The wind whipped Galez’s hair, streaming small cold droplets of water on his unprotected face. He shivered once, his eyes darting across the valley, surveying the landscape for signs of the approaching danger. Happy that the cultists weren’t close enough to surmount an attack, he turned back to his troops. All the faces were grim and condescending, all hardened by years of warmongering. Galez cleared his throat, scanning the crowd. “You all know there is no guaranteed victory here.” There was a general grunt of assent from his allies. Galez continued, his confidence slowly growing. “The cultists will fight strong. There numbers are many, and we are few. But we have hope, something they will never be able to truly have.” All the faces turned to him, fully captivated. “And we will do our best, to protect our land, our family, and our pride.” Everyone cheered in a raucous manner. The edges of Galez’s mouth raised slightly in an impish grin. His troops were ready.
…
Zealot stood in the growing darkness, watching as the town burned in front of him. Violet flames licked the grass roof tops, creating a dizzying spectacle. The town’s people ran about, screaming, and using whatever they could find to fend off the attack. It really was a useless ploy, thought Zealot to himself. His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain in the side of his face. He felt a small intrusion in his thoughts. He sighed, opening his mind to Valtrith. He sensed the voice before he heard it. “Zealot, how are the heroes progressing.” “They move slowly, as if they are expecting our trap.” Zealot felt his mind shift, as Valtrith sorted through his mess of memories. Zealot winced, the intrusion causing physical pain. “I shall be going then, but make sure the heroes get no farther than Oaklore.” Zealot nodded his assent, and Valtrith passed on. Zealot sat on a small out cropping, rubbing his sore temples. The headaches were getting worse and worse each day, and Zealot knew he couldn’t do this forever. He stood up, walking slowly toward the newly made wreckage of Veretoch Crossing. The other lower cultists were cleaning up the few clues that remained, while the Brutes dealt with the last of the townsfolk. The plan was going as planned. They would survive by looting small towns on their way to Oaklore, and then surmount a surprise attack at the river. The plan should be perfect, although a worm of doubt had begun to settle in Zealots stomach. Something wasn’t right, although he didn’t quite know what… he banished the though, this was absurd. The plan was fail proof. He turned away, false confidence set upon his face.
…
They smelled the fire before they saw it. It was a smell that reminded Galez of burning oil, sharp and pungent, with a slight twang at the end. Galez turned and saw that his men were gagging over the putrid smell. “Stand strong, it’s just a little smell.” He said over his shoulders, acting as if the smell didn’t bother him. It was an hour before they actually saw the inferno, and with it came the smell of charred flesh. Galez gagged, seeing the carnage left by the cultists. Some of his men began to cry, small shuddering gasps wracking their bodies. Truth be told, this was the first time Galez had actually grasped the desperation of the situation. He knew he had to continue on though, no matter the cost. Galez walked on, his head held high. The men were reluctant at first, but after taking a few minutes to collect themselves, they moved on. Veretoch was gone. All remnants that life had ever existed here before was now gone. The only remaining clues were the dark bones lay around in small piles. It really was a grim sight, and it was even worse up close. They made camp around the various fires, setting a watchman. The watchman would change every hour or so, to make sure the camp was protected by fresh eyes.
…
The trap was set. Zealot let out a pent up breath. There had been no hitches in the road, and now an attack force lay lying just within the gate. Zealot had to admit, the rose had been a nuisance. But besides them, no one dared usurp the cultists in their march. Even better than that, the headaches which had previously filled every spot of conscience for Zealot, were now gone. Valtrith would be very pleased when he heard. Zealot’s malicious train of thought was interrupted by the sound of feet running up the curved stairs that led to Zealots tower room. He turned his attention on the unopened door. Azriel stepped through, breathing heavily. “The heroes are here master.” Zealot nodded, taking in a gulp of stale air. Ever since the attempt at combining Frostval and Mogloween, Zealot had been given all of the responsibility. He followed Azriel down the spiral staircase, their footfall making birds fly from the stone pillars outside. Once at the bottom, Zealot was directed to a high rise of earth, right outside where the library was located. He stood high, his neck craning to see substance in the approaching cloud of dirt and debris. Finally, he saw Galez. His eyes were steely, and as he approached, he mouthed two words. “It’s over.”