It hadn’t been intended they were to leave still that day; however, with what news they had, as well as the captive lion, no one could argue the imperative of ensuring news was spread as quickly as possible. With two of the foxes in tow, just to keep extra eyes on their prisoner, they returned upstream to the site of the spire. Night was pressing gently onto the earth as they left Seras, and by the time they reached their destination, dusk had come and gone, night affixed the land. There was, for a fleeting instance, the terror that the lurking shadow from the night prior may reemerge, or another of the bloodspawn would lurch from the wilderness into the firelight of civilization, but neither vile blood spilt forth nor enough shade took root in the darkness.
As the tide of night washed them within the perimeter of the camp, there wasn’t a soul between them lacking surprise at the moot response to their return. Razien hadn’t thought they’d be attacked, shot down by archers from afar, but it had crossed his mind that the lion might serve as a lightning rod for the guard. Yet, it was almost as though the nightwatchmen were nowhere to be seen as they came past the first row of tents. At the center of the encampment, a fire was kept and had yet to fail despite the few other signs of life stirring the camp.
They settled about it, securing their captive in one of the nearby caskets. He wouldn’t be shut in and certainly not lowered into the earth, but they wanted to ensure he would have little chance at escape. With hasty paws, they bound him as Razien was the day prior and lowered him into the box. A subtle look of indignation played across the stern features of the
Westerner, but neither deer bothered with further irritations. His lips would be near impossible to loosen even when treated with respect. To spit in his face now would be to seal away all information permanently.
Once they were finished tending to the captive, they found Razien emerging from the dark north of camp. He had gone off for a spell in search of anyone he might find still milling about, watchmen that might explain the lack of commotion at their arrival, even Jaium in his tent, but there was no one to be found. Reporting in, he told the rest to sit tight as he investigated the wagon train. If he could count on no one else to be where they should be at night, it would be Greshalin.
Passing through the greater part of the pseudo-village his regiment had constructed, Razien found little more proof that his companions or any other were present. The acute terror of the old tale, the story of the first foxes to try to establish a village here, flashed through his mind. Yet, had there been some incursion by a son of the Goredrinker or brother of the Spiritcatcher, there would be evidence of their passage. Hardly did he think it would be possible for even the best of either lurking specter’s might to terrorize and terminate so many fighting men, be they from west or east, but it was impossible to otherwise account for the lack of life.
Upon reaching the caravan from the north, Razien was reassured that nothing untoward had occurred. About the canvas-topped wagons, there was light and life, the quiet hum of a string instrument and indistinct talk. There was a chance, slight as it might be, that the watch had settled about the Northerners for a time. A game of jest or a taste of wine was not unheard of amid the night, especially if those on guard were of the northern folk. Confident all was well if only removed from how Jaium would permit it to run, Razien ran his knuckles against the back gate of Greshalin’s wagon.
It was silent; the girl was a light sleeper, but it wasn’t to say she had thought the knock something more than a visitor. Razien knocked again, this time garnering some faint rumblings from within the wagon. The second set of knuckles on wood hadn’t been answered after a minute, but before Razien would climb into the wagon unannounced, a completely unacceptable thing to do to a priestess, he knocked again. Finally, the flap of canvas parted, revealing not the icy white fur of Greshalin but a familiar sandy-featured face.
La’Roux stared down at the wolf, confused but looking more like he had just been woken from a deep sleep. Razien offered the retired corsair a faint smile, knowing the man, despite his appearance, overly affable and ever-ready with a joke. As apparent as the question was, Razien simply gestured at the wagon, knowing full well La’Roux didn’t sleep beside his niece. Casually, he chuckled, “Sorry, Raz, Greshie’s a bit busy tonight. After that bad scene earlier, I’m sure you understand. If you bump into her, don’t tell her you caught me sleeping. I am supposed to be getting everything together for the ceremonies.”
“Ceremony? What did I miss while I was away?”
“Away? I suppose I’d have seen you in the thick of it had you been about. It’s your Wyse. He was attacked. He’s alive, but they’re worried he’s been exposed to vile blood. That collapsed tower you all dance about, that’s where they took him. Can’t take him back to Roya, don’t want him too close to others, you get my meaning. You’d find Gresh there too, I’m sure, but remember, I was not asleep when you came round,” despite the sincerity of his tone, the grave trouble this development cast across the face of the coming conflict, the lynx still held his almost eternal grin.
Alone, Razien cast off into the dark of night, minding little for the men back at the fire, knowing now everything was safe. Instead, he made his way through the camp and the little bit of scrub that separated the cabins from the fallen tower. The Spire was the namesake of the Children of the Black Spire, yet they were not the paws that crafted it nor the force that toppled it. By all accounts, it was an eternal thing, only forced to the floor of the forest by one just as endless as itself. It had met the mossy embrace of the earth sometime before Razien was born, still not so long in the past as to have been in its current state for all time. The toppling of the tower had eclipsed Sirian’s time among the territories her nearkin still dwelled.
Reaching the tower through the dark was little issue for Razien, the area about the camp being almost as well-known to him as the streets of Roya from his youth; however, once he was at the shattered base, movement took more work. At the opening, where the shaft had been shattered, a congregation had gathered and all the light absent from camp bloomed freely. From the tents, it would have been impossible to detect the presence of others less they had come from the north. As he made his way into the fray, trying to press to the head of the mass, he felt a paw on him. Wheeling about, he found Fesyl, one of the adolescents who tended the regiment’s equipment.
The young coyote loosed his grip on the wolf’s tail, fixing him with a grave expression, “Signor Razien, where have you been? The Baylen has been searching for you, and so has the Priestess.”
“Do you know where Jaium is right now? I need him to round everyone he can up. We have a prisoner.”
“A prisoner? I’ll spread the word, but you won’t find the Baylen easily. He’s way down at the far end, inside the tower. They’ve got the Wyse in there. He’s hurt.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“No, just that he got hurt and that they don’t want the Goredrinker to get to him.”
Fesyl vanished into the congregation, his faint voice ebbing and flowing in Razien’s ears as he pushed further on. The crowd ceased its fluidity and became a more solid perimeter at the tower’s base. At this internal juncture, there was a divide in the dispersion of the races among the collection. Near the base, almost everyone huddled in the arc surrounding the entrance was of Western lineage. There were far more deer than elk, but from the faint light within the tower, Razien could make out more of the tall sets of horns. It didn’t figure to the wolf. There was no reason those closer to the Wyse shouldn’t be closer to the man in his possible death throes. Yet, if he were afflicted with tainted blood, perhaps it was a move to protect those he might find less dispensable.
As he searched for a path, a means to push through and up into the toppled spire, Razien caught sight of that familiar snowy fur. Throwing himself like an inadequate swimmer against tumultuous waves, Razien slipped and shoved his way to the far side of the ring to unite with the lynx. Greshalin hadn’t noted the scuffles and moans to her rear, but as Razien came into earshot, she whirled to see the copper-furred wolf clear the last knot of deer between them. She was elated to see him; however, it was of little good to have even one so close to the Baylen and, by effect, the Wyse at her side.
“Razi, glad you’re here.”
“Of course. I thought you’d be further on ahead. Why are there so many of them here?”
A pregnant silence held as a few of the nearby deer glanced back. Greshalin bowed away to face the tail of the congestion. Whispering as low as she was able while packed tightly with so many outlanders, she answered quickly, “That elk that had you put under, he’s keeping us away. He said something to the effect of ‘savage outbursts’ if the Wyse were to pass. We have to do something. He’s bending ears and people are listening, not just those from the West.”
“Orathone and Litheiuss might be able to talk to him, at least Lith might, but they’re guarding a prisoner right now.”
“Prisoner?”
“Western spy or scout doesn’t matter. We’ve got him bound, but I don’t think Serans will be enough to guard him,” Razien scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face. There were plenty in the rear, shaded slightly as the lanterns and torches seemed positioned as close as possible to the spire. If he found Halice or Abonn, anyone he trained with, he might have felt comfortable relieving the two bucks. If nothing else, he might find a few he trusted to execute the infiltrator with ease and haste.
Gresh pawed at his shirt, dragging his attention from the crowd, “If you can get back through, find my uncle; he should be at my wagon. I’m sure he can keep an eye out, and he’ll grab a few of my guards. Then hurry back.”
There wasn’t time to lose, not for the message he had to bring, not for the hostage they held and needed desperately to extract information from, and not for the Wyse lying on what might be his deathbed. Razien broke through the fray, this time not bothering with polite apologies or excuses. He pushed and forced himself through many of the refugee deer and elk, most of which were not even their militant forces. As Razien reached the end, the few camp followers of the Wyse parted for him as though knowing the wolf, trustworthy in their eyes against so many foreigners, meant well in his flight.
Once out into the open air, Razien sprinted down the path, weaving through trees and cabins as he hopped off the trail to save time in his flight. Yet, before he could make it through the darkened copse that surrounded the fortified barracks, he felt himself caught.
Trazor 
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