Sacred Soil

Alric Varn

The morning mist still clung to the edges of the barracks as Kael leaned back against the wooden railing, arms crossed and eyes squinting toward the tree line. Alric stood nearby, his tunic half-buttoned and still damp from a quick rinse. The scent of dew and old pine hung in the air between them.

“So the three of you got roughed up by a bugbear?” Kael teased, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alric shot him a look, one brow raised. “The bugbear wasn’t the problem. It was the rest of the camp waiting to strike. Besides, I’d like to see you take him down.”

Kael chuckled. “I had a wounded shoulder, remember?”

“Don’t give me that. One look from a cleric and you’d have been good as new.”

Kael chuckled, shaking his head as he took another sip from the flask. There was a momentary silence before he spoke again. His voice was low. “So about what you saw… You really think it was magical?”

Alric hesitated only for a breath before nodding. He’d been told to keep quiet, but if there was one person he trusted with his life, it was Kael. “Yeah. Taldris said the residue from those stones was strong, or at least strong enough to make her uneasy.”

Kael frowned. “The drow from the Vanguard? Can you really trust a creature of the Deep Dark?” He scoffed. “I still don’t like that we’re working with mercenaries. A soldier’s supposed to be loyal to his people, his city, his crown. Not a coin pouch. Give 'em the right price, and Zadale could have them against us tomorrow.”

Alric shook his head. “I fought beside them, Kael. They’re not like that. Taldris especially. She was sharp. Got us in and out. I'd take someone with that clever mind on my side any day.”

Kael grunted, unconvinced. Before he could argue back, he was interrupted by the sound of metal against the stone floor. A young soldier appeared, eyeing both of them before turning his attention to Alric. “Alric? The General wants to see you. Now.”

The grin faded from Kael’s face. “Sounds serious.”

Alric’s expression hardened. “Doesn’t it always?”

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Alric stood in the dim corridor outside the general’s office, arms crossed, his fingers drumming lightly against the hilt of his blade. The air here always felt heavy with the weight of decisions made behind closed doors, of lives ordered into battle with a few strokes of a pen. The stone walls seemed to press in closer the longer he waited, the flicker of torchlight casting restless shadows.

How long did he have to wait? From within the office, muffled voices rose and fell, too quiet to make out, but sharp enough in tone that Alric knew better than to interrupt. His jaw tensed as he stared at the polished wooden door, willing it to open. It didn’t.

Instead, footsteps approached from down the hall. A tall, broad-shouldered officer, clad in the grey and gold armour of a Lucian soldier, stopped in front of him. The man’s face was lined with exhaustion, but his voice remained steady.

“I apologise, soldier,” the officer said, offering a small, practiced nod. “The general is occupied with… pressing matters. I have your new orders.”

Alric straightened, eyes narrowing slightly. “Understood, sir.”

The officer handed him a sealed parchment, but continued speaking. “The general has read your report. The stone has already been sent to our mages for research. We can’t afford word of a ‘death machine’ spreading among the ranks. Soldiers might lose morale, especially when all we have are speculations rather than hard facts. But speculation or not, we need answers. That’s why the same squad that breached Ironwood will now infiltrate Zadale itself."

Alric’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent.

“We understand there were two Lucian soldiers involved in the breach at Ironwood, and being the senior-most at that mission, the command for this mission falls to you,” the officer went on, his voice measured. “Your orders are to act as spies and investigate what Zadale plans to do with the stones. And if possible, sabotage it. The general has put…” He hesitated, as if weighing the weight of what he was about to say. “…a great deal of faith in your abilities. I hope you understand the gravity of the task.”

Alric gave a firm nod. Then, before the officer could continue, he spoke up. “Sir, I would like to request that Soldier Kael of the 7th Archery Corps join this mission. We could use a sharpshooter like him.”

The officer studied him for a beat, then gave a short nod. “That can be arranged. Your team will have access to the weaponry at Blackthorn Depot. Messages have already been sent to summon your previous squad there. I imagine you can deliver Kael’s orders yourself, if that’s your wish.”

“It is, sir,” Alric replied.

“Then you are to depart within the hour.” The officer’s gaze hardened slightly. “No delays. Dismissed.”

Alric gave a crisp salute and turned on his heel, the weight of his new orders settling heavily on his shoulders as he strode away. Infeltrate Zadale itself? They wouldn't get the chance to sneak in from a broken fence this time. They would need a solid plan.

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The Blackthorn Depot. Despite the seriousness of his mission, the name stirred a flicker of excitement in Alric. Access to that arsenal was usually reserved for captains or higher-ranking officers. Yet here he was standing alongside two Vanguard mercenaries. If nothing else, it proved how determined Lucia was to see this mission through.

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Walls of the depot were lined with weapon racks and shelves stacked with crates marked in Lucian military script. Lanterns hung at intervals, casting flickering light across polished steel and dustless stone. The air smelled of oil, iron, and old magic.

Alric stood near a central table, his eyes scanning an array of specialized equipment laid out before them. He tried not to look too impressed, but it was hard not to be. The place was lined with blades, crossbows, and enchanted gear. He glanced at everyone else beside him.

He watched as Caelen ran a finger along the haft of a massive glaive, the weapon humming faintly with latent power. After a moment’s consideration, Caelen lifted it, testing its weight with two sweeping arcs before setting it back among the armaments. Alric understood. Despite the array of magical weapons, sometimes your old weapon just felt more natural in your hand.

Nearby, Brina lingered beside a row of boxed potions and medical kits. Her nimble fingers moved quickly, checking labels, tucking select vials into her side pouch with practiced ease. Though focused, her gaze flicked up now and then toward Caelen, as if still quietly worrying over his earlier wounds.

Taldris had already chosen a shortsword, which she now hung at her waist. It looked like a simple weapon, nothing arcane about it. She hadn’t carried a weapon back at Ironwood, but perhaps now she saw the need. Better to be prepared. And Kael, Kael was grinning as he sorted through a crate of enchanted arrows. Arrows etched with runes that would explode on impact, others designed to split into three mid-flight. One by one, he inspected them, slipping his choices into his quiver with unmistakable satisfaction. Explosive arrows on a stealth mission were wildly impractical, but Alric let him enjoy the fantasy.

Alric’s eyes scanned the wall until they landed on something that pulled his attention like a magnet. It was a curved blade, similar to his scimitar but longer. The blade was forged from muted steel, its sharp end covered in runes that shimmered faintly as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The grip was leather-bound and firm. He gave it a test swing. It was smoother, lighter than his previous blade, but he would take some time to adjust to it.

“Not standard issue,” Kael said from behind him, tone neutral but eyebrows raised.

“No,” Alric replied, eyes still on the blade. “But this mission isn’t standard either.” It was just a matter of hoping it could handle more pressure than a standard blade as well.

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The group set out beneath a pale morning sky, the soft crunch of hooves pressing into the dew-covered trail. The trees around them grew denser as they moved northward, where borders blurred between Lucia and Zadale, and politics gave way to wilderness. Brina led the way, clearly heartened by her idea of visiting the shrine of Ethra, the old goddess of cultivation.

“It’s neutral ground,” she’d said back at the depot. “No banners fly there. Zadale and Lucia both consider it sacred. It’ll give us space to rest and plan.”

They moved in silence for a while, the road swallowing their presence, broken only by the occasional call of a bird or the whisper of wind through branches. Though the shrine was old, Brina promised it remained intact, tended occasionally by wandering druids and pilgrims. The shrine used to be shared by Lucia and Zadale, as men and women from both cities would visit before the harvest to pray, so that it may be bountiful.

They were less than a mile from the shrine when the stillness of the forest changed. Caelen, who had taken the lead from Brina, lifted a hand, halting the group. The birds had gone quiet.

"Something's wrong," he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dense underbrush.

Before anyone could speak, a sharp twang rang out as an arrow embedded into a tree just inches from Brina’s head. Then the ambush sprang.

Figures burst from the treeline on both sides of the path, half-cloaked in mud and leaves, brandishing rusted blades, clubs, and bows. Scarves covered their face. They were desperate, not organized soldiers, and looked more like predators than warriors. Bandits.

Alric and Caelen jumped off their horses and walked in front of the party, Kael and Brina leading the horses back. "Just hand over what you got, and no one has to get hurt."

Alric stepped forward, drawing his scimitar with a steely rasp. “Have it your way.”

The bandits charged.

They had numbers, but no discipline, no training. The fight was over before it truly began. Alric parried a clumsy swing, his blade catching the attacker’s weapon with ease. A sharp kick to the bandit’s knee dropped him, and the butt of Alric’s scimitar cracked against the man’s wrist, sending his sword clattering to the ground. He swung at another bandit, blood spilling from the man's shoulder as he howled in pain.

An arrow whistled overhead: Kael’s. It struck the earth beside another bandit and erupted into a tangle of thick vines, the magic snaring the man’s legs and yanking him down, face-first into the dirt. Alric smirked. That man was too eager to test out his new toys to actually use them on something worthwhile.

Another bandit lunged at Brina. She stood firm, dagger in one hand, the other clenched tightly around her pendant. The charm glowed faintly, as if the god of salvation continued to bless her even at such moments.

But before steel met steel, Caelen stepped in with a swift kick that sent the bandit sprawling.

That was enough. The rest of the scoundrels broke and ran, their courage failing them.

"What did those bandits think would happen, attacking trained soldiers?" Kael asked, shaking his head as he retrieved one of his magical arrows from the ground.

“We’re at war, Kael. Those men were just hungry, desperate souls trying to survive.” Bruna replied

Kael grunted as he led the horses back. “Desperation doesn’t make them any less stupid.”

Alric wiped his blade clean on a tattered leather cloth he kept in his back pocket before sheathing it. “Let’s keep moving. We're almost there."

By the time the sun began to dip behind the trees, the stone pathway leading to the shrine finally came into view, half-swallowed by moss and ivy, but unmistakably shaped by ancient and well-maintained land. The main structure was built with white stone arches weathered with age, their edges softened by moss and ivy. Vines climbed around the old pillars, blooming with small pale blossoms. A rounded dome crowned the center, partially cracked but still proud, giving shelter to the heart of the shrine.

Just beyond the stone steps that led to the entrance was a pond. Its waters were clear and still, reflecting the trees above like a mirror. Dragonflies skimmed its surface, and lily pads floated lazily along its edges. A small wooden bridge curved gently across its narrowest point. Beside the pond bloomed a garden. Wild flowers of all kinds grew together: vibrant reds, soft blues, radiant golds.

Near the entrance stood the altar, a simple slab of stone, but adorned with faint engravings of Ethra’s symbol: a sheaf of grain. Below it, etched into the stone in an ancient, flowing script, was a prayer to the goddess:

"Truly, our Mother is bountiful, and her health is our health. She feeds us, clothes us, waters us, and shelters us. No god is greater than her, though many are noisier. No god is more forgiving, more nurturing, or more essential. So, O Mother, if you hear our prayer, make this harvest bountiful."

A set of stone stairs behind the altar led downward, carved directly into the earth. Cool air drifted up from below. The passage opened into a wide underground chamber. Its low ceiling and worn bunks told of its purpose: a shelter for travelers. Small alcoves lined the walls where offerings and oil lamps might once have been placed. Dust lingered, but it was dry and safe.

“This’ll do,” Alric said, resting his hand on his sword hilt. “We can stay the night. Form a plan tomorrow.”

For now, they had a place to rest.