All the best to those following this story. Apologies for the delay in submitting. I hope you guys are doing well, and Happy Samhain!
Once again, thanks to Avicia (and others) for the editing and input.
The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 39: The Haar
The soldiers were nervous. The haunting mist that had been entwined about them for days seemed to be thickening. Its coiled vapours swirled and lurked like the breath of some great unseen serpent. The chill, almost viscous, miasma obscured vision and muffled some sounds while strangely magnifying and distorting others. A man might respond to a whisper seemingly uttered by his neighbour, only to find it was a frightened half-prayer spoken by someone a hundred paces away, and yet he might not hear the orders and commands bellowed directly at him by a nearby centurion. Sometimes, the fog would part for a little, but 'twas nought but an illusion of respite, for soon enough, it would come rolling in again, a shroud so thick that sometimes a man could barely see the warrior marching next to him.
The further into this hellish brume, the more fragmented and disorganised their formations had become. Innumerable torches had been lit, but all they did was create little puddles of glowing haze as if a train of fireflies and wisps were passing by on some lonely parade. Sometimes, from out of the gloom, came sounds of
things
moving and men huddled together, nervously clutching at spear and sword.
The Lord Marshal rode in the van with his knights, and about him came the reassuring jingle of armour and tack. Yet this unending oppressive murk played on his already frayed nerves and increasingly disquieted him. He took a swig from the flask hanging from his belt, hissing through his teeth as the fierce liquor burned its way down his throat. This campaign had started off as a splendid idea, a glorious dream of leading a victorious army along the old slaver roads and through the ever-thinning veil to attack the Fae. But that dream was becoming less beguiling with each mile he trudged through this cold, never-ending murk.
There were many tales and legends of the Veil, that strange barrier that separated the lands of the Fae from the realm of men. Some said it was a thing of the Old Gods, created with ancient magicks from long ago, and those who fell into its tendrils would be forever lost, beguiled and condemned to wander in hopeless search for an escape that would never come. But some
wizards
and other learned folk whispered that it was more, far more; that it was actually a shroud of sorts, hiding many roads. Even the secret paths between worlds.
The Veil had become ever more porous and dilute over the long years since The Morrigan's War, when the Gods had, by all accounts, abandoned the world of men, allowing raiding parties, monsters and the like to pass from one realm to the other. Such passage had inevitably turned these damnably remote borderlands into a fearful place, inhabited only by hardy or desperate crofters, moon-mad hermits, outcasts and bandits. It was an old land, filled with hidden glens, ancient battlefields and lost barrows, but the soil was soft, rich and loamy, the peat bogs a good fuel source, and the thick forests a seemingly endless supply of rich timber. Once The Fae were subjugated, the borderlands would be good land for farming, and the enslaved populace of the twilight realm would make for a handy workforce until, of course, the unholy things were properly disposed of.
His Magister had assured him that by merits of his art and craft, he could safely thread a way through this damnable mist and that the Dark Elves would be too busy with their own problems to mount a credible defence, allowing him to raze their forts and sack their side of the borderlands at will. The sale of the slaves taken alone, even after consigning the unwanted to the pyre to appease the Scarlet Order, would more than pay for the campaign. By thoroughly scourging the knife-eared bastards, he could end the threat they posed for good and all and expand his own holdings almost right up to the border while sending trapping and mining expeditions across the veil to strip the lands beyond.
He had sunk significant funds into the expedition, borrowing heavily against his own lands. His neighbour, Baroness Viridia Exala, who ruled the domain that bordered his own recently inherited Princedom, had flatly refused to weigh in with him, but of course, there were many rumours that there was more than a little "black blood" flowing in that bitch's veins, and stories aplenty that she regularly had consort with houries and succubae from The Fae. In truth, the old slattern seemed remarkably well preserved for her age, and her lands suffered less from the depredations of slave raids and border skirmishes than most. He knew the Scarlet Order chaffed at the poor welcome she typically gave them and would have long since sought to put her to the flame, but as sister to a Patrician of the Old Empire, she was nobilis and thus beyond even their reach ... for now.
But, of course, nothing was fucking simple! First, that homicidal old bastard, Chulainn, supposedly a warrior of legend and so-called hero, had ridden off, never to return, and then the Magister had disappeared soon after. Now, he had only his scouts to lead him through this damnable haar, and they were all superstitious foreign savages who would, like as not, cut a man's throat for a bag of magic beans. It was utterly galling.
His vexed musings were interrupted when the standard bearer riding at his side made a sound and gestured. Emerging from the mist up ahead came one of those very scouts. The wild, unkempt creature was a dark-haired northern barbarian, probably from distant Alba, given the kilt, rough furs and hides he garbed himself in and the blue woad he'd painted on his face. He carried a short hunting spear in one hand and loped silently over the heather with the feral grace of a prowling wolf. Fionn sniffed,
"There's something almost Orcish about these savages: disgusting creatures."
The man came close and grounded his spear, pausing to unstopper his water flask and take a sip before addressing the rider, "Clearing up ahead, a glen of sorts, no mist."
The Lord Marshal grunted, "Hmm, a good place to camp then, methinks."
The scout shook his head, "Doesn't smell right. There's something there. Be best to go round."
"Did you see something?"
Shaking his head again, the barbarian looked over his shoulder, back the way he had come, and his brow furrowed, "No. I
saw
nothing."
"Tracks then? Some sign of ambush?"
The man grunted, "No."
The Lord Marshal made an exasperated sound, "Then how can you be sure?"
The scout fingered the primitive bone fetish that hung around his neck and sniffed, "Can't. But 'tis there just the same."
Wary of the looks his knights were giving him, the Lord Marshal shook his head with a weary sigh, "Savages..."
The scout stared off into the mist and ignored him.
"Methinks, barbarian, you have allowed this gloom to rattle your nerves. The men need rest. The cohorts have become dispersed. We shall proceed to this clearing and take stock. What say you?"
