Paragon - Book I

Fort Morgalth

There is nothing but ash in her hands when she awakens, her head propped on Keno's shoulder. A thin rim of blood red light peaks over the eastern horizon and her joints are stiff with ache and cold. Allayria lingers in the blankets' warmth for a minute before getting up. Her partner, half-awake, grumbles and slides sideways, curling up once more.

She stumbles out of earshot, huddling in the morning chill, until a squirrel darts by. Glancing over at Keno's back, she extends a hand and the squirrel freezes mid-jump, crashing to the ground with an involuntary twitch.

She skins it quickly and cooks it in a cove of trees. When she returns Keno is bleary-eyed but awake and his eyes latch onto the meat.

"I've never been so happy to be offered squirrel," he rasps, and he offers her his flask, which, she realizes with a sputter, has whiskey in it.

"I think we need to be alert today," she says, handing it back.

"I need to feel alive," Keno responds, but he stows the flask away. "I never thought I'd feel warm again."

The meat, and maybe the swig of whiskey, thaws their insides, and after the bones are picked clean they stand, adjusting their uniforms and stowing the blankets in a hollowed tree.

"In a perfect world, we'd come back for them," he says, glancing back at the tree as they make their way to the gate. "But I have a feeling we may be a little too busy for that today."

Allayria harbors the same suspicion and, as they clear the forest line and approach the southern gate, she decides they will most definitely not be hiking back for the blankets.

Set against the morning sun, Fort Morgalth hunkers over them. At the top Allayria can just make out the forms of men and women, patrolling the walls. At the bottom two men stand on either side of the gate.

Keno raises his hand in a Jarles salute as they approach, and he pulls out a thin slip of parchment when they are level with the guards.

"What is your business here?" the one on the left asks. Allayria expects the harsh tone that any who have had dealings with Jarles soldiers come to quickly know, but to her surprise the man simply sounds bored.

"A message for the General from the faithful in Solveig," Keno replied, turning the letter so the guard can see the seal on it.

He leans in, peering through his visor at it, and then nods. The man pulls a slender horn from his waist and blows it. The short blast rings out and the gate begins to crack and crumple open, swinging against the protest of the earth.

Allayria almost shudders as she passes underneath the arch, resisting the urge to steal a glance back.

Jarles soldiers do not tremble and they certainly don't look back. She has her posture on—the clipped, rigid walk that feels so tight and constrained that when she first began to learn it she used to ache after an hour.

With helmets low over their faces and uniforms tight across their shoulders, no one gives them much attention. Inside, the fort is efficient chaos: gaggles of men stride in clipped, unvarying lines while singular men or pairs of guards walk freely on their own. She suspects the outliers must be on break, and she watches as they climb the stone slabs of stairs and walk iron ramparts.

Within the tall walls, turrets and halls wind and squeeze between each other like the twisting insides of an animal; had they not studied the fort maps prior, Allayria would be lost. A familiar wave of anxiety crosses over her: How will the other three get past that wall and into the prison?

"General's quarters are this way," Keno says in a low tone, veering to the right. She follows and they pass into a narrow corridor before walking up the stairs of a thick, iron block that must count as a building. Slits a hands-width wide serve as windows, and the doors, thick and dark, have no handle. They are made of a metal Allayria does not recognize.