“Take a care, Sizilen,” Borou warned. “They may be bound but we know not what they’ll do if given the chance.”

Sizilen nodded and kept a safe distance. She kneeled on a slim patch of grass alongside the wide road and looked at each of them. There was an older man. His face was bloodied-- perhaps a broken nose. A young girl with long blonde hair looked up at her in suspicion. Two other men, and then a Giturnian-looking woman. 

She stared at Sizilen not with suspicion or contempt like the others. But rather, her look was one Sizilen had seen before. She’d worn the look herself many times. This woman wanted mercy.

But they were tributes to Caradoc. Moreover, they were Outworlders. She’d grown up hearing the tales of their ancient horrors. Even Emrys had reinforced it. The root of all despair on Ayndir lay in the betrayal of Outworld. Demons and poisons and the wasting curses. They’d infested her world with tragedy.

And now one of them was pleading mercy with her eyes. It unsettled her, but she couldn’t identify why.

    She sat on the grass and opened her satchel, pulling out a piece of parchment and charcoal and began to draw. She sketched out the faces of the five of them, complete with the gags tied around their mouths. Each of them looked at her with growing contempt.

Again, except for the Giturnian-looking woman. Her look of pleading persisted, and she glanced occasionally at Borou and the others while they discussed the results of the invasion.

Sizilen continued to draw, expanding beyond the five prisoners and taking in the surrounding area. The strange carriage-like construction. The building behind them, and the bridge rising high above in the distance. After a few minutes, her fingers were stained black and she finished the drawing.

She looked at the Giturnian-looking woman. “What do you think?” she asked, showing her the picture. “Not my best drawing, but I think it’ll be good enough for the King.”

The woman cocked her head to one side and mumbled something through the gag. Sizilen responded with a sad smile. “Even if I could do something to help you, that would only mar my sister’s sacrifice,” she explained. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Was she truly sorry? After all, the woman was an Outworlder. It was her ancestors that cursed Ayndir with the subhuman races. All the evils in the world were a direct result of their very actions.

But then, she had expected hulking beasts with tusks and eyes that glowed red. A people who thrived beneath a hellish sky. This sky was blue, like her own. And this woman, at least by appearance, was as human as Sizilen herself.

Sizilen’s attention was suddenly pulled away by a whining noise far in the distance. It was growing closer. It was loud, like a wolf’s howl except the oscillation of the pitch was much slower, running from high to low steadily.

It also drew the attention of the five prisoners, who looked down the road eagerly. Sizilen recognized the look in their eyes. It was hope. Whatever it was, they felt it was there to help them. Sizilen slipped the drawing into her satchel and stood up, rejoining Borou and the others.

“What madness?” Borou asked.

In the distance beyond the perimeter formed by the Wolf Riders, Sizilen could make out one of the strange carriages coming down the road at surprising speeds.

“It’s one of their transports,” Auberon said. “They sit inside of it and it obeys their commands. We’ve yet to work out how.”

“And the noise?” Borou asked.

Auberon shrugged. “They growl and roar,” he said. “We haven’t heard them whine like that. This is the first we’ve heard make such a noise.”

Borou narrowed his eyes. Sizilen observed a sly smile spread across his face and recognized the look of realization in his eyes. “Outworlder constabulary,” he said. He raised his voice. “Sound the horn! First Order! Prepare to attack!”

A man nearby sounded the war horn, attracting the attention of the entire camp. Wolf Riders zipped by toward the speeding carriage. It was moving fast. So fast. The whine grew louder, but it stopped just before their perimeter line. She watched as two men emerged from the carriage doors. Sizilen stepped forward to get a better look, but was then met with Borou’s outstretched arm keeping her back.

Suddenly, the air around her cracked in quick succession, echoing off the trees and nearby buildings, causing her to tense up instinctively. She looked on in shock as riders fell from their mounts and the wolves themselves yelped in pain before falling over.

“Why do they fall? I see no arrows. No slings,” Rost commented.

More cracks echoed, and yet more riders fell from their mounts, motionless on the ground.

“Naia’s tits!” Borou exclaimed. “Riders, converge! On them! Now!”

From the Outworlder’s flanks, three Wolf Riders emerged and bounded across the wide road toward them. One of the men turned around. Another resounding crack echoed from around them, and a wolf fell over dead.

“How are they doing that?” Auberon asked.

They watched as another Wolf Rider reached the men and jumped on him, mauling him on the spot. Two more sharp cracks erupted from the other man before even he was overtaken by another Rider.

Finally, it was silent.

Behind the two dead men more strange carriages lined the road. Great red ones easily the length of three of the smaller ones. Big white ones. All of them had flashing lights erupting from them, but they were no longer drawing near.

Borou chuckled to himself. “I see,” he said. “The Outworlders are creating a perimeter of their own. They intend to siege us. A fat lot of good it will do them.”

“What shall we do now, General?” Rost asked.

“You three? You’ll fly,” he said. “I want reports on their locations. Don’t get too close, at least not until we find out what killed those wolves and riders. But when the rest of the men come over tonight, it won’t matter. We’ve fifty thousand men thirsty for Outworlder blood. We’ll overrun them with sheer numbers.” He glanced over at Sizilen for a moment, then turned back to the distance. “And bring the bodies of those men to me, as well as their carriage. I want a good look at them.”

“What of the tributes to Caradoc?” Rost asked, gesturing to the five prisoners.

“Dree!” Borou exclaimed. “Put a hood on them. Take them to the transports on the other side and have them make their way to Tyrant’s Fall.” He looked to Auberon. “He’ll know they come as a gift from Raptor Company. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sizilen cast a glance back at the King’s tributes. Their look of hope had turned to despair. Something bothered her about that. The tales said that Outworlders reveled in cruelty. To see them in despair should have felt vindicating.

She looked back toward the flashing lights coming from the carriage and to the two Outworlders lying dead on the ground, then looked to the carnage around them.

Two of their guardsmen had killed nine men and five wolves. Another two wolves lay dying. Sizilen suddenly became aware of the feeling gnawing at her. Embrayyan Wolf Riders were feared across the continents. And two Outworlders had just killed seven times their number. Two.

She looked at the tributes again. Commoners. They were little more than commoners. What would happen when the Outworlders came in numbers?