CHAPTER 73: INTO THE THORNS

The iron-banded gates of the waystation groaned open, and the expedition spilled onto the road like blood from a fresh wound.

Soren’s gelding shifted beneath him, sensing his unease as they filed into formation behind Ashgard’s lead riders. The shard pulsed cold against his chest, a constant reminder of secrets carried into danger.

Ahead, the noble contingents arranged themselves in their paired formations. House Dravien’s midnight blue banners fluttered alongside Trescan crimson, the knights of both houses riding with spines rigid as sword blades, gazes fixed forward to avoid acknowledging their unwanted companions. Their mutual disdain hung almost visible in the morning air.

"Look at those two," Kaelor muttered, nodding toward the Dravien and Trescan leaders. "Sitting so straight they must have swords up their asses."

The Karvath and Lanther pairing fared little better. Their green and silver banners tangled in the breeze as knights bickered over proper spacing.

"Three horse-lengths between contingents!" a Karvath captain barked.

Lord Lanther’s son responded with exaggerated politeness: "Perhaps House Karvath requires such distance to hide its... inadequacies."

Soren’s gelding fell into step beside the scarred female knight he’d noticed earlier. Her gray armor bore dents that had been maintained rather than removed, badges of survival rather than failures of care. She rode with the easy confidence of someone who had faced death often enough to be on familiar terms with it.

The contrast between Ashgard’s contingent and the Velrane representatives couldn’t have been more stark. Ashgard’s knights moved like a single organism, their formation adjusting to the terrain without visible signals. Soren, Kaelor, and Torven felt like children playing at war games alongside veterans of a dozen campaigns.

"Don’t let it bother you," Kaelor said, reading Soren’s thoughts from his expression. "They’ve buried more men than you’ve met. That’s all."

The road curved northward, and the landscape began to change. Cultivated fields gave way to rougher country, rolling hills dotted with scrub, gnarled trees twisted by prevailing winds, thornbushes that encroached on the road’s edges. The air itself seemed to grow sharper, carrying hints of wild herbs and damp earth.

Behind them, a Lanther knight’s voice rose in complaint. "This route is unnecessarily difficult. The western road would have—"

"The western road would have announced our approach to every village and waystation," cut in Lord Ashgard without turning. "We hunt a killer, not parade for peasants."

The rebuke silenced further complaints, though Soren caught the resentful glances exchanged among the younger nobles. They had expected glory, not discomfort.

The shard against his chest warmed slightly, Valenna’s presence sharpening after hours of silence.

’The land is honest,’ she whispered, her voice like wind through winter branches. ’Unlike the men riding it.’

Soren adjusted his position in the saddle, easing pressure on muscles still stiff from yesterday’s ride. ’What do you mean?’

’This terrain doesn’t pretend to be welcoming,’ she continued. ’It shows its thorns openly. These nobles wear pretty colors to hide sharper points.’

The expedition crested a rise, revealing a valley spread below like a rumpled blanket. Farmland had disappeared entirely now, replaced by wild growth and rocky outcroppings. In the distance, a line of dark trees marked what might be a forest boundary.

As they descended into the valley, Harrick of Trescan maneuvered his mount alongside Soren’s, close enough that their knees nearly touched. The young knight’s face bore the same contemptuous smile he’d worn in the courtyard.

"Keeping up so far, gutter rat?" he asked, voice pitched low. "The real hunting hasn’t even begun."

Soren kept his eyes forward, jaw tight against the retort that rose in his throat. The shard pulsed cold, Valenna’s presence a restraining hand on his anger.

Harrick, unsatisfied with Soren’s lack of response, guided his horse directly into the gelding’s path. Soren was forced to pull sharply on the reins, his mount nickering in protest as it sidled to avoid collision.

"Careful there," Harrick called, loud enough for others to hear. "Seems Velrane’s recruits can’t control their mounts on simple terrain."

Several Trescan knights chuckled, the sound carrying across the formation. Soren’s fingers tightened on the reins until his knuckles whitened. The gelding, sensing his tension, danced sideways, nearly bumping into Kaelor’s mount.

"Easy," the Swordmaster muttered. "He wants you to react. Don’t give him the satisfaction."

They rode in silence for another mile before Harrick found a new approach. As they forded a shallow stream, he positioned himself upstream of Soren, then leaned over to spit into the water directly in front of the gelding’s path. The gesture was childish but deliberate, an insult just subtle enough to avoid direct confrontation while making its intent perfectly clear.

Soren’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt before he caught himself. The shard against his chest flared hot with shared anger, Valenna’s presence surging forward.

’Patience, little knife,’ she whispered. ’His kind always overreach. Wait for the proper moment.’

The sun climbed higher, beating down on the expedition with increasing intensity. Sweat trickled down Soren’s back beneath his leather armor, and dust from the road coated his throat. Still, they pressed onward, Ashgard setting a pace that suggested urgency without panic.

As they passed a particularly twisted oak, Harrick found his way alongside Soren once more.

"I wonder," he said conversationally, though his eyes held nothing friendly, "how a street rat earned such elevation. On your knees, perhaps? Lord Veyr has... unusual tastes, they say."

Heat surged up Soren’s neck, anger threatening to boil over. This time, Kaelor maneuvered his mount between them before Soren could respond.

"Problem, Trescan?" the Swordmaster asked, his scarred face a mask of deadly calm.

Harrick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "No problem at all, Master Kaelor. Simply making conversation with our... unusual companion."

"Save your breath for fighting," Kaelor advised, though the words carried a warning edge. "You’ll need it when we find what we’re hunting."

When Harrick had fallen back to his position, Kaelor guided his horse closer to Soren’s. "He’s trying to goad you into a mistake," he said quietly. "Don’t oblige him."

"I know," Soren replied through gritted teeth.

"Your time will come," Kaelor added, his single eye fixed on the road ahead. "The Trescan pup won’t let it go. When he makes his real move, be ready... but not before."

The expedition continued through increasingly wild country. By mid-afternoon, they had left anything resembling civilization far behind.

The road narrowed to little more than a trail in places, forcing them to ride single-file through passages bordered by thorny brush that snagged at cloaks and scratched exposed skin.

Soren found himself watching Lord Ashgard with growing curiosity. The gray-haired lord rode at the vanguard, his posture betraying neither fatigue nor impatience despite the hours in the saddle.

Occasionally he would confer with his aides, consulting maps or listening to reports from scouts who materialized from the surrounding wilderness, but mostly he rode in silence, his gaze constantly moving.

As they navigated a particularly treacherous stretch where the path cut between two rocky outcroppings, Soren realized something odd.

Ashgard wasn’t studying the terrain ahead, at least, not exclusively. His attention regularly swept back across the expedition itself, steel-gray eyes lingering on each contingent in turn, measuring, assessing.

When that penetrating gaze fell on Soren, he felt stripped bare, as if Ashgard could see through flesh to the shard nestled against his heart. The lord’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, but something in those eyes suggested calculation rather than casual observation.

Kaelor noticed it too. "He’s not watching the path," the Swordmaster muttered as they cleared the narrows. "He’s watching us."

The sun had begun its descent toward the western horizon when they came upon the wreckage. At first, Soren mistook it for natural debris, perhaps trees felled by a storm. Then the smell reached him: charred wood, burned cloth, and beneath it all, the unmistakable stench of death.

Ashgard raised a closed fist, and the entire expedition halted with military precision. He dismounted, gesturing for his captains to join him as he approached what Soren could now identify as the remains of wagons, a merchant caravan reduced to blackened timber and melted metal.

The shard against his chest grew cold, Valenna’s presence sharpening with sudden interest.

Soren slid from his saddle, legs stiff from hours of riding. Kaelor joined him, the Swordmaster’s hand resting casually on his sword hilt as they approached the outer edge of the destruction.

The scene told its story clearly enough. Three wagons had been arranged in a defensive triangle, suggesting the merchants had seen trouble coming and tried to prepare. It hadn’t saved them.

Bodies lay scattered among the wreckage, blackened beyond recognition. Goods, or what remained of them, littered the ground: shattered crates, melted glass, charred cloth that might once have been valuable silks.

"How many?" asked a Dravien captain, surveying the carnage with professional detachment.

"At least eight," replied one of Ashgard’s scouts. "Hard to be certain with the condition of the remains."

Harrick pushed forward, his face pale beneath its usual arrogance. "Bandits?"

"No." Ashgard’s single word carried absolute certainty. He knelt beside one of the wagons, examining something in the dirt. "Bandits take valuables. This was destruction for its own sake."

He rose, brushing ash from his gloves. "The Noble-Killer," he said, voice carrying to the entire gathering. "Sylas doesn’t limit his attentions to lords, it seems."

A murmur ran through the assembled knights. Soren studied the wreckage more carefully, noting details that had escaped his initial assessment. The fire had burned hot enough to warp metal, hotter than a normal campfire or torch. And the bodies... they hadn’t tried to flee. They had died fighting, weapons still clutched in charred hands.

"They fought back," he said, the observation escaping before he could consider its wisdom.

Ashgard’s gaze shifted to him, those steel-gray eyes revealing nothing. "Yes," he agreed after a moment. "They did." He turned to his captains. "Clear it. No ceremony. We camp two miles ahead, near the stream junction."

The casual dismissal of the dead sent a ripple of discomfort through some of the younger knights. Even Harrick looked troubled, though he masked it quickly.

"Should we not bury them, my lord?" asked a Lanther knight. "Or at least..."

"We ride now," Ashgard finished, turning his back on the charred remains. "Daylight fades, and we have ground to cover."

Soren watched as knights from House Ashgard moved efficiently to clear the wreckage, their faces betraying no emotion as they dragged blackened corpses to the roadside. The contrast with some of the younger nobles couldn’t have been starker, several Lanther knights looked visibly ill, while even Harrick seemed subdued by the carnage.