Have your followers summon what aid they can to bolster our forces.
Call upon your own allies in the Lower Planes and make them ready."
While Talmen bowed in affirmation, Morgynn turned her attention to Khaemil, raising a brow to emphasize her unspoken question and expectation of his success. "Our allies within the forest move even now, my lady. They promise the death of the Hoarite and the Savrathan by this evening or sooner." "Well done." Turning back to Talmen, she reached out to him, pointing with a red-nailed finger and whispering words of magic. Heat radiated down her arm as the spell grew, and the air became thick and wavered like a mirage around it. The wizard-priest did not move. Her eyes, black with rushing blood, met his. "Hold out your arm." Talmen rolled back the sleeve of his robe to expose his forearm, and she stretched her smoldering hand to touch his skin. Like a brand, the heat scorched him. Thin lines of fire trailed from her fingertip across his arm, emblazoning a symbol of magic on his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the air and Morgynn could imagine the look on Talmen's face beneath the mask. She enjoyed his discomfort far too much. When she pulled away, a blackened rune was left on his right forearm. Talmen studied the symbol curiously, then looked to Morgynn for explanation. "This symbol will allow you to command those in the forest-the bathor, our hungry children, harvested from the undug graves of our enemies," she said, though it was partially a lie. The scar was capable of more than she let on.
"Disobey or betray me, and the magic in the scar will lead them to you tirelessly. Do not test their willingness to serve." She knew that no such thought lurked in his mind, but when called to arms, she doubted his enthusiasm. The scar would cement his role in the battle to come and ensure that his followers were committed alongside him. The idea of the coming conflict stirred her blood and she anxiously turned toward the tower. Final preparations loomed and she was not content to let the Weave rest for long while there was work to be done. She called out, for all to hear, as she walked. "Kavak bura sek liras.
Furthad vel jerand, sul vel yefa. Sakrah suv awaret vel ros mar kellet dur." She spoke in Old Nar, the words of an inscription found on the walls within the Pit of Goorgian shortly after her return so many years ago. In the common tongue, it roughly meant, "Call our powers to bear. Summon and gather, arm and prepare. Twilight comes to wake us and raise our standard there." Talmen ran his left hand over the scars on his arm, repeating the ancient words of the Order to himself quietly, reverently. Like a whisper in her ear, Morgynn listened to him. The scar on his arm told her his thoughts, sending her his words when she wished. "Brookhollow will fall," he said confidently, "then the whole of the Shandolphyn and the Border Kingdoms beyond. By Gargauth, be it so." "Indeed," she answered softly, smiling.
Quinsareth sat shivering by his campfire. Still aching from half-healed wounds, he had dozed off more than once. Sleep did not remain long as the trees of the Qurth, maybe a half-mile away, swayed in the wind with noises unlike anything he'd ever heard from a natural forest. He'd traveled through many lands and seen many forests, even those that thrived in the north around the Dalelands and the Moonsea.
Through them all, he'd slept comfortably in the warrior's rest, that half-sleep of soldiers and wanderers that broke at sounds of danger.
The Qurth, though, held a menace all its own, almost a sentience, and his weary mind could not abide letting down its guard for long. That same awareness had picked out the regular rhythm of horse's hooves plodding through the muddied grassland. Nonchalantly, he raised an arm across his knees, blocking the fire's light so his natural darkvision could focus on the approaching visitor. He saw a beautiful woman astride a dark stallion riding toward his camp. Her hands held the reins at an angle that suggested a simple traveler, but her stance in the saddle was straight and strong and her hips swayed with the steed in the manner of a practiced rider, possibly a warrior. As she came closer, he could see the curve of a long bow over her shoulder, confirming his guess. She stopped just outside the firelight and held up her right palm, a gesture denoting a lack of hostility in most civilized lands. Quin lowered his head as if tired and looked away from the low fire, shielding his eyes for the moment. "Well met, stranger," she said casually, though he detected a tension in her voice. "Well met," he replied. "Do I camp on owned land? If so, I shall move on with all due speed." "No, sir. These are free lands, such as they are of late. I merely hoped I might share the warmth of your camp. I have ridden all night and seek a moment of rest." Quin was surprised at her manner of speech, as he had been several times since entering the Border Kingdoms. Tales abounded of a land rife with war and bickering over land, with cutthroats and thieves around every bend in the road, but the formality of their language and use of the common tongue belied these wild rumors for the most part. "By all means, be welcome." In truth, Quin did not wish to entertain visitors, but he required information. He had suspicions about this woman warrior and her arrival out of the darkness on an empty road in troubled times. He felt sure there was more to her journey than casual travel. She dismounted gracefully, removing a well-worn pack from the saddle. Her mount lowered his head and began to graze on the hardy, wet grass, nosing the blades aside to reach the shallow puddles of water standing on the soaked ground. The woman wore armor, an archer's style guarding the bow arm but leaving the other free to draw arrows from the low-slung quiver he spied near her hip. He wondered bemusedly at himself a moment, taking stock of the situation. A beautiful woman wanders into my camp and I spend my time studying her weapons and armor, scrutinizing the cut of her jaw. He smiled at the thought. What a tragic life this is at times. Turning, she spread a small blanket and sat cross-legged across from him. "I am Elisandrya Loethe of Brookhollow. Forgive my rudeness for not saying so before." "You may call me Quin," he said at length. "I am from many places, truth be told." It occurred to Quin that he'd said that same phrase a thousand times or more in his travels. Almost by instinct, it had become a part of him to lie. He'd not uttered his true name to a soul in over seven years. He did not lament the fact, really, but he'd rarely considered his own comfort with the falsehood. As she warmed her hands, it seemed she struggled to see his face without appearing overly curious. He wondered at what she saw, imagining how he looked after the last few days. Though self-conscious about his eyes, he cared little about his outward appearances. Keeping his eyes hidden, he studied her back, wondering at that searching look in her eyes. What was she after?
"Well met, Quin. What brings you to these roads?" The question sounded casual, but again he sensed a searching tone in her voice, something beyond small talk. Another lie he'd grown attached to over the years was on the tip of his tongue, when a strange sound caught his attention. It stood out starkly from the wind and distant trees. Its familiarity froze his heart, and he snapped his head up, his muscles taught and ready to spring. His visitor, too, heard the noise and spun, but not before catching a glimpse of Quin's face. Her double-take at the sight of his eyes was more than telling. He had no more time to dwell on her intentions, and he focused on the darkness beyond the fire's light. The grazing horse grunted and whinnied loudly as the first arrow struck his shoulder, followed by several more, whooshing out of the darkness and the surreal morning mist. The horse jumped forward, but was hit again. Missiles buried themselves in his neck and chest, the well-aimed shots of a practiced bow hunter.