settlement remaining in the World. What’s more, Talmir was not Landkist, though he commanded some of the strongest Embers in the Valley.
The traditionalists still whispered when his back was turned, but he paid them no heed. Talmir’s charge was to keep the people of Hearth safe, whisperers included, and that he did, ensuring that every Ember, soldier, hunter, villager and stray cat within a day’s travel was prepared for the next attack. Under his watch, the great white walls of Hearth had never been breached. He planned to keep it that way, and though the sky was a little more dour now than it was the day before—the threat of storm clouds curling in the distance in an odd change for this time of year, they had made it through another spell relatively unscathed.
Of course, the same could not be said for his cousins on the Lake, but he had no doubt that First Keeper Tu’Ren had regained control in short order. Much like their own First Keeper, he was not a man to be trifled with.
Talmir watched the pale sun shine its light on the serpentine river that snaked its way through the rock-strewn fields. It passed beneath Hearth’s portcullis, where dark clouds turned it steel gray.
The Dark Months were ending.
Why, then, was he so uneasy?
Thunder rolled in from the north as if in answer, and the scent of ozone carried on the wind. Talmir was not a superstitious man. He would not have believed there was a White Crest if he had not felt the tremors of the great battle in the passes as a youth, the same battle that pushed the Rivermen south and sparked the early conflicts. His father had played a prominent role in those clashes. It was strange, that Talmir broke bread with the Rockbled along the same Fork that had been stained red not so very long ago.
Talmir shook the dark thoughts away and walked the battlements. He looked down over the city that was his charge. If Last Lake was the nourishing mouth of the Emberfolk, Hearth was the heart—or the guts, depending on whom you asked. The buildings here were squat and stacked one atop the other as they climbed the crooked, cobbled streets toward the Red Bowl, the great market at the center. The very wall on which he stood was the only thing in sight that had been built with an eye for engineering. It was not lost on him that the Rivermen and their Landkist were mostly responsible for that.
If Last Lake provided the fish, Hearth provided the hooks.
A piercing screech assailed him as he was about to descend to the streets below, and Talmir spun to the west. He half expected to see a swarm of Dark Kind pouring from the trees in a last desperate bid for the walls. Instead, he was greeted by a sight jarring in its normalcy: a small, mule-drawn cart laden with rain-wrapped bundles leaned weirdly, one wheel stuck fast in a rut along the stream.
An old man bent to work over the delay. Talmir could see him cursing as a young woman shouted at him over the reins. The gray mule screamed again, eager to be off, and the Captain shouted orders.
The grinding gears of the portcullis began their slow rattle, but Talmir’s attention was drawn by something else. A figure emerged from the tree line behind the old man. The figure moved with the predatory grace of a cat, and Talmir thought he glimpsed a flash of ruby red in place of eyes, causing him to rub the sleep from his own.
His vision cleared, but the scene before him grew no less perilous.
“Riders!” he screamed, knowing it was too late.
The old man had barely risen before he was cut down, his head parting neatly from his shoulders. The woman shrieked as the dark figure turned on her, the mule startled at the sudden commotion.
Talmir silently urged her to run as soldiers raced about him, horns blaring, gears continuing their raucous grinding as the gate rose slow as agony. But she did not run.
The Captain snatched a silver horn from the nearest courier and blew out a note that cracked the sky apart like fresh thunder.
The traditionalists still whispered when his back was turned, but he paid them no heed. Talmir’s charge was to keep the people of Hearth safe, whisperers included, and that he did, ensuring that every Ember, soldier, hunter, villager and stray cat within a day’s travel was prepared for the next attack. Under his watch, the great white walls of Hearth had never been breached. He planned to keep it that way, and though the sky was a little more dour now than it was the day before—the threat of storm clouds curling in the distance in an odd change for this time of year, they had made it through another spell relatively unscathed.
Of course, the same could not be said for his cousins on the Lake, but he had no doubt that First Keeper Tu’Ren had regained control in short order. Much like their own First Keeper, he was not a man to be trifled with.
Talmir watched the pale sun shine its light on the serpentine river that snaked its way through the rock-strewn fields. It passed beneath Hearth’s portcullis, where dark clouds turned it steel gray.
The Dark Months were ending.
Why, then, was he so uneasy?
Thunder rolled in from the north as if in answer, and the scent of ozone carried on the wind. Talmir was not a superstitious man. He would not have believed there was a White Crest if he had not felt the tremors of the great battle in the passes as a youth, the same battle that pushed the Rivermen south and sparked the early conflicts. His father had played a prominent role in those clashes. It was strange, that Talmir broke bread with the Rockbled along the same Fork that had been stained red not so very long ago.
Talmir shook the dark thoughts away and walked the battlements. He looked down over the city that was his charge. If Last Lake was the nourishing mouth of the Emberfolk, Hearth was the heart—or the guts, depending on whom you asked. The buildings here were squat and stacked one atop the other as they climbed the crooked, cobbled streets toward the Red Bowl, the great market at the center. The very wall on which he stood was the only thing in sight that had been built with an eye for engineering. It was not lost on him that the Rivermen and their Landkist were mostly responsible for that.
If Last Lake provided the fish, Hearth provided the hooks.
A piercing screech assailed him as he was about to descend to the streets below, and Talmir spun to the west. He half expected to see a swarm of Dark Kind pouring from the trees in a last desperate bid for the walls. Instead, he was greeted by a sight jarring in its normalcy: a small, mule-drawn cart laden with rain-wrapped bundles leaned weirdly, one wheel stuck fast in a rut along the stream.
An old man bent to work over the delay. Talmir could see him cursing as a young woman shouted at him over the reins. The gray mule screamed again, eager to be off, and the Captain shouted orders.
The grinding gears of the portcullis began their slow rattle, but Talmir’s attention was drawn by something else. A figure emerged from the tree line behind the old man. The figure moved with the predatory grace of a cat, and Talmir thought he glimpsed a flash of ruby red in place of eyes, causing him to rub the sleep from his own.
His vision cleared, but the scene before him grew no less perilous.
“Riders!” he screamed, knowing it was too late.
The old man had barely risen before he was cut down, his head parting neatly from his shoulders. The woman shrieked as the dark figure turned on her, the mule startled at the sudden commotion.
Talmir silently urged her to run as soldiers raced about him, horns blaring, gears continuing their raucous grinding as the gate rose slow as agony. But she did not run.
The Captain snatched a silver horn from the nearest courier and blew out a note that cracked the sky apart like fresh thunder.
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