The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 36
‘You will not get in my way.’
Her voice was iron.
‘You are at my command in my land, and you will not play tricks. You will help me get word to Sheriff Fenthos, and when I see fit, I will see to it that you are farewelled from these shores. Is this clear and understood?’
Grantchu nodded. ‘It is clear. It is understood.’
Kaedryn shook his head, breath catching in disbelief. ‘Unbelievable.’
Then Maerwyn spoke, her voice steady, each word carrying the quiet force of a decision that would change everything.
‘I am Maerwyn.’
She turned.
Their gazes met, unmovable as stone.
‘Commander Maerwyn Sawngfli of Jonika. The God of Speed.’
She lowered her hand onto Braegor’s thick fur, the breath leaving her in a quiet hush.
‘And Braegor, the God of Fire.’
The silence that followed was not empty. It was charged.
For now, they were bound by necessity. Uneasy allies in the face of something greater than their grudges. For now, they were each other’s only protectors.
For now, they alone carried the terrible truth of what had happened at the Massacre of Garette Fort.
CHAPTER 22 – The Returned
The trio moved in solemn silence, their thoughts weighed down by the horrors they had left behind. The night stretched endlessly, stars casting their cold, indifferent light over a world still reeling from the massacre at Garette Fort.
Maerwyn led, Braegor pacing beside her, his shadow shifting beneath Astra’s pale glow. The rhythmic crunch of dirt underfoot barely registered, her mind tangled in the grim puzzle of what had happened. If messengers had escaped, there had been no trace. If word had not yet arrived, she would carry it herself.
North was the only answer, but even that certainty unsettled her. There were no signs of an advancing force, no scorched fields, no broken siege engines, no remnants of an army capable of such devastation. The land bore no memory of its destruction. It was as though the attackers had appeared, erased two armies from existence, and vanished without a trace.
It defied everything she knew of war.
Her jaw tightened as doubt gnawed at her. Would they believe her? Would she believe it herself, had she not seen the aftermath with her own eyes? She exhaled sharply, forcing her thoughts into order. First Jonika. Then she would decide what came next.
Kaedryn’s limbs ached from the relentless march, but his mind bore the heavier burden. The vision of Ranchelle’s face melting away refused to leave him, burned into his memory like the very heat that had stripped flesh from bone. Every time he closed his eyes, the image returned, raw and searing, the air itself thick with the impossible wrongness of it.
Vorruk moved through the brush with quiet ease, but every step coiled with the same tension Kaedryn felt in his chest.
He was a creature accustomed to instinct, and instinct told him something was wrong. There was no open hostility between him and Braegor, no battle for dominance, yet the air bristled between them, a silent challenge neither had yet chosen to answer.
Kaedryn’s thoughts turned over the same relentless question. At first, he had resisted Maerwyn’s certainty that the East was not responsible. Who else had the power to wipe out a fort and an entire encampment in a single night? But the bodies had told a different story. Eastern soldiers, cut down alongside their Western foes, their corpses left to rot with no victors standing above them. He had spent years fighting the Eastern Union. He knew their weapons, their tactics, their strengths and limitations.
This was not their doing.
And yet, even that answer unsettled him. If not the East, then who? Armies did not erase themselves. No force, no matter how devastating, left behind nothing. No burning siege towers, no collapsed barricades, no smoldering remnants of a long battle fought through the night. Only silence. Only death.
It defied reason. It defied war itself.
Kaedryn’s thoughts circled endlessly, a riddle with no answer, gnawing at him with every step. Exhaustion dulled the edges of his mind, his body aching for rest, yet still, they pressed on. The relentless march stretched into the dim glow of morning, but he could not go any further.
‘Enough,’ he said, his voice rough with fatigue. ‘We stop here.’
The others hesitated, but no one argued. Begrudgingly, they halted, setting camp in the hush before sunrise. A few hours of rest did little to mend their exhaustion, but it was enough to keep moving when the time came. The road ahead would demand more than endurance. It would demand answers, and Kaedryn feared those still lay waiting in the shadows.
By midmorning, the heat had settled, dry and heavy. They had rested, but weariness clung to their bones, unshaken by the brief reprieve. Maerwyn sat in silence, eating sparingly before pushing the remainder of her rations toward the others. They would need to hunt soon, whatever still lived in these scorched fields.
The sight left a bitter taste in her mouth. Once-fertile plains, razed to ruin, reduced to a wasteland of blackened soil and skeletal trees. The West had burned them deliberately, stripping them bare, starving the Eastern Union of its own strength. She felt the resentment coil inside her. Why should she help them? Why should she share what little remained?
Yet, the truth gnawed at her. If she was the only one left to tell the story of Garette Fort, who would believe her? If not Kaedryn and Grantchu, then who? The Eastern Union would not realize something was wrong until the reports stopped reaching the cities, but that could take days, maybe longer. By the time scouts were sent, the dead would already be rotting beneath the sun. If the weather held, if the river’s current was in their favor, they could reach Jonika before tomorrow’s nightfall.
She forced her unease aside and pressed forward.
Grantchu had grown silent, the path ahead drawing his thoughts inward. Jonika would not welcome him or Kaedryn. Two Western soldiers, stripped of their armor, were still the enemy. Vorruk, massive and unmistakable, only made their presence more conspicuous. Shedding their armor would help, but it would not make them one of them.
He found some comfort in the thought that the East had its own Lumineers, its own Tripolists bound to their animals, just as the West had its Light-wielders. Perhaps, if they were lucky, Kaedryn and Vorruk could pass as Easterners. Kaedryn had been born here, after all.
In Haithe, in the Western cities, the sight of warriors and their bonded creatures was familiar, their presence unquestioned. But here, in the East, it was different. Maerwyn had Braegor, but few others traveled with beasts as large as Vorruk. His presence alone would mark them.
Cyre remained unbothered, curled lazily inside Grantchu’s pack, stretching once before resuming her nap. She would sleep through most of the journey, untroubled by the burdens weighing on the rest of them. If only Grantchu could do the same.
His thoughts circled back to the same question. Why was Maerwyn helping them at all? The West had torched her lands, slaughtered her people, and yet here she was, guiding him, tolerating his presence. If she felt even a fraction of the same unease that had taken root in him, then perhaps this was something neither of them had chosen or fully understood.
That feeling had been there from the start, the unspoken thread that had stayed his hand when he could have let Kaedryn kill her, the same impulse that had stopped him from slipping away into the night. Even now, he could turn back, return west, report what he had seen. He should. His duty demanded it.
And yet, he remained.
It wasn’t loyalty, and it wasn’t trust. No defined purpose tied them together, yet something did. Not attraction either. There was no lingering gaze, no quiet longing, no tension waiting to surface. What bound them was something rougher, wordless. The same kind of knowing he shared with Cyre. A burden neither had chosen, but both carried now.
By nightfall, they reached an outpost south of Melivelisha Farm, where Maerwyn suggested they rest. Once a bustling waypoint, the place now stirred with an uneasy quiet. The market still stood, but many stalls were shuttered, the few remaining traders watchful and silent. War hadn’t emptied it; it had only hollowed out its spirit.
Not long ago, merchants had filled these streets, carrying pottery, spices, and fruits from Verdathisa’s fertile land to markets far beyond. Now, trade had slowed, and with it came the first whispers of decline. Soon, even the most stubborn traders would be gone, and Verdathisa would bear the cost.
As they passed through the deserted roads, Maerwyn stopped abruptly, turning to face them. ‘You need local clothing,’ she said, her green eyes sharp. ‘Your Western armor makes you a target. You put me in danger as much as yourselves.’
Kaedryn bristled, his instinct to argue rising, but Grantchu cut him off with a warning look. ‘Do as she says.’
They stripped off their armour in the shadow of a narrow alley, the metal clinking softly as they set it aside. Grantchu dragged the pieces beneath a stack of empty crates, covering them with a torn canvas before straightening. ‘It’ll do,’ he muttered.
With a reluctant sigh, Kaedryn followed Grantchu to one of the few traders still open. An older man, his gaze watchful, wasted no time outfitting them in simple Eastern garb: loose tunics and sturdy trousers, the kind worn by farmers. The clothes were plain, practical.
Kaedryn tested the fit, rolling his shoulders. ‘Suits me fine.’
Grantchu felt differently. The rough fabric sat strangely against his skin, nothing like the armor that had carried him through battle after battle, the armor that had defined him. Without it, he felt exposed.
‘We look like peasants,’ he muttered.
Kaedryn smirked. ‘Farmers. Heavily armed farmers.’
Grantchu shot him a glare, but Kaedryn only laughed, not from amusement, but to keep the weight of what he’d seen from dragging him under.
Their armor, once a symbol of rank, of purpose, was discarded without ceremony, left behind for scavengers or thieves. The realization settled in Grantchu’s gut with an uneasy weight. The armor had been more than protection; it had been an identity. And now, it was gone.
They returned to Maerwyn, who had, as expected, refused the comforts of the outpost, setting up camp just beyond its boundaries. The fire flickered in the cool night air, casting long shadows against the darkened landscape. A modest meal cooked over the flames, enough for all of them, including Vorruk.
She had bought provisions, though she said nothing of it.
As they approached, she glanced up, assessing them in their new disguises. To their surprise, she smiled. Brief, fleeting, gone before they could be certain they had seen it at all.
‘You’ll blend in better,’ she remarked, then turned back to the fire.
They ate mostly in silence, the occasional crackle of burning wood the only sound. The night pressed in around them, the warmth of the fire the only comfort against the creeping chill.
Kaedryn, never one to let silence linger, finally spoke. ‘Tell us about your gift, God of Speed.’ His voice held the barest hint of curiosity, testing the waters.
Maerwyn didn’t even look at him. ‘I tell you nothing. You will know nothing of me, except that you’ll be safe until you leave.’
Kaedryn raised an eyebrow, undeterred. ‘We should at least try to understand each other if we’re going to be working together.’
Maerwyn tossed a piece of wood into the flames. ‘You are here because it is convenient for me.’
The words were deliberate, cold. But even as she said them, she knew they weren’t entirely true.
Just as Grantchu had felt something unspoken tethering them to this path, so had she.
She could have killed them in the tunnels. The moment had been hers. Two well-placed arrows, and they would have been nothing but corpses left to rot in the dark. But something had stopped her. It wasn’t strategy, nor was it mercy.
It was a thought. A sensation, nagging, insistent, something she couldn’t quite name.
She pushed the feeling aside.
‘When we reach Jonika,’ she said evenly, ‘you will recount what you saw to Sheriff Fenthos. Then you will return west, and we will speak never again.’
Her words held the weight of certainty, yet deep within, something quieter stirred, already bracing for what would come next.
By dawn, as the first light brushed the horizon, the group roused from their first full night’s rest in days. Their path was set, Kard’s River, where ferries would carry them north to Jonika.
Meanwhile, in Jonika, a dove landed at the dovecote, carrying a message from the armies camped near the fort. The dove keeper, groggy and unimpressed, glanced at the note and dismissed it as yet another redundant confirmation of the troops’ safe arrival. Messages of this kind often came in multiples; he assumed this was no different.
With a yawn, he shuffled back to bed, muttering that it wasn’t urgent enough to bother Sheriff Fenthos. The message, which in fact warned of an attack and the full compromise of their position, was carelessly tucked away. He grumbled something about delivering it after breakfast. Perhaps after morning tea.
Further south, beyond Garette Fort, where the massive Thalryssi siege weapon loomed against the walls and the burnt-out husks of two others lay doomed in the bay, a fleet approached. Galleys and longboats, their banners bearing the white octopus of Roydne wrapped around a golden coin, sliced through the glassy waters in near silence. The eerie stillness of the fort weighed heavy, unsettling even the most seasoned sailors. Dawn’s first light shimmered across the bay, casting an almost ethereal beauty over the devastation.
As the lead boat neared the towering Thalryssi, its crew stood awestruck. They had heard stories of these siege engines, machines of war capable of leveling cities, but seeing one up close was something else entirely. Its sheer size, its craftsmanship, inspired both awe and unease. The fate of two lost Thalryssi was known, yet a darker question lingered. Where was the fourth?
At the helm stood Captain Faelric Dunnlow of the Roydne Navy, personally appointed by Ganflide of Roydne himself. His orders were clear: secure the fort and hold it at all costs. Lord Paramount Marcius Saylong had assured Ganflide that the stronghold would remain under their control once his forces advanced toward Melivelisha Farm.
This fort was more than a strategic foothold; it was a gateway.
Holding it would ensure unobstructed trade between Roydne and the East, cementing Saylong’s vision of a prosperous Accord. If this was to be the foundation of an era of wealth and influence, Dunnlow intended for his name to be etched into its history.
But the silence that cloaked the fort told a different story.
The galley drifted alongside the Thalryssi, its shadow stretching across the deck. Ropes were cast. Nets climbed. Dunnlow led the first men aboard.
The deck was a graveyard. Blood blackened the planks, bodies torn apart, picked at by scavengers. What little flesh remained was rotting. Below deck, the horror thickened. More bodies. More silence.
The soldiers did not speak. They had seen war, but this was something else.
Dunnlow steadied himself and stepped onto the skywalk connecting the Thalryssi to the fort’s walls. The rope bridge swayed under his boots. His men followed in tense silence. He gripped his sword, not for battle, but for reassurance.
Beyond the wall walk, the courtyard unfolded before them.
Blackened walls, streaked with blood and soot. Bodies, or what was left of them, lay strewn in grotesque disarray. Limbs and torsos, tossed as if by something inhuman. Birds flapped wildly, startled by their presence, beaks slick with carrion. Rats scurried between corpses, gnawing at whatever was left.
A strange white powder dusted the ruins, mingling with the charred remains, clinging to the stone like a whisper of something unnatural. The stench of blood and burned flesh clung to the air, chased by something acrid, something that didn’t belong.
Dunnlow swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. He fought to keep it down, but his hands trembled despite himself.
He turned to his men. They stood frozen, faces drained of color.
No words came.
Only silence, vast and unrelenting.
By mid-morning, Jonika buzzed with life. The streets hummed with merchants haggling over wares, the clatter of market stalls, the scent of fresh produce mingling with warm bread. The war in the south was a distant thought, a problem for soldiers, not for the city.
Few paid heed to the murmurs of politics. Fewer still considered the possibility that Jonika might one day need defending.
The dove keeper, having just finished a leisurely breakfast, retrieved the latest message from the dovecote. He gave it a passing glance before tucking it into his pouch. He plodded through the streets without urgency nor cause for concern, exchanging smiles and pleasantries, taking pride in his simple but reliable duties.
At the Regal Court, the guards waved him through, their greetings familiar, the routine unchanged. Inside the sheriff’s hall, he handed the note to Fenthos without ceremony.
‘I suspect the armies are settling in comfortably now,’ he said, lingering near the door.
Fenthos didn’t look up, simply unrolling the parchment without a word. His eyes scanned the words, his expression impassive until his brow furrowed. He read it again. Then again.
West attacking.
Overrun.
Massacre at Garette Fort.
His grip tightened. The parchment crumpled in his hands. His voice was sharp. ‘When did this arrive?’
The dove keeper blinked. ‘This morning, sir. Just at sunrise.’
‘And you waited until now?’
Confused by the reaction, the dove keeper shrugged. ‘It’s just another confirmation, sir. You’ve received the same note the last two days.’
Fenthos slammed his fist against the desk. ‘You blithering fool! You had one job. One!’
