past. Him and four others."
"How? Assassins?" The terrifying notion of Ashfeldian ruffians - or worse, the Peacekeepers - sneaking into the border town to slaughter them in their sleep had kept many a soldier up at night. Only the presence of shadowy figures from the Shinobi Clans reassured the border guard that they would live to see another dawn.
"No. The prisoner."
Satsu curled her lip. "Why can't we just kill the animal?"
"Daimyo's orders," Harumori muttered bitterly. He took another long swig from his flask. "Don't ask me why he's keeping that damned monster alive."
Satsu quietened. Then, "How did it happen?"
"She tried to escape. Again. Killed the guards with her bare hands."
"Barbarian..."
"That she is..."
Harumori stared at the counter, his eyes transfixed on a dark knot in the smooth wood. He was thankful for the ensuing quiet. Satsu didn't press him for further details, leaving him to his saké. He'd been about to go for a third round when another voice spoke up.
"Uh, Lord Kodama?"
Harumori turned around. "Yes?"
The runner - a boy of no more than twelve years - bowed. "Lord Teruuji requests your presence. He waits by the fort."
Harmori sighed. "I'll be there," he groaned. He donned his sleeveless grey coat over his hakama and cuirass of lacquered wood. He checked that his weapons hadn't been picked by other patrons and trudged out of the izakaya. Other customers, recognizing his garb as that of a Kensei, gave way before him and bowed with respect.
The border town of Cinis, situated between his homeland of the Myre and the accursed hell that was Ashfeld, was small and drew on both nations as inspirations for its unique architecture, mixing styles from two differing cultures. However, the town was firmly a Dawn Empire territory, as outlined in the Treaty of the Shard following the end of the Great War. Trade had begun to trickle in as the refugees warily returned to lands they had lost nearly a decade ago, and the spot was primed for farmland, much like the other regions neighbouring the volatile Mount Ignis. If for nothing else, it would act as a buffer from the next Ashfeldian tyrant.
The fort was an ancient design, coming from a time before even the Iron Legion began. Harumori had heard rumours that it had been an outpost of the Great Empire from before the Cataclysm, but he wrote it off as hearsay. The stonework was impressive and it had weathered centuries better than any other keep he'd known. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that it had been the heart of whatever long gone dynasty once held these lands.
Even with his mind abuzz with the aftereffects of strong saké, Harumori knew the way to the keep. Every road in the small town led to it, and the buildings were small enough that the light of the moon and stars lit his way. The guards allowed him to pass without question. He marched into the great hall and found his Daimyo, Lord Teruuji, already dressed in his grand formal attire. He wore a red and white silk robe, with an ornamental katana hilted at his hip. Beside him stood a knight bearing the green and yellow heraldry of the Iron Legion.
Harumori openly scowled, but he refused to give voice to his complaint. He bowed before his liege, barely managing to keep himself from glaring at the knight. "My lord, I have come as you asked."
Lord Teruuji wrinkled his nose. "You've been drinking."
"I have. I apologize, for I did not know I had duties tonight."
The Daimyo scoffed, though said no more on the matter. He gestured to the knight, fully clad in heavy steel. Though Harumori saw no weapon, he recognized the styles - Lawbringer. The man was tall and imposing, a faceless giant. The Kensei had seen his kind during the war. They were fearsome and nigh unstoppable warriors.
"This is Sir Erdwin of Westlake," Teruuji said in the mongrel tones of the common tongue. For the knight's benefit, of course. "He has come bearing a message."
"An order," Sir Erdwin corrected. He held in one hand a scroll. "I and my entourage have come on behalf of the Iron Legion and Lord Eldhart to oversee a prisoner exchange."
"Those prisoners we keep here are criminals." Harumoi frowned. "All prisoners of war have been released, as per the instructions of the Treaty of the Shard."
"You are not mistaken on that account, Lord Kodama." The tall Ashfeldian nodded. "However, one of those you hold captive is of immense value to us."
"Show me." Teruuji snatched the scroll with his usual impatience and skimmed over it. Harumori watched as his Daimyo's features contorted into that of surprise, and then anger. He looked up. "This cannot be true! I have been ordered by the office of the Empress not to-"
"Look at the bottom," Sir Erdwin instructed. "I'm sure you will find the seal of the Empress, alongside that of the Lord Warden."
"I... see them," Teruuji growled. "But this prisoner is a murderer! She cannot be allowed to run free!"
"She will not," the knight vowed. "She will be subjected to trial, one my Lord Eldhart will preside over. Justice will be met."
"Which prisoner?" Harumori asked, quickly sobering.
Erdwin's helmet moved with a rustle to look Harumori in the eye. "Dame Amecrius will enter Iron Legion custody, effective immediately. This is nonnegotiable. She will face judgement for her crimes."
-X-
It could have been a bright summer's midday, but in the dungeons the light never changed, save for the flickering of a lonely candle. A single guard had placed it in a bracket hours ago and then hurried away, throwing a fearful glance into the darkened cell. It was by that dying light she prayed, whispering her oaths in a hushed voice.
"By the sacred stone of Horkos I swear to uphold the truth of my nature, of all human nature. I swear to enforce hardship and death, so that we might rise above the weaknesses of docility. I swear to be absolute in my duty, and bear it without fear. Without regret. I swear to serve the wishes of Horkos. I am war." She paused, eyes darting about. She thought she heard the scrabbling of tiny claws. If it was a rat she'd kill it and use its bones to pick at her manacles. They'd long since torn away the skin of her wrists, the flesh beneath sore and tender, sending spikes of pain lancing up her arm if she so much as twitched.
"Peace is poison. War is the cure. We are war. Horkos preserve-"
An iron door clanged open down the hallway. She retreated into the gloom of the cell and watched with wild, eager eyes. Many footfalls echoed through the corridor, growing in volume, and culminated in a trio of Samurai gathered before the door of her cell. They glared at her, but there was no mistaking the signs of fear. She thrived on it and eyed them maliciously.
A fourth figure stepped into view, wearing the unmistakable armour of a Lawbringer from the Iron Legion. He made no move to fight the Samurai next to him. Her smile gave way to a snarl, and she bared her teeth.
One of the Samurai fumbled with the cell's lock. When it opened, they ran to hold the chains binding her hands, while the third drew a wazikazi. She made no move to stop them. She heard a clatter as her shackles were dislodged from the rings nailed into the wall and the two quickly grabbed her arms. Again, she didn't resist. However, it wasn't the sight of a weapon that deterred her from struggling. She was only biding her time.
"Dame Amecrius?" The Lawbringer asked.
She growled. "That weakling is dead and gone."
"Oh, you're the definitely the one," the knight muttered darkly.
She tried to shake the Samurai off. The Lawbringer put that rebellious act down by backhanding her with his heavy gauntlet, the metal ripping across her cheek. She didn't cry out and, to spite him, spat blood onto his otherwise pristine armour. The knight growled. "Take her away."
"Sheep," she called over her shoulder, as the Samurai dragged her off. As she looked about, she noticed they were leaving the dungeons. She could only imagine it would mean one thing. She didn't struggle. She wouldn't be a coward. The Samurai marched her out of the dungeons, through winding halls and passageways, and into the great hall. The Samurai Lords, both of them, waited there and glared hatefully the moment she arrived. The Kensei fingered the hilt of his weapon.
A sliver of fear remained in her heart, and she made every effort to quash it with all her conviction. She didn't fear the end. "You can't kill me," she boldly told her captors, giving them a bloodied grin. "Ideas can't be killed."
"You are not an idea," the Daimyo frowned.
She laughed. "Of course I am. I am war!"
"There is no war," the Lawbringer gruffly announced. He walked around and knelt before the Daimyo. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lord."
"Go," Lord Teruuji mumbled. "Take the beast with you."
"As you say." The Lawbringer held up a hand. Soldiers of the Iron Legion marched into the hall with an impeccable synchronisation, and a serjeant replaced the Samurai in holding her bindings. The knight shoved her onwards, and the other soldiers fell into rank around them. They were tensed and watched her with wide, nervous eyes beneath their iron-wrought helmets..
"No war?!" She angrily exclaimed. The Lawbringer looked her way. "What do you mean 'No war?'"
"You will be silent," the huge man loomed above her. "Or we will gag you."
"Try it," she boldly dared. "You'll lose fingers."
The Lawbringer stared at her for a handful of shocked moments. "You... you are a savage. Not worth the dirt on my boot."
She smiled broadly. "I am all that is necessary. I am Syntribos. I am war."
"Begone, witch!" Teruuji demanded. "To whatever nightmare you crawled from!"
That caught her off guard. They were taking her outside for her execution? It would be quicker, she supposed. They'd kill her and bury her within the hour. It was practical, though she wouldn't have bothered with a burial at all if she were in their place. Let the wild beasts feed.
It had been months since she last breathed clean air. Since she could see the stars in all their glory. It was a comfort she'd never known she needed until it had been taken away from her. If she were to ever break free again, she would ensure that imprisonment would never again be her fate.
The cart was locked from the outside and barred at the slim windows. She checked about for weaknesses, but it looked to be built to contain the most rabid of viking, those more beast than human. It was built to contain wolves. A pity, that. Wolves deserved to be free.
They did not stop for rest. The knights rode day and night, eating and sleeping on the move. Syntribos did the same, wolfing down what scraps they tossed into her cage and trying to find some comfort in the rocking cart. There was too little of either to satisfy her.
Not one paused to talk to her. Not one listened to what she had to say. Whomever had chosen these soldiers was a good judge of character, she reasoned. They were stubborn and steadfast, these knights. She wondered how well they would fare in a fight. They were taking their time with killing her, that was for sure.
Perhaps a week after leaving Cinis they arrived by a port town she immediately recognized. Eitrivatnen had been a hotbed for clashes between knight and viking, and for a short time she and her sisters had held it against both. Those had been better, happier days. Days filled with combat and philosophy, life's greatest pleasures and harshest truths.
The soldiers led the cart to the newly repaired keep, and more soldiers surrounded the portable cell with weapons drawn. Syntribos didn't even resist as the hatch to her chamber opened and they forcibly pulled her out. She'd begun to think they weren't going to execute her. Not yet, at least.
"That won't do. Not at all, not at all."
Syntribos watched the old maid scurry about with what possibly amounted to be a detached interest. "What won't do?"
The elderly woman tutted. "You, dear, you. You'll have to wash, of course. You're covered in grime."
"So?
The old woman ignored her. "We'll need to brush your hair. Gods, it's filthy. And the knots! Jupiter preserve us, the knots!"
Syntribos couldn't help herself. "What about the knots?"
"They're a mess. We might have to cut it. Yes, we'll do that."
"What makes you think I'll let you?"
"Don't give me that, now!" The maid snapped, holding her hairbrush as if it were a broadsword. "You know it won't do you any good! We have to make you presentable. It's hard to work around scars, dear."
"I like the scars."
"They're not pleasant to look at. I don't think powdering will do any good. Hm, we'll have to work around it. Come now, I'll draw a bath while you get rid of those horrible rags."
Syntribos felt... off. Those 'rags' had been more comfortable than the preposterous embroidered tunic and leggings. The fine garments were an affront to who she was, but the maid didn't take no for an answer. The old woman was as ferocious as Astrea had been, even though she lacked the killer edge. It amused Syntribos to no end, and she made it her purpose to resist upon everything she could. In truth, the only reason Syntribos went along was for the Peacekeeper in the corner absentmindedly tossing her dagger and looking pointedly in her direction. Syntribos didn't fear a fight, but she would freely admit she was curious as to why she wasn't dead in a ditch, and it would be such a shame to be cut down before finding out.
Her curiosity outweighed all else, so she gave in and patiently endured the pampering of the maid. It took far longer than was necessary, but when the maid stepped away Syntribos felt as if the last lingering claws of the cell had been painfully scrubbed away. She didn't miss it.
The Peacekeeper took over for the maid when Syntribos was deemed presentable, and the armed assassin led her out of the dressing chambers and into the great hall. It was almost entirely empty, but two armed guards waited by the entrance and a man sat in a cozy armchair by the hearth, sipping from a golden goblet. Another chair, this one empty, rested beside him. Syntribos got the message and, without waiting for the Peacekeeper's instruction, joined the well-dressed noble.
"You're the one I have to thank?" Syntribos asked immediately in a deceptively pleasant tone.
The man chuckled. He was middle-aged, with bronzed skin and dark hair going grey. He wore a fancy doublet, but his calloused hands bespoke of his warrior nature. "Straight to the point?"
"I despise useless chatter."
"I suppose you would. And yes, I am." The old man briefly scrutinized her. His eyes were a very dark brown, she noticed, almost black. "You may refer to me as Lord Eldhart."
"If I don't?"
The Peacekeeper made her presence known and drew a knife. "You will," the assassin promised darkly.
"There is no need for that, Lilith," Eldhard raised a hand. With a lingering glare aimed at Syntribos, the assassin retreated. The nobleman sighed. "You must forgive her, and my other servants. Your reputation precedes you and it has... disturbed them."
Syntribos allowed herself a smile. "Good."
"So you are indeed the Alchemist?"
She just kept grinning.
A lengthy pause stretched out, and it appeared the nobleman was in no hurry to quench her curiosity. Finally, when he'd drained the last of his wine, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled. "This country is a hovel. Every bit of it."
"You're not Ashfeldian." It wasn't a question.
"No," Eldhart agreed. "I was fortunate, by Juno's grace, not to be born in this barbaric realm, but the Parcae decided that my fate lays here. The Iron Legion sent me to deal with the inadequate rule of lesser lords and assist your Lord Warden."
"That traitor is no liege lord of mine," Syntribos boldly insisted.
Eldhart dipped his head. "All the same, that is why I am here."
"Where do I fit into this?"
The nobleman pursed his lips, and he stared into the hearth's flames. His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly. "Because I am bound by oath to continue my duty here and bring stability to the region. I cannot leave, not even for a matter that I want to see done with all my heart."
"And what is that?"
Eldhart closed his eyes. "Two moons ago, a Blackstone loyalist killed one of my men. He has, thus far, escaped justice."
"Send the Lawbringers."
"I did, but they returned empty-handed."
"They lost him?"
"No," Eldhart replied. "We know exactly where he went. We just cannot reach him."
"Where?"
"Crow's path."
"I don't see the issue."
"Under the terms of the Treaty of the Shard, Crow's path is an extra territory of the Warborn clans. I am prohibited, by the Lord Warden, to send soldiers there, or otherwise risk shattering the peace. I would have negotiated with the barbarians, but talks with them are... strained."
"They are wolves, not sheep. They won't roll over and let you have your way."
Eldhart looked at her with disapproval. "I don't suppose they would."
Syntribos crossed her arms. "What does this have to do with me?"
"I want that bastard dead." Eldhart's eyes narrowed. "I want him to suffer. Every breath he takes is an insult to... I cannot send Iron Legion into Crow's Path, but you are not Iron Legion, as you so elegantly put it."
"If discovered, it will not be linked back to you. That is assuming I don't give up that information, or if I decided to undertake this task at all." Syntribos tilted her head. "Why would I help? The Iron Legion is not my cause."
Eldhard didn't answer immediately. He first looked to the Peacekeeper, who bowed and left quickly, then said, "I have long admired the Order of Horkos. I must admit, the dedication your sisters displayed towards their creed was admirable. It is almost a tragedy that they are gone."
Syntribos' smile died away. "Oh?" She raised an eyebrow, putting a cold mask over her face. She struggled to contain the sudden urge to strangle the nobleman.
"What I found most respectable was that the Order never betrayed their word. The oath of a worshipper of Horkos is binding, is it not? Your god demands it."
"That is true," Syntribos said slowly, "but first that oath must be given. And I have made no promises."
The Peacekeeper silently strolled back into view, clutching something wrapped in a heavy cloth. She delicately passed it to Eldhart, and the nobleman cautiously began to peel back the covering. A dull green glow began to emanate from whatever lay inside. "I am not a perfect man. I uphold what laws I can, but I cannot help myself sometimes. I am a collector, of sorts, and I ensure that our histories will never be forgotten. It took me time and gold to obtain this, among other things, but I am glad I did. This is a stone of draconite, or am I mistaken?" He'd finally revealed the eldritch green gem. A heavy presence filled the air, weighing down on Syntribos like a suit of armour.
"It is," she whispered, eyes only for the jewel.
"This is not the only item I secured from the Order's remains. You will be glad to hear that I purchased a certain suit of armour along with the accompanying sword before a greedy merchant could make off with them." The lord met her eyes. His features were blank but his eyes betrayed his certainty of victory. At that moment she hated him; more than the jailors of Cinis, more than the traitors who sought for the poison that was peace, more than anything. "Your price will be freedom."
"And what?" She croaked. "Live out in the woods like a piss-poor bandit?"
"Would you prefer shackles?"
No, Syntribos decided, she would not. "Hand it over."
"With pleasure." Eldhart gave her the stone. Syntribos clutched it tightly. "Now give me your oath."
"You bastard," she snarled, ignoring the heated gaze of the Peacekeeper. "Who am I to kill?"
"Sir Magnus, formerly of the Holy Order of Balaur. He was one of your compatriots, was he not?"
"I swear," Syntribos spat. "On this sacred stone of Horkos, to see Sir Magnus, knight of the Blackstone Legion, dead."
"And?"
"I swear to never give up knowledge that would betray Lord Eldhart to the Warborn of Valkenheim if I am captured."
Eldhart smiled. She wanted to claw out his throat. "Then it is done. Shall we settle for supper?"
When, at long last, Syntribos clasped on her cuirass, she finally felt at home. She'd tied her brown hair back into a simple tail for preparation, and with slow deliberation, slipped her antlered armet on over her head. Darkness enveloped her world, save for the slit eyeholes, and her breath became muffled by the surrounding steel. Clad in a chainmail hauberk and steel sabatons, faulds, bracers, pauldrons, and clawed gauntlets, along with the thick leather clothing worn beneath, she had become a nigh on unstoppable force. Only the most well-crafted of weapons, and the strongest of warriors to wield them, could stand to challenge her like this.
Syntribos picked up her sword, still sheathed in its simple scabbard, and left the armoury. She walked into the stables and climbed atop the heavy warhorse supplied by Lord Eldhart. There was no one, aside from a pair of guards and a single stablehand, to see her off. It was to be a quiet affair, she properly guessed, and the nobleman likely didn't want word of it to reach the Lord Warden or the other commanders of the Iron Legion.
She set off at a canter without a backwards glance, glad to be free of Eitrivatnen's stifling confines and the sickening righteousness of the Iron Legionnaires.
Syntribos avoided large settlements and main roads, preferring to stick to the underused game trails that winded through Ashfeld's wilds. While she was confident she could fend off a patrol of Iron Legion weaklings, it would only take one survivor to throw the Lawbringers onto her scent. Normally she'd welcome such a challenge, but she was a knight of Horkos. Her word was iron, and even an oath made under duress was binding. Astrea, matron of the Order, had made that very clear. Under duress was a weakness, and weaknesses were to be suffered for. Even if she were the last, Syntribos would respect and live by the traditions of her sisters.
She traveled along Lake Eitrivatnen's edge and soon left it behind. Syntribos rode through the Fold and the Underlands without pause. Her horse, a steed trained for endurance and fighting spirit, was slow to tire and ably kept up with the breakneck pace she set.
For weeks they traveled, resting only briefly every night, and Syntribos exulted in her newfound freedom. Despite the overhanging pressure of her oath, she enjoyed every bit of the journey. Her muscles had suffered during her time in captivity and her eyes had adapted to the dark, so it was a struggle to reacclimate herself to the outside world, but she took to it with a joyful determination.
All she needed was an exhilerating fight and all would be well.
Alas, they didn't encounter a single soul until they reached the barren region of Crow's path. Syntribos knew it only in passing, having only visited the area once, so she knew she would strike upon an obstacle there. The land was covered in gravel and shale, horribly suited to growing crops and thus devoid of habitation. Mountains rose up in the distant west, and would have provided an apt place to hide from others if it weren't so perilous. Those peaks were attacked day and night by fearsome gales from the north, the wrath of the Valkenheim gods. It was yet another message to the people of Ashfeld to leave the place be.
It was her fortune that the skies were clear, and she could clearly see the plumes of smoke from distant fires as they climbed high into the air. Someone, either determined or desperate, ignored the signs and made it their goal to scrap out a living in Crow's Path.
Syntribos kicked her steed into a steady stroll and, finally, climbed over the final slope between her and the small settlement. The fishing village, little more than a ramshackle hamlet, situated itself in the shadow of the mountain range and by the coast. The sea spread out for miles beyond the pebbled shores, and the island of Hel rose up above the horizon veiled in icy mists. If she were superstitious, she would have called it a poor omen. Nothing lived on Hel but the mad and the feral. Even the hardiest of Valkenheim's clans stayed far away from those killing grounds, and the treacherous waters surrounding it. She
The fishing village had no such fear. From her position, she spied a half-dozen tiny fishing boats floating on the waters, populated by miniscule figures hard at work.
However, more must have been within the village, for her welcome party was unexpectedly well organized. Six villagers bearing farm tools and fishhooks arrayed themselves at the edge of the hamlet facing her. They were led by a man clad in basic leather and chainmail armour, who held onto a cracked sword. He took a handful of steps towards Syntribos. She brought her warhorse to a stop.
"Ho, there!" The lead villager called out pleasantly. His equipment was old, and the colours on his armour were too faded to recognize. "What brings you here, stranger?"
Syntribos looked about. Other faces beyond the pitiful excuse for a mob peered out at her with curious, yet fearful expressions from half-shut doorways and the corners of huts. There couldn't be more than fifty people living in the village, she figured. "Hunting," she told the leader.
"I'm afraid there's not much in the ways of that out here. Mayhaps a hare? They're rare, but ol' Earmon sees them on the hills from time to time. Not enough grass to support them, you see."
"I hunt wolves."
"Wolves? Even rarer. You'd be lucky to snag a fox."
"My quarry is larger than that. It walks on two legs."
"Ah..." The leader chuckled mirthlessly. "Thought so. I woulda thought you mad to come fully armoured if all you wanted was a pelt." He straightened. "I'm afraid none've come this way, other than you. What's your name?"
"None of your business."
"Well, mine's Atiis."
Syntribos nodded. "Which legion?" She asked suddenly.
"Eh... Regal."
"Regal Legion?"
"Yes. Me 'n' my brother left it long ago, came here. We'd had our fill of them, you see." The lead villager paused. "What of you?"
"Horkos," Syntribos answered cryptically.
"Horkos? I haven't heard of it."
"Doubtless." Syntribos lazily looked away and regarded the other villagers with mild interest. "Did you train them?"
"... Not as much as I'd like right now."
"Why not?"
"No need of it," the former legionnaire answered carefully. "There's no bandits this way. No vikings. Nothing to give us trouble, 'sides a feisty catch."
"You failed them," Syntribos snarled, taking him by surprise. "What's to stop me from cutting them down?"
"There's seven of us."
"No. There's one of you. The rest are sheep. They'll break at the sight of blood."
Atiis sighed. "I was hoping you'd leave."
"You lied to me. Where is he?"
"I don't want to say."
Syntribos loosened her sword within its scabbard and tugged it out with a flourish. She hefted the greatsword effortlessly with one hand. "Him or you."
"He took the Path west. Into the wastes." Atiis pointed beyond the village.
"Why?"
"I don't know. Chasing faerie lights, most like."
"Faerie lights?" Syntribos levelled the sword with his throat. All it would take was a kick to send her horse forward and she'd lance the man. "Don't joke."
"It's what he wanted." The legionnaire shrugged, eyeing the blade nervously.
"You better not be lying." She sheathed her weapon and turned her steed about.
"Don't take it to heart, but I hope we never meet again!" Atiis called after her.
Syntribos scoffed. "Sheep," she muttered under her breath.
Her supplies were beginning to run out. Syntribos thought about turning around and forcing the villagers to provide her with the essentials, but she hadn't yet reached that stage. She anticipated that what remained could last her a few days longer.
The going got tougher the further she went. Crow's Path was called so because only a bird could comfortably travel over the desolate badlands. Her greatest worry was for her steed. The warhorse was a resilient beast, but the ground was ill-suited for it and there wasn't enough grass or freshwater. It persevered, however, with a single-minded determination that was a testament to its stock. Syntribos would have accepted nothing less of a true beast of the legions.
On the third night she stopped by the foot of a cliff, the only shelter for miles around, and began to lay out her belongings from her saddlebags. Syntribos ate her food cold, on the off chance that someone nearby might spot a fire, and began to settle in for the night. She set out a bedroll, removed her armour, and dragged her sword over to her side. She didn't trust the lifelessness of the wilds. She gazed up at the stars and wondered if Horkos still watched over her.
Then the sky came apart in a glorious flash of light.