Chapter 15: Whispers on the Mercian Wind

  The chill inside the ruined watchtower was profound, seeping into their bones despite the small, sputtering fire Edmund had coaxed to life. Outside, the wind howled mournfully through the crags, a constant reminder of Mercia's harsh embrace. Isolde huddled closer to the meager flames, pulling the worn wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. Edmund sat opposite, meticulously checking the edge on his sword, the scraping sound rhythmic in the enclosed space.

  After a long silence, Isolde spoke, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. "The Duergar-Kin," she began, her voice quiet but firm. "Elder Borin Stonehand. The settlement is supposedly near the northern peaks, somewhere in these Mercian mountains." She finally looked at Edmund, her expression intense. "His knowledge of rune-craft… it's ancient. Different from the Essence weaving I learned. It might hold answers the surface magic lacks, ways to… manage this." She didn’t need to elaborate; the subtle gesture towards her wrapped wrist was enough. The internal taint, aggravated after the fight with the Púca, was a constant, cold presence.

  Runes, she thought, a flicker of desperate hope warring with her ingrained caution. Power drawn from the earth itself, bound by will and symbol. Perhaps a different way to channel Essence, less taxing, less dangerous than drawing from the corrupted world around me.

  Edmund finished his inspection, sheathing the blade with a soft click. "We'll find them, Ms. Isa," he said, his voice steady, reassuring. "It's our best hope for you." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "And maybe they'll know something about what we faced in Blackfen, too. That Púca, the corrupted shrine… Elder Maeve mentioned old powers twisted by the Blight. It felt like part of something bigger than just one village."

  Isolde nodded slowly. "The Caretaker at the shrine spoke of something that 'watches,' that 'plays,' that 'feeds on fear.' It felt… connected. Ancient and malevolent. Understanding that entity, understanding the Blight's origins—that's the other reason we came to Mercia." Their dual goals intertwined: personal survival and the faint hope of pushing back the darkness consuming the Isles.

  They set off again at first light, leaving the relative shelter of the tower. The Mercian hills rolled on, scarred and desolate. As they journeyed, Edmund pointed towards markings etched into a cliff face near a collapsed mine entrance—angular, geometric patterns, clearly not human or natural.

  "Duergar work?" he asked.

  Isolde examined them closely. "Possibly. Or at least influenced by their style. Deep carvings, meant to last. They were here, certainly." The signs were old, weathered, but they confirmed the presence of the earth-kin in these mountains, bolstering their primary goal.

  Later that day, rounding a rocky bluff, they stumbled upon a fresh horror. Three figures lurched on the path ahead, their movements wrong, jerky yet unnervingly deliberate. Not the mindless shamblers of the fens.

  "Blighted," Edmund breathed, his hand instantly on his sword. "They move… differently."

  Isolde nodded grimly, raising her rowan staff. "More calculation. Less pure instinct."

  The Blighted spotted them, letting out hoarse, guttural moans, and charged. Edmund met the first, his blade seeking weak points. He struck true, cleaving through a decaying arm, but the creature barely seemed to falter, its resilience unnerving. He noted dark, mineral-like encrustations seeming to knit the wound sluggishly, even as corrupted ichor leaked out.

  Harder to put down, he thought grimly, sidestepping a clumsy grab and thrusting his sword through the creature's chest. It staggered, but took another step before collapsing.

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  The second one lunged, not directly at Edmund, but trying to circle around towards Isolde, using a cluster of boulders for cover with jerky, unnatural cunning. Isolde reacted swiftly, a bolt of green energy cracking from her staff, striking the creature's leg. It stumbled, its limb shattering with a sound like brittle rock, yet it still scrabbled forward. Edmund dispatched it quickly. The third, seeing its companions fall, actually hesitated for a fraction of a second, its clouded eyes seeming to assess before it turned and scrambled away up the rocks with surprising speed.

  They watched it go, breathing heavily.

  "Did you see that?" Edmund asked, wiping ichor from his blade. "The way they moved? Using the terrain? And how hard they were to drop? That wasn't like the fen-blighted."

  "No," Isolde agreed, her brow furrowed in thought. "Less mindless, certainly. Perhaps the rocky terrain preserves more… function? Or this Mercian Blight strain interacts differently with the land's Essence?" She frowned. "It felt… more grounded. More resistant."

  Further along the track, they encountered living travelers—a small family, a man and woman pulling a handcart laden with meager possessions, two frightened children huddled amongst the bundles. Their eyes were wide with fear, their clothes ragged. As Edmund approached slowly, hands open, the man flinched, half-raising a rusty wood axe.

  "Easy there," Edmund said gently. "We're just travelers, like yourselves. Heading north." He employed his most disarming smile, the one that usually put wary folk at ease. "Any word from the settlements ahead? Oakhaven, perhaps?"

  The man swallowed hard, glancing nervously at his wife, who clutched the children tightly. "Oakhaven?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Nay, friend. Best avoid Oakhaven Vale. Steer clear o' Greyfell Pass."

  "Trouble?" Edmund prompted, keeping his tone casual despite the prickle of unease.

  The woman spoke then, her voice trembling. "Trouble don't begin to cover it. Strange… whispers comin' from that valley. Folk actin' oddly. Like they ain't themselves."

  The man nodded vehemently. "Aye. Talk of a 'Shepherd' who keeps the Blight out, offers protection. But folks who go there… some vanish. Others… they change. Too quiet. Eyes too… empty." He shuddered. "Safer to stick to the main roads, if even those are safe... We're headin' south, fast as we can."

  Edmund thanked them, offering a small portion of their dried rations, which the family accepted with desperate gratitude before hurrying on their way, constantly looking back over their shoulders.

  Edmund watched them go, his expression troubled. "A Shepherd? Keeping the Blight out?" He looked at Isolde. "Sounds too good to be true."

  "Or a truth deliberately twisted," Isolde mused. "Protection often comes at a price. And 'strange Blight behaviour'..." She recalled the calculating movements of the Blighted they'd just fought. "Coupled with disappearances? It warrants investigation."

  "The Duergar settlement is north," Edmund reminded her, though his own curiosity was piqued.

  "I know," Isolde conceded. "But if this 'Shepherd' is manipulating the Blight, or if their presence is connected to that entity from the fen shrine… this might be a lead we can't afford to ignore. It could be linked to the Blight's origins."

  Edmund weighed the risks. Diverting towards potential danger felt reckless, especially with Isolde's condition. But the travelers' fear had been genuine, and the whispers of a place untouched by Blight, led by a charismatic figure, felt profoundly unnatural in this ravaged land. It hinted at power, perhaps the very kind they sought to understand. "Alright," he agreed finally. "The Duergar can wait a little longer. We'll head towards Greyfell Pass, see what truth lies behind these rumors."

  As they stood there, discussing their change of course, the setting sun painting the scarred hills in hues of blood and bruise, Isolde suddenly stiffened, her head tilted. "Edmund… look."

  He followed her gaze towards the distant peaks marking the direction of Greyfell Pass and Oakhaven Vale. Against the darkening sky, high up on a mountainside miles away, a faint, unnatural light pulsed once, twice—a sickly green flare that cut through the twilight before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

  A signal? A ritual? Whatever it was, it wasn't natural.

  A chill ran down Edmund's spine, colder than the mountain wind. The rumors suddenly felt far more substantial, the path ahead far more dangerous. They exchanged a look, the decision made. They were heading towards the light.