She was spectacularly mistaken.
The brambled folds of hillside through which they traveled by starlight had wholly concealed whatever might have been visible of the distant horizon. Fern dozed off and on as the cart rocked and swayed, rousing occasionally to the same monotonous view of Bucket’s moonlit behind. She woke again with the breaking of dawn as the earth sloped up to a small rise above a river valley, and Bycross came into resplendent view.
The valley itself seemed to have been dug from chalky stone by some titanic force, gouging deep while traveling roughly north to south. A narrow river squiggled along its basin, the waters an arresting blue-green. Directly ahead, a broad stone bridge crossed to the other side. Far to the south, the land receded toward a marshy plain crowded with towering, ivy-choked trees.
Fern had spent almost her entire life in Murk, and the carriage ride to Thune hadn’t included much in the way of sightseeing, so the cliffs on the opposite side of the valley stirred a wonder she’d only experienced between the covers of a book. They towered high above, tall enough that scraps of cloud striped them here and there. Zigzagging up from bottom to top, a wide, white road was carved deeply into the sheer face.
At various points along the way, porticoes and spur roads had been chiseled out, symmetrically arranged like chunks of honeycomb. Complex sets of pulleys and cables studded the adjoining stone, with platforms depending from them. Fern thought some of these were moving.
Colorful banners fluttered from posts and pillars, and what could only be people and animals bustled and shuffled and shifted and strutted every which way. The cliff was positively alive with them.
“Assbiscuits,” said Fern, with feeling.
“Luffing shunks,”agreed Zyll cheerfully.
“You certainly both have a way with words,” replied Astryx. She had taken to striding along beside the cart, just ahead of the buckboard. Fern wondered why.
“You’re driving the cart upthat?” asked Fern, pointing in frank disbelief at the cliffside.
“Bucket will have no trouble. You’re welcome to stay at the bottom, but if you want to book passage back to Thune, and you’re short of coin, I’d suggest you come along.”
Fern’s stomach twisted nervously, and she wasn’t sure if it was at the thought of the journey home and the mess awaiting her there, the precipitous climb ahead, or the looming unknown.
After gathering together with a few other tributary paths, their road ended at the bottom of the cliff, at a tall palisade constructed of quarried white stone. Pennants hung from evenly spaced iron spears atop the walls, each swath of red stitched with the symbol of a black crossroads inside a yellow circle.
Their cart joined a line of other travelers awaiting entry, many of them stone-fey, their gray skin and pale hair a fitting match for the cliffsides above. Fern also saw a few dwarves, a scattering of humans, a pair of tapenti tinkers with a carriage festooned with braces, buckles, and hinges, and a group of six rattkin penitents in gray habits belted around their waists with lengths of rope.
Beside Fern on the buckboard, Zyll drew more than a few interested glances, and Astryx provoked several muttered conversations as she led Bucket with a hand on his halter. Nobody approached them though.
Even so, Astryx produced a stained old cloak from the back of the wagon and fastened it around Zyll’s neck. The goblin made no complaint, only grinned and snuggled into it as it fell across her shoulders. When Astryx flipped up the hood, it obscured most of the prisoner’s features, as well as her bound hands.
Fern climbed down to stretch her legs, wincing at the prickle in her thighs and the creak in her back. “Is it always this long of a wait?” She squinted up at the Blademistress.
Astryx frowned, idly scratching Bucket’s ribs. “No. I don’t recognize the men at the gate, either. You see the symbol on their jerkins?”
Fern leaned to peer around the folk in front of them. A black-clad man and orc flanked the passage through the palisade. They wore kettle helms, were armed with long oxtongue spears, and had sabers at their hips. On the breast of each, four white streaks radiated from a central point like rays of morning sun rising over a horizon.
“Guards?” asked Fern.
“Bycross never had them before. The walls, cliffs, and Gatewardens on hand have been defense enough against fools causing trouble. Strange not to see a Warden at all.”
When they reached the front of the line, the orc stepped in front of Bucket and planted the butt of his spear in the road. Astryx stepped forward to meet him, and Fern hopped back into the wagon beside Zyll, who examined the guards with narrowed eyes.
“Morning,” the orc said, his gaze drifting over Astryx’s shoulder to linger on the now-cloaked Zyll. “Business in Bycross?”
This close, Fern could see that his black clothing was travel-worn. Dried red earth caked the boots of both men.
“It’s afternoon, I think,” replied Astryx. “After the long wait. And my business is my own.”
“Do I recognize you?” He gripped his spear tighter.
“I wouldn’t know. Is there trouble here these days? I don’t remember things being so complicated.” Astryx shaded her eyes to look up the cliffside, Nigel’s hilt winking in the sun.
“Trouble? Definitely. Ever hear of Taltus the Venger?” The orc smiled at her in a knowing way.
“Can’t say that I have.”
He seemed taken aback. “Taltus? The bandit warlord?” When Astryx offered no further hint of recognition, he continued, sounding a little wounded. “Anyhow, he’s moved into these parts, and the roads aren’t as safe as they used to be. After it got a bit bloody a month back, Bycross hired the Four Fingers to set things to rights.” He proudly tapped the four lines on his tunic.
