When they arrived back at the tower, Ahaesarus left Olympus and Judah and approached the Turock, whose jibes and carefree attitude seemed to have vanished. His entire demeanor had changed from when he was in the thick of battle. Turock squinted against the glare of the steadily rising sun and winced. More than anything, he looked exhausted, both mentally and physically. It was as if leaving his nest in the sky had caused the world to fall directly on his shoulders.
“You won the battle,” Ahaesarus said, hefting his huge stone ax onto his shoulder, the weapon having gone unused the entire night. “Why such sullenness?”
Turock craned his neck to look up at him, his eyes glossy, but a rustling from behind drew his attention before he could answer Ahaesarus’s question. The other Wardens were loping over the concealing hill, a group of thirty or so young men and women trailing behind.
Turock rose up on his toes and patted Ahaesarus on the shoulder. “I know you have questions, Master Warden, but right now I’m rather useless. I need sleep.” He lazily rolled his head in the direction of the camp. “You could no doubt use some as well. Have Bartholomew show you where. Come back to the tower at noon, and I will answer any questions you have.”
Bartholomew directed the Wardens to an ample thatch of empty land on the northwestern edge of the camp. Sleep did not come easily for Ahaesarus, even though the crude tent where he rested blocked out much of the daylight. His mind was awash with images of a burning night sky, the whistle of arrows soaring through the air, and the screams of the dead and dying, both seen and unseen. He felt shame burn in his chest when he realized just how frightened he’d been. For months he had been nothing but a glorified carpenter, organizing the people of Mordeina in the construction of the wall. Before that, he’d been a tutor to a princeling. Up until a few hours ago, the coming war had been just as much a fiction to him as it had been to the humans of Paradise. Once within the chaos of a battle, he’d almost reacted exactly as he had back on Algrahar: freezing up in terror and allowing the oncoming hordes to do their worst.
And the previous night had been relatively bloodless, battling a concealed opponent with little to no chance of a close encounter. The gods only knew how he would react when he experienced true combat.
Certain that sleep would not come, he rose and paced around the camp in an attempt to tamp down his worries. He stopped to visit some of the women who were roasting salted grayhorn meat and cabbage stew over their cookfires as their children milled about. The camp was indeed large; there were at least two thousand people residing here, and the conditions were crowded.
Come noon, Ahaesarus returned to the tower. His body ached and his mind swam from lack of sleep, and when he climbed the rounded staircase, it felt as though he were moving through water. He was winded by the time he reached the roost. Pushing the hatch open, he saw that two people awaited him-Turock and a familiar-looking petite woman with fiery red hair and fine freckled skin. She wore a modest cotton blouse and had flowers in her hair. For his part, Turock wore the same violet robes he’d had on previously, wrinkled as though he’d slept in them. Without his hat, his hair was a wild mess of reddish-blond curls. Even his beard seemed unruly. The pair was a study of mirror opposites. They sat on a bench in front of a rounded table that had not been there the previous night.
“Abigail DuTaureau, I presume,” Ahaesarus said, bowing to the woman before taking the only other seat at the table.
“It’s Escheton now. I haven’t been a DuTaureau for twenty-three years.”
“Twenty-three long years,” said Turock, a bit of color in his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes.
“Many apologies, my lady, I meant no disrespect,” said Ahaesarus. “I have seen your mother day in and day out for nearly a year, so the name and face are etched in my mind.”
“No disrespect taken.”
Turock scoffed. “By you, maybe.”
“Shush, dear.”
“Hush yourself.”
Turock leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Abigail’s dainty, upturned nose. Ahaesarus was baffled by them both, Turock in particular. This was a man who had been fighting a battle against forces that hoped to obliterate him and everyone else in Drake mere hours ago.
Turock noticed him staring and raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Ahaesarus allowed himself to smile. “Simply marveling at your fortitude, my friend. You look like you slept quite well, while I found I could not sleep at all.”
With a wink, Turock pulled a small vial from one of his robe’s many pockets.
“Tricks of the trade,” he said. “A drop of this, and three hours of sleep feels like twelve.” He handed the vial to Ahaesarus. “Go ahead, Master Warden. Smell it. I’m sure you’ll recognize it.”
He uncorked the top and sniffed the liquid inside, then gave the spellcaster a confused glance.
“Nightwing root?” he asked. His left hand fingered the pouch that hung from a slender rope around his neck, containing the last of the root he had brought from Algrahar, a portion of which he had administered to Geris Felhorn in the hours after the healers had removed the wasting tumor from his neck. “How in Ashhur’s name did you come across this?”
Turock took the vial back from him.
“Easy answer: I didn’t. What you smell is similar, but not genuine. The Warden Assissi introduced the wonder of the root to me when I was quite young, before I headed out to find Errdroth Plentos, the elf who trained me. Worked great as a sleep aid, but he had very little. He only gave me a pinch, and I saved that pinch for years. One of the first things I did after Plentos died was attempt to uncover its secret properties. I discovered that ginger root is very similar, and by combining it with an extract of crim oil, I was able to approximate the formula. It’s not an exact copy, and gods forbid you take it if you feel any real pain, but the sleeping properties still work. Though you shouldn’t get too reliant on it, because eventually you’ll collapse and sleep for a good eighteen hours or so. Not that I, uh, know from experience.”
“Amazing,” said Ahaesarus.
“Not really,” the spellcaster replied with a shrug. “Simple trial and error.” He winked. “And a lot of luck. Some say I’m the luckiest man in all of Paradise, which is saying something.”
“Is that how you have been fighting off those attempting to cross the river?” asked Ahaesarus. “With luck?”
He had meant the statement as a joke, but Turock’s expression darkened.
“No, not luck. Lots of skill and hard work. And patience. Loads and loads of fucking patience.”
Abigail frowned at her husband.
“I apologize,” the Warden replied, bowing his head to the man. “I do not think before I speak at times.”
Turock brushed the comment aside. “Nonsense. Pride is one of my faults, and I just fell victim to it yet again. The thing is, these past months have been hell on us. We’re all exhausted and frightened, and we’ve been working ourselves to the bone, trying to defend what is ours.”
“I am curious, how did it come about?”
“How did what come about?”
Ahaesarus lifted his hand toward the three eastern-facing windows. “The fighting, the soldiers on the other side. I will be honest.…I know little of what has transpired here.”
Turock opened his mouth, but Abigail answered for him.
“It began over a year ago, when we still resided in the town. People were being taken in the night-men, women, and children alike. More than twenty went missing over the span of three weeks. We set up patrols, but they did nothing. We had no idea who was taking our townspeople, if anyone, until one morning we found a trail of blood that ended at the narrow gap where this tower is now located.