*Content warning: severe injury, blood, fantasy violence.
Two Weeks Into the Northgate Expedition
Surely her Ivory Order contacts had been wrong.
Niamh peered out over fields of sun-dappled grass stirring in the wind. It was several weeks into the Northgate Expedition, and nothing was what she’d expected, especially compared to the cautionary tales her old regiment in Sylvania had fed her. Not to mention the myriad dangers Keleth had warned her to expect. Birds sang, the air was soft and clean, and the skies were brilliantly blue.
For the time she had been here, she was practically on holiday. No dangerous wildlife to stave off, no bandits or threats to counter. No messengers from fellow Order informants at odd times, no suspicious behavior from any of the many Expedition workers.
One brief message had come from Keleth during the first week, reminding her to keep an especially close eye on anyone around the old Waystone grounds, especially those not on the duty rosters that Sage Kate and Valiant Moya provided.
The only thing she wasn’t sure about was the three Mechanae that strolled about the green fields. Niamh had known to expect the creatures, but in person, they were a strange sight to behold.
The enormous beings constructed from metal and magic most often roamed near Waystones, and there were always three of them. Niamh had heard stories about Mechanae, but experiencing them in person was something else entirely. Taller than her by at least half and gleaming like polished truesteel, the creatures whirred over the grass on ‘feet’ like she’d never seen before–oblong rollers that turned over on themselves and made odd mechanical clicking noises.
She had been wary at first, taking in their five glowing, glassy eyes and boxy shining carapaces, but after a time, even these peaceful beasts had ceased to raise her guard.
Despite the near-impossible peace, Niamh stayed busy. Day, night, both on and off duty, she watched, listened, and took stock but still came to the same conclusion: there was nothing wrong with this site, or with any of the people here. At least, nothing obvious enough for her to notice.
“What a perfect day!” A familiar voice took her out of her thoughts.
“Moya,” Niamh turned to greet the other Valiant. Moya Anders, one of the first friends Niamh had made during this assignment, strode up to her, grinning and brandishing a squashed pastry in each hand.
“To make it even better, I brought you curried veggie pies.” Moya waved the pastries in the air with a comical flourish.
“I’ve already had two. Joys of taking a sunrise watch.” Niamh patted the leather hauberk over her stomach. “The quest of vanquishing those is yours alone.”
“Alas, woe is me, what a burden.” Moya laughed, then stuffed one of the pies in her mouth. “Is food back in Sylvania this good?” she asked, wiping a crumb from her chin.
“Depends on the cook. In my family? Not by a long shot.” Niamh grimaced—Starsongs were excellent sharpshooters and able warriors, but not known for their culinary prowess.
“I see. I’m not terribly gifted in that department myself. Or rather, I’m terribly gifted, if you want to look at it that way—” Moya broke off, brown eyes twinkling in a sly expression. “Well, now, look at who’s heading this way. I should get back to my rounds. See you later, friend!” Moya jogged away, a tuneless whistle following in her wake.
Niamh cast a glance over her shoulder, and her heart stuttered, fluttered, and tripped over a beat. He was still a way off, but heading in her direction… It really was a perfect day. She pried off her helmet, tucked away errant strands of hair behind her ears and tried to look casual as she waited for him to approach.
But I’m not waiting for him, Niamh told herself. I’m not hoping he’ll stop by and talk to me today, or any day, turning me into a starry-eyed fool, because that would be unwise.
Jeron Wright, the man absolutely not in question, crested the hill blocking her view of the engineering work site, one large hand shading his eyes. His ruddy brown hair stood on end, as if he’d been running his fingers through it absently while working on his inventions, and his green eyes seemed unfocused—though she knew his mind was always working on something or other.
His powerful physique made him even more suited for his duties. Broad and strong, Jeron’s strength allowed him to realize his ideas through diligent work. Niamh scowled to herself. Here she was daydreaming, knowing full well that the Order frowned upon fraternizing among Valiants and mission attaches unless it furthered the mission or gained valuable information.
The Ivory Order existed to protect Ahra, not to make eyes at ridiculously handsome mages. It didn’t help that they had assigned him to her as a goodwill ambassador.
They had spent much time together since that first meeting at the Duskcat Inn. Niamh was supposed to be gathering information for her mission, not being drawn deeper into green eyes that reminded her of the trees back home.
Though perhaps it helps, she thought. Maybe it means that none of this is personal. That he’s just being friendly and doing his job.
“Hail, Niamh of the Sylvan Woods,” Jeron teased in his warm baritone as he sketched a comical bow.
“Well met, Jeron the Goodwill Ambassador,” she offered, relieved her voice didn’t shake.
“I have arrived to bother you during your rounds, soldier. As is my sworn duty.”
“Consider your bother-efforts a success,” Niamh quipped, at once regretting her eagerness.
She glanced up at Jeron. Grime streaked his cheek and jaw, and his short hair stood on end. It did nothing to diminish his relaxed manner. His breezy attitude and utter lack of vanity bolstered his appeal—unfortunately for her.
“Take a leisurely turn with me?” Jeron asked.
“As long as we stick to my patrol.” She moved to his side, leaving plenty of space between them. They strolled toward a group of mages, Jeron treading quietly for such a large man.
Niamh jingled, creaked, and thudded in all her Valiant gear, so different from her Sylvan leathers and velvet cloth that allowed her to move silently. She wore her bow slung over her shoulder, her quiver rattling on her right hip. She stayed prepared for trouble, even during this quiet part of her mission. The duty of all Valiants—to protect those they served, and double that for a member of the Ivory Order.
“How goes it so far? Any nefarious characters skulking about? Anything suspicious to report?” Jeron asked, humor tinging his words.
“There is someone nefarious all right. He thinks himself clever not to be spotted for what he is,” Niamh replied in a mock-serious tone. “But I’ve got my eye on him,” she added.
Jeron looked back at her from where he’d paced ahead, his stride much longer than hers. He turned, walking backwards as he spoke. “That is a wise notion, Valiant. We all must do our part to keep Ahra safe.”
Niamh could not help smiling now. Jeron made her feel light and carefree, leaving her far more unguarded than she was used to. Besides, the idea of something dangerous happening during this sunny little duty post faded every day she spent here.
Far from what she expected when given her mission, the Northgate Expedition was more concerned with performing research at Premier Riva’s bidding than anything else. The Northgate was in a sleepy area northwest of Easthaven, a quick march from the Tanahra River that separated rolling grasslands from the rockier terrain of the Westmarch Plains.
Niamh had never seen such gentle countryside, instead accustomed to the thick and dangerous forests of Sylvania. It seemed ridiculous to fear cultists, killer bandits, and leyline corruption in such a pastoral place.
Scholars and mages had been studying Northgate for longer than Niamh realized. They had picked apart the leytemple site in the past, with varying results each time. This go-around, they were watching energy traces from the defunct Waystone nestled in temple grounds because of large deposits of truesteel surrounding it. Not just any truesteel at that—the particular variety found in this site was rare: pure, with magical properties generations of scholars still could not explain.
Waystones, when functional, connected Ahra’s most powerful leylines in a network of quick-travel portals, and mining truesteel in such proximity to a Waystone that might yet have practical use was forbidden. That didn’t stop people from hoping the Northgate Waystone was good and dead, freeing up the valuable metals for Ahran use and boosting Easthaven’s already bustling economy.
It also didn’t stop other, less noble sorts from forgoing hope altogether, stealing hunks of the metal when the opportunity arose. She’d not seen any evidence of this at the Northgate so far, and she was watching for it.
Nobody knew why such regular circles of truesteel surrounded Waystones, but most scholars agreed that protecting Ahra from the Kraah, ancient enemies rumored to manipulate portals and leylines, was the reason. Despite lurking at the edge of myth for centuries, the Kraah had thankfully never materialized in strength. At least, not that anyone knew of.
Niamh kept watch over many things.
Studying such a site was a practical opportunity for Valiants and Mageguild scholars to train neophytes and green recruits. Novices tagged along beside Sages like Jeron, asking questions, poking about with strange instruments, taking notes. Niamh and the other Valiants guarding the expedition used the downtime to train the new squires who were along for the field experience.
Were things not as bad as she’d been led to believe? Was that hint of corruption just an isolated incident? Jeron ambling beside her distracted her from this burgeoning hope… a dangerous thing for a spy.
“You look thoughtful,” he said, studying her as he kept pace. “Anything on your mind?”
“Well, just that I heard Moya talking about a big springtime festival in Easthaven next month,” she started, trying to make simple conversation and hide her worries. “She says we should be back in time to go.”
“Oh yes, the Flower Moon Bazaar.” Jeron took the bait, green eyes bright with excitement.
“A bazaar?” Niamh liked the sound of that.
“The absolute best festival in all of Tanahr, if you ask me,” a new voice cut in. Senior Sage Belden, a gentle-natured man in charge of the archeological part of the expedition, greeted them.
Niamh had studied every mage, Sage, Valiant and squire on site. Belden stood out, only a little, from a long line of everyday people. Even compared to the others, he was almost too harmless, as if someone had purposefully polished his history to a high sheen. Nobody seemed to know anything about his personal life, though he gave the appearance of having nothing to hide.
It wasn’t enough to be of concern.
No one at the site had any sort of record of wrongdoing. Nobody seemed out of the ordinary, except in skill and ability, which is why they were there in the first place.
Belden waved an ink-stained hand at Niamh, who realized their path had brought them right to the Waystone. Had a certain goodwill ambassador distracted her so much she’d not even noticed where she was going?
“He’s right,” Jeron agreed. “It’s a festival to celebrate spring growth and life. The entire city gussies up for the occasion, and there are games, pageants, a regatta in the Greatsea Bay, and delicious food for three whole days and nights.”
“The food is most certainly the best part,” Sage Belden said with mock officiousness.
Niamh laughed along with their enthusiasm, yet beneath the gentle moment, a shadow of unease rippled through her—an echo of that same, eerie warning Miir had given her weeks ago. She glanced toward the Waystone instinctively, just as the earth beneath her boots shook, subtly but unmistakably.
“What is that noise?” Jeron asked, his smile fading into confusion. “I know it can’t be my stomach growling already.”
“The Waystone!” Sage Belden rushed forward in excitement. “It has never shown signs of activity, at least not in recorded history. Could this mean we finally awakened it?”
As if in answer, green light flickered over the stone and through the clearing. It was more shadow than bright. Sage Belden lay his hand on the Waystone. He staggered back, eyes wide, expression strange—surprise and pain mingled with something else.
“It… it shocked me.” His lips curled into a frustrated scowl. “It’s not supposed to shock me. It’s supposed to–”
Whatever he was about to say, he seemed to think better of it. Niamh’s senses sprang to high alert. Before she could make sense of what had just happened, a shriek tore through the air. No being of Ahra could make such a terrible noise.
“What in the world was that?” Jeron looked around, a wrinkle of concern creasing his brow.
Two Mechanae rolled over the grass toward them, metal claws extended, lightning spears pointed directly at the group around the Waystone. The creatures’ gleaming shells sparked with the same green light that had come from the stone moments before. The third of the machines—every Waystone had three—was nowhere to be found.
Niamh’s instincts kicked into full alert. Something was happening.
“Get out of here.” Niamh reached out to Belden, pushing him behind her, out of the line of fire. “Run! Jeron, go with him.” She couldn’t risk Belden coming to harm when she had questions for him. She couldn’t risk anyone being harmed—least of all Jeron, whose kindness made her chest ache with an emotion she couldn’t name.
“No. I won’t leave you alone.” Jeron did not move. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, determined.
“Please find Belden—he might be hurt!” Get anyone you can find to the Mageguild tent and keep watch, especially over him. “That’s an order, damn it,” Niamh yelled. This time, Jeron obeyed, though the hurt in his expression pained her.
Niamh drew a steady breath, years of training snapping her back to calm precision. Her mind cleared, focusing on each heartbeat and breath. She gripped her bow, suddenly grateful for every harsh lesson drilled into her by her old regiment captain and her contacts in the Order.
She turned and faced the two Mechanae, the Waystone behind them still eerie, shadowy-green. The air smelled like a thunderstorm, and hairs stood up on Niamh’s arms. The Mechanae closest to her raised its lightning weapon.
She readied an arrow and fired into the creature’s top eye—the largest of its five. Before she could shoot again, a shock of the sickly green light jolted from the Waystone into the Mechanae and through her vision. Voices filled her mind, chanting in unison.
The words were alien, harsh, and filled with a malevolence that turned her stomach. She knew whoever was speaking wanted something from her, and they would kill her to get to it.
The voices stopped, and the green light winked out.
What in Ahra had just happened? The Order had trained her to resist enemy programming, to harden her senses and close her mind to unfriendly magics, but this, whatever it was, tore through her resistance like nails through tissue paper. Niamh gathered herself and fired again, right into one of the first Mechanae’s smaller eyes. The second machine-being charged her, a smell of lightning in the air.
She barely had time to shoot again, blasting a mage-treated arrow through the conduit at the base of its lightning spear before the shock of its attack could fly loose. The Mechanae shuddered as leymagic from her ammunition and lightning from the creature’s own weapon tore through its inner workings, shutting it down.
A shiver of green flashed in the air around the creature, then there was nothing but steam and a few stray sparks. The other Mechanae rumbled closer. Niamh dodged, crouching behind the first of the fallen machine beings. An arc of lightning blasted out from it, tearing up the dirt close enough to singe the leather of her boot. Smoke was rising from the burnt ground near her feet.
She tried to ready her bow for another shot, but her hands shook wildly. For an instant, she swore she saw a green light shivering over her fingers.
She needed a new plan. With a ring of steel, Niamh drew her sword and lunged forward. The creature lashed out with one of its metal arms, but she parried the blow, the shock of it making her shoulders ache. She spun and jabbed her sword into the creature’s mid-region, twisting the blade with all her strength. The sound of tearing metal screamed in her ears.
The Mechanae slowed as the leymagic infused into her weapon coursed through it. Niamh sagged in relief when she heard its gears silence—until she realized it creaked and teetered above her, unstable.
Training and instinct drove her to pull her blade free before turning to run. There were other threats she might not know, and she needed to be armed. The metal caught on something within the creature, delaying her for one critical moment too long. The Mechanae creaked ominously and collapsed right on top of her.
The pain was instant. Cold and hot at the same time, filling every part of her mind and body. Her right leg throbbed in agony, pinned beneath the machine and the smoldering earth.
Niamh cried out until her throat hurt. She lay on her back with her eyes to the same bright sky she’d been smiling about only a little while ago. The grass cradling her was chilly, and her armor dug into her back. She felt a pang of something unfamiliar—of regret.
Regret.
Like a heartbeat, the word pulsed in her mind.
Regret… It was not supposed to go like this. Regret for not getting to know Jeron better, her first Easthaven friend always ready with an awful pun or smile. Regret for not becoming better acquainted with anyone in this wonderful city. For not being able to make it to at least her parents’ age to see how she might do things differently.
Regret for not being able to report back, to protect Ahra, to fulfill her mission.
The world shook around and beneath her. Against the distant sounds of the rest of the camp in panic, she sensed that two-beat hitch of regret fading into something gentler. She closed her eyes, the world too bright to look at now, and she readied herself for the end. Faint, almost like a dream, she heard a voice, icy and cruel.
“YOU WILL FIND THE KEY OR ALL OF AHRA WILL PAY.”
Lizzie Sinclaire 