Chapter 12: The First Night

  Their first night on the Civil Way, the caravan stopped to camp. With no campsite to choose, the group just stopped with the wagons and carts in the middle and lit campfires along the caravan. The ancient, stone-paved roadway was on top of a distinct ridgeline, roughly twenty to thirty feet wide, falling away sharply on either side into the dense, dark jungle. The cook fires crackled, small points of warmth and light against the vast wilderness. Guards, under the watchful eyes of Throng and Zewelt, established a perimeter, noticeably doubling their numbers along the northern edge of the road.

  Adon found herself at the largest fire between the two parties of the caravan. Willow was making stew and handing it out to the gathered people. Dumas and a few families from his wagons joined Adon and the rest of the adventuring company for dinner that night. After dinner, Dumas pulled out a stubby clay pipe and offered a pinch of tobacco to Cedric sitting next to him. Cedric accepted with a grateful nod two puffed in companionable silence for a moment, watching the flames. One mother from the other caravan moved among the children, offering them small, brightly colored jelly candies, her gentle murmurs a soft counterpoint to the crackling fire and the unseen rustlings from the jungle.

  Noticing the increased guard presence on the north side of the road, Willow broke the silence asking the group, “Why do we have double the guards on the north side of camp? Isn’t there jungle on both sides of us?”

  “They’re watching the Terrors love,” Dumas said kindly. “We have to monitor that side because of the particular dangers north of the road.”

  “Why is it called the Terrors?” Marik asked Dumas.

  Dumas took a long draw from his pipe, the end glowing like a baleful eye in the dim light. He exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the glowing canopy above. “That is a long story,” he said, his cheerful baritone now deeper, more somber. "The Terrors is the name of the land because of the terrors that live in it. And this here to the south," he gestured with his pipe stem towards the other side of the road, "some just call it 'the Lands,' though the old maps name it the southern stretch of the Vale, bordering what used to be part of the Lost Lands before Denick's fall."

  He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the fire. "They say this road, the Civil Way itself... it wasn't always so 'civil.' I don’t know that the north side was always known as the Terrors. The old tales, the ones whispered by the elves of Valewatch and the eldest traders, they say this land was his first stomping ground."

  "His?" Willow asked softly, her eyes wide.

  "Aye," Dumas rumbled. "Sin. The Great Wyrm, Sinsilibrianoxa, before his scales turned black, back when the world was younger and the first creatures were still learning to build. They say this very ridgeline, this path through the heart of the untamed Vale, was a test he set for his earliest followers – those desperate or foolish enough to seek his favor. To see who was brave enough, or perhaps mad enough, to walk it alone, especially along the 'nightline,' as they called the edge of the deep jungle under the full moon."

  He paused, and the only sound was the crackling fire and a distant, mournful bird call from deep within the jungle.

  "He would come from the night sky then," Dumas continued, his voice dropping lower, "a shadow against the stars, flying above this very path. The awe and terror of his essence, his raw, primal power… it was said to be enough to drive lesser beings mad, or send them fleeing in mindless panic. Most who survived that flight, they say, settled in other lands south from here. But some…" He chuckled, a harsh, humorless sound that made Adon’s skin prickle despite herself. "Some, the legends whisper, went north, into the heart of what we now call the Terrors. And there, they formed their own… 'community.' Perhaps even found new appetites, feasting on the flesh of any who strayed too far from the light."

  A shiver ran through the group. A baby started to cry and parents held their children tighter. Willow looked pale, drawing her cloak tighter around herself. Marik’s hand rested near the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed on the dark northern treeline. Jimothy thoughtfully stroked his beard, perhaps contemplating the kind of creatures that might thrive in such a place. Cedric merely puffed on his pipe, his expression unreadable in the firelight, though Adon thought she saw a flicker of knowing in his eyes.

  Dumas laughed, breaking the tension. "Ah, but those are just old tales, likely told to keep children close to the fire and travelers on the marked path."

  Adon herself feigned a shiver. "Wow," she said, her voice a little breathless. "That's, like, the scariest bedtime story ever!" Internally, however, she filed away the information. The Vale was clearly more than just a jungle; it was a place steeped in ancient power and dark history. The night seemed to press in closer, the rustling from the unseen jungle taking on a more sinister note.

  The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting only a faint, pulsing light against the oppressive darkness of the Vale. Adon stirred, her internal clock precise. Four hours. Enough. She slipped from her bedroll within the cramped confines of the Resha wagon, careful not to disturb Willow, who was curled nearby, breathing softly, her rainbow hair a muted smudge in the gloom. Cedric, Marik, and Jimothy were also asleep, their forms still shapes in the darkness. At least Willow, Cedric, and Jimothy were all smaller folk. Marik’s height and bulk took up a lot of floor space.

  Adon moved with practiced silence, her bare feet making no sound on the wagon bed. She pulled on her dark traveling cloak, the sapphire ring cool against her finger, the sigil on her wrist a faint, cold thrum. Easing the canvas flap aside, she stepped out into the night.

  The air on the Civil Way was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of decaying vegetation and the subtle, unnerving perfume of alien blooms. Blackness of the jungle pressed in on either side. What immediately struck her was a tension in the guards. It was a palpable thing, thick as the jungle mist. Every guard she could see, even those positioned on the southern edge of the road, ostensibly watching the Lands, was instead oriented north, their silhouettes rigid, weapons held ready, their gazes fixed on the impenetrable wall of darkness that was the Terrors. Their faces, briefly illuminated as they passed near a flickering torch, were grim, etched with unease.

  Adon felt a familiar prickle along her spine, but this time it was different. In Fischholme, amidst the squalor of the docks or the shadowed alleys of the lower city, she had felt this before. The feeling was the exhilarating rush of the hunter, the predator assessing its domain. Here, under the silent, watchful gaze of the ancient jungle, the sensation was inverted. She felt exposed. Observed. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose. This was the feeling of prey.

  She moved silently towards the northern edge of the road, her elven eyes, usually so adept at piercing gloom, straining against the absolute blackness beneath the canopy. The jungle was a void. She could hear the constant, subtle symphony of the Vale: the drip of moisture, the rustle of leaves, the chirr of insects, the distant croak of something unseen. But of the source of the guards' heightened vigilance, she saw nothing. No glowing eyes, no monstrous shapes, only an overwhelming sense of a hostile, predatory gaze.

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  Frustrated, she let her gaze drift briefly south, across the road, towards the slightly less menacing darkness of the Lands. It was in that precise moment, as her attention shifted, that the sound ripped through the night from the Terrors.

  It was not a roar, nor a growl. It was a profound whoosh of displaced air, the sound of immense weight launching itself, followed by the sharp crack of a massive tree branch snapping under sudden, immense strain. The sound came from deep within the jungle to the north, but it was the sound of something moving away from them, leaping a vast distance further into the Terrors. The sheer power implied by the sound, spoke to the the size of the unseen creature. The thought of what was capable of making such a sound was staggering. Bigger than a horse, Adon thought instantly, far bigger.

  Every guard on the road froze, then weapons came up. “What in the blazes was that?” one of the Resha guards whispered, his voice tight with fear.

  A guard from the Dumas wagons replied. "Nothing good. Stay sharp. All of you."

  No other sound followed from the jungle, only the echoing silence and the suddenly louder chirping of insects. But the tension, already high, ratcheted up to an almost unbearable level. No one spoke. The guards remained statues, their eyes fixed on the northern darkness. Adon felt her own heart pounding, the hunter's thrill entirely absent, replaced by a cold, primal awareness of being in the presence of something truly powerful.

  Adon rushed to Throng’s sleeping form next to the cart and shook him.

  “Throng!” Adon hissed, “Something large is watching us.”

  Throng moved instantly. Rising silently from his bedroll he drew his sword and peered in the direction of Adon’s finger. Eyes fixed on the jungle he barked an order to one of the Dumas Caravan guards to wake Zewalt. She strode over to Adon and Throng moments later.

  “My guards reported a large sound to the north?” Zewalt asked.

  Adon nodded, keeping her own voice hushed but urgent. "It was huge, Captain Zewelt. Not a growl, but... a launch. Like something incredibly heavy taking off from a branch just off the road in Terrors." She gestured northward. "The branch snapped – sounded like a small tree falling. It lept away from us, but the power... it had to be massive. Far bigger than any bear or jungle cat I've ever heard of."

  Throng grunted, his gaze still fixed on the impenetrable blackness. "My men heard the branch break. Confirmed it was north, and moving deeper into the jungle. No visual." He looked at Adon. "You're certain of the size?"

  "The sound alone, Throng... it was like a elephant ripping through the canopy," Adon insisted, trying to convey the sheer scale. "It wasn't just big; it felt... ancient. Like the jungle itself stirred."

  Zewelt’s eyes narrowed. "The Terrors have always bred monsters. But something of that magnitude, so close to the road and then moving away without further engagement... unusual." She glanced toward her own wagons, toward the families. "It means our northern watch needs to be absolute. No one strays from the firelight, no one."

  "Agreed," Throng said. "No patrols beyond the road's edge. Anything approaches, sound the alarm immediately. I want every archer ready." He gave a curt nod to Zewelt. "Your people as well, Captain?"

  "Already done, Master Throng," Zewelt confirmed. "My guards are on full alert." Zewalt departed for her end of the caravan while Throng and Adon joined the guards watching the Terrors.

  The remaining hours until dawn passed with agonizing slowness. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent fresh waves of anxiety through the watchmen. Adon stood watching, listening, her own senses stretched taut. She saw the strain on the faces of the guards, the way their knuckles were white on their weapon hilts.

  Finally, agonizingly, the first hint of grey began to bleed into the eastern sky. As the light grew, slowly pushing back the oppressive darkness of the Vale, a collective, almost inaudible sigh seemed to pass through the caravan. Shoulders relaxed fractionally. Weapons were lowered slightly. The palpable relief that washed over the guards, even the stoic Throng, was as tangible as the morning mist now rising from the jungle floor. They had made it through the night. But the memory of that sound, the implication of what lurked unseen in the Terrors, hung heavy in the air.

  The morning broke gray and heavy, the sun a pale disc struggling to pierce the thick canopy of the Vale. A nervous energy permeated the camp as the caravan prepared to move. Breakfast was a subdued affair, the usual morning chatter replaced by hushed tones and frequent, anxious glances towards the northern jungle. Willow had managed to produce a passable, if slightly smoky, porridge, which most ate quickly, their appetites dulled by the previous night’s unsettling events.

  Adon, seated with her core companions around a small, sputtering cookfire, recounted what she had heard and seen after the initial sound had woken the guards. She kept her voice low, her bubbly heiress persona carefully modulated to convey serious concern rather than outright fear.

  "...and then Throng and Captain Zewelt came," Adon explained, stirring her porridge with a spoon. "It was, like, totally massive. Not just the sound of the branch snapping, but the whoosh before it, like something the size of a house just launched itself. It definitely moved away from us, deeper into the Terrors, but still... it was huge." She looked around at their faces. "The guards were super freaked out all night."

  Marik’s jaw was tight, his hand never far from his sword. "Something that large, moving with such power... it's no ordinary beast."

  Jimothy nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "The Vale is ancient. Legends speak of creatures here that predate even the First Sundering. Could be a territorial display, or simply passing through. Hard to say without seeing it."

  Willow shivered, pulling her cloak tighter despite the humid air. "Do you think... do you think it was what Dumas was talking about? Sin? Or one of his... followers?"

  "Unlikely to be Sin himself," Jimothy said. "The Great Wyrm hasn't been seen in centuries, not reliably. But the Terrors... they breed their own nightmares. Always have."

  Cedric, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly straightened, his eyes distant, a flicker of intense concentration on his face. "A large, arboreal predator... capable of great leaps... moving away from a defended perimeter..." he murmured, almost to himself. "There was a tale, from my travels in the southern foothills of the Seat of Thron... of a creature they called the ... it was said to be…WAIT! I think I know what that creature is!”

  Everyone’s eyes fixed on the wizened halfling, hoping for explanation of this dangerous creature. The pause trailed on uncomfortably long, everyone too nervous to speak and break his chain of thought.

  Cedric’s gaze grew slack and then he exclaimed, “Where did that cheese go? Ah there it is.” Indicating a small wedge of hard cheese Willow had placed on a nearby crate. He reached for it. "Is that the Laketown sharp cheddar? Quite good, if I recall." He picked up the cheese, and began to gnaw on it eagerly. Adon exchanged a quick, frustrated glance with Willow, who simply shook her head.

  Soon after, the orders were given to break camp. The wagons creaked, the animals snorted nervously, and the caravan began its slow, cautious advance along the Civil Way. The atmosphere was thick with tension. Every snap of a twig from the jungle, every unfamiliar bird call, caused heads to turn and hands to tighten on weapon hilts.

  As they moved, Willow, ever curious about the unique flora of the Vale, pointed to a vibrant, unusually shaped crimson flower growing just off the edge of the stone roadway, nestled amongst thick, dark green leaves. "Oh, look!" she exclaimed, taking a step towards it. "I've never seen anything like that! I wonder if it has medicinal properties?"

  Before she could reach it, one of Throng’s guards, a stern-faced human woman with a scar across her cheek, quickly stepped in front of her. Without a word, the guard picked up a loose stone from the roadway and tossed it towards the flower. The instant the stone landed amongst the leaves, the patch of vegetation seemed to explode. Dark green vines, thick as a man's arm and studded with what looked like thorns, shot out with terrifying speed, wrapping around the stone and yanking it violently down into the undergrowth with a wet, tearing sound. The crimson flower vanished as if it had never been.

  Willow gasped, stumbling back, her face pale. The guard simply grunted. "Stay on the path, little dwarf. Everything in the Vale is hungry."

  Adon watched the exchange, a grim understanding settling in. The next eight days of travel to Siscrix, confined to this narrow, ancient roadway through a jungle teeming with unseen dangers and ancient terrors, were going to be a relentless challenge, testing not only their skills and courage but the very cohesion of their newly formed party. The palpable relief of the sunrise had been short-lived; the Civil Way promised a journey fraught with danger.