As one the pilgrims and Vasen looked up and recited the ritual answer. “And warm you, Oracle.”
The presence of so many faithful warmed Vasen’s heart, as it always did. It pleased him that, for the moment, at least, no shadows leaked from his skin.
“You braved the journey to this abbey to see the light that lives in the darkness.”
“Yes, Oracle,” the pilgrims answered.
“You need not have come. The light lives not here but in each of you. We are all but humble servants to the Dawnfather.”
Smiles around, murmured thanks, nodded heads.
“I hope that the time you spent here, although brief, has kindled a blaze in your heart.”
More nods and murmured assent.
“Carry that with you always as the world changes around you. The path ahead is fraught for all of Toril. Be a light to others, a torch in the deep that shows the way. Will you do this?”
A resounding shout. “We will!”
The Oracle nodded. “I have met with each of you, seen for each of you.”
Orsin shifted his feet at that and Vasen didn’t miss it. The Oracle continued:
“I know you all would have preferred to remain longer. But it is important now that you return to the lands of the sun, before the war in the Dales, a war that has already cost many of you a great deal, makes it impossible to get you safely through. Go forth with his light and warmth upon you. Be a light to a world in which war and darkness threaten.”
“Bless you, Oracle,” said many.
“Thank you, Oracle,” said others.
“The light is in him,” said another.
And with that, the Oracle backed away from the balustrade. Browny stood and came to his side. The Oracle placed his hand on the large canine’s shoulder and the two of them moved off into the abbey.
The moment he removed himself from view, the pilgrims turned to one another smiling, laughing, embracing, alight with the Oracle’s blessing. Vasen turned to Orsin.
“You seemed affected by his words when he mentioned a seeing. Did he see for you?”
“He did,” Orsin said. “The first day I was here.”
Vasen was mildly incredulous. “The first day? But you’re not. .”
“Among the faithful? Very good. He knew that.”
Vasen had never heard of the Oracle performing a seeing for someone not of the faith. “Then what did he-” He stopped himself mid-question. “Forgive me. His words are for you alone. I was just. . surprised to hear this.”
Orsin wore a peculiar expression, a half smile, perhaps. “As was I. And I’ll tell you what he told me, if you wish.”
Vasen stared at Orsin but said nothing.
“He told me to walk in the woods of the valley this day, and to do so exactly where we met.”
Shadows curled out of Vasen’s skin. His eyes went to the balcony, now empty. “That’s what he told you?”
Orsin nodded. “He wanted us to meet, I presume.”
Vasen nodded absently, puzzled.
“When do we leave?” Orsin asked.
“Right now,” Vasen said. He stepped forward and called for the pilgrims’ attention.
Faces turned toward him and he watched their expressions fall. They’d gone from looking upon the face of the Oracle, lit with Amaunator’s light, to looking upon Vasen, with his dusky skin and yellow eyes.
“The Oracle has spoken. Today is the most auspicious time for us to leave.”
Resigned faces, nods.
“I’ll lead the squad of Dawnswords that will take you back to your homes.” Shadows leaked from his skin, wisps of night that diffused into the dusky air. More nods.
“I didn’t lead you here, but I’ll lead you back. I’ve made this passage many times. The rules are the same going out as they were coming in. Stay close together. You experienced the pass coming in and know how easy it would be to get lost there. Don’t heed the voices of the spirits. They won’t harm you. Once we’ve cleared the mountains, make little noise. The aberrations of the plains are attracted to sound. As we near the Dalelands, we’ll have to watch carefully for Sembian troops. We know ways to get through. Fear not.”
The import of his words caused the pilgrims’ expressions to cloud. He saw fear settling on them, watched it fill the lonely places in their spirit that their courage had left vacant. They’d always known in theory what it would mean to once more dare the dark of the Sembian plains and run the gauntlet of an ongoing war, but the reality of it, its immediacy after only ten days in the valley, was hitting them now.
Vasen continued, his tone even. “Be aware of your surroundings. You’re all eyes and ears until we see the sun. Signal to me or another Dawnsword if you notice anything that causes you alarm. Anything. And if I or another member of my squad gives you an instruction, follow it without question or delay. Your life and ours may depend on it. Do you understand?”
Nods all around, murmured assent.
The youngest of the pilgrims, a boy of ten or eleven, took hold of his mother’s hand, fear in his wide eyes. She absently mussed his hair, her own gaze distant, haunted. An elderly gray-haired woman, so thin she looked like a bag of dry sticks, smiled crookedly at Vasen.
He winked at her, smiled. “I’ll die to keep you safe. My oath on that. Now, gear up. Your packs are already prepared and await you in your quarters. We leave within the hour.”
“Only an hour?” someone asked.
“The Oracle has spoken,” Vasen said, and that was that.
The pilgrims filed past him as they returned to their quarters to gather their packs. Several touched his shoulder or offered him a thankful gaze. He smiled in return, nodded.
After they’d all gone, Orsin grinned and said, “Your words didn’t brighten them quite so much as the Oracle’s.”
“My work isn’t to brighten their spirits, but to keep them, and you, alive.”
Orsin shouldered on his pack. “Very good. I guess we’ll soon know how well you do your job.”
Gerak approached the campsite in a half hunch, an arrow nocked, senses primed. The ground all around showed pits from the creature’s heavy tread. The creature had flattened his tent, tore the tarp, scattered the logs from the fire. Fitful streams of smoke leaked from the spread embers. With almost no light to work by, Gerak fumbled through the mess of the campsite and sought his cloak. He found a shred of it stomped into the muck, another shred elsewhere, and his heart fell. The creature had torn it to bits and trod it underfoot. He found a few more bits of it but not the part with the pocket, not the part with the locket.
He sank to the ground near the remains of the fire, put his hands on his knees, and tried to figure out how he’d tell Elle about losing it.
“So much for good luck,” he muttered.
He’d spend the night hungry and cold. He never should have ventured out of Fairelm. Instead, he should have packed up with Elle, left the damned village, and headed for the Dales.
He felt the vibrations in the ground at the same time the creature’s roar split the night. Adrenaline had him on his feet in a heartbeat, an arrow nocked and drawn. The creature barreled out of the darkness, all flabby bulk and sour stink and ear-splitting roars. He fired, and the whistle of his arrow was answered with a satisfying thunk and pained shriek as it sank to the fletching in the creature’s flesh.
But the bulk kept coming. Gerak backstepped, dropping his bow and trying to draw his sword, stumbling on the broken, muddy earth. His boot stuck in the muck, tripped him up. He fell onto his back as he pulled his blade free.
The creature rushed him, snarling, slobbering, arms outstretched, clawed fingers reaching for him. Shouting with fear, he stabbed his blade at its midsection as one of its hands slammed into the side of his head.
Pain. Sparks exploding before his eyes. He flashed on the creature devouring the pheasants, bones and feathers and all, and imagined himself consumed entirely, clothes and bones and flesh.
Instinct and adrenaline kept his hand around the hilt of his blade even as his body went numb and the creature’s bulk fell atop him and drove him a hand span into the soft earth, a grave of his own making. His breath went out of him in a whoosh. The creature spasmed atop him, a mountain of stinking flesh, its bulk crushing him. A huge hand closed over his face and shoved his head into the sodden ground. Water from the saturated earth got into his eyes, nose, his mouth. Panic seized him as he inhaled water. Desperate, terrified, he stabbed and stabbed with his blade. Distantly he was aware of warmth, the pained snarls of the creature, its shifting bulk atop his body. He couldn’t breathe. More sparks, his field of vision fading to black. He was failing, dying. He blacked out for a moment; he didn’t know how long, but when sense returned he realized that the creature was no longer moving.