13. Flight Across the Threshold

The silent command to withdraw, born of horrifying discovery, galvanized the small reconnaissance party into immediate, desperate action. Behind them, the pulsating, gelatinous dome, the grotesque fungal garden, and the chilling tableau of enslaved, transformed humans under the cold supervision of Unclean adepts and their reptilian Glith guardians, represented a threshold crossed – a confirmation of an alliance more terrible than any Hiero had previously conceived. They fled back the way they had come, five figures scrambling through the grey, powdery dust and skeletal fingers of the Blight-edge flora, the nauseatingly sweet odor of decay clinging to their clothes and hair.

Hiero, burdened now not just by command but by the chilling weight of his newfound knowledge, pushed the pace relentlessly. His mind, though stripped of its offensive capabilities, raced, analyzing the tactical situation, the nature of the threat, the narrow path to survival. The Gaean entity, this 'Other Mind', was not merely influencing the Unclean; it was actively collaborating, perhaps even directing. The transformed thralls, the Glith – these were not Leemutes bred in Unclean vats, but something else, something spawned from the Blight itself, extensions of the Gaean entity’s will, yet operating alongside Unclean Masters. This suggested a convergence, a pooling of resources, a fusion of ancient, earth-born malice and the perverted science of the human degenerates. The implications were staggering, redrawing the map of the conflict, revealing depths of peril previously unimagined.

He felt the pursuit commence almost before they cleared the immediate vicinity of the dome. It began not with sounds, not with physical movement, but with a sudden, sharp intensification of the psychic pressure that permeated this blighted zone. It lanced outwards from the dome, a focused wave of cold command, an alert spreading through the unseen network of the Gaean entity’s awareness. Simultaneously, he felt the sharper, more familiar probes of the shielded Unclean adepts, their minds like cold scalpels seeking to pierce his defenses, pinpoint their location, direct the hunt.

Run! The command was raw instinct, transmitted through Hiero’s shield to his companions. He vaulted onto Segi’s back, hauling the still-unresponsive Sagenay before him, the priest’s inert form a terrifying reminder of the knowledge’s potential cost. Maluin was already mounted on his sturdy D’alwahn gelding, billhook drawn, his face a grim mask of determination. The Mantan twins and M’reen flowed alongside, their movements preternaturally swift and silent, the Children of the Wind and the Masters of the Taig united in desperate flight.

The pursuit took shape swiftly, terrifyingly. First came the hounds, erupting from the Blight-edge scrub behind them. Hiero had glimpsed them earlier – mutated jackals or desert wolves, leaner, faster, more unnervingly intelligent than their natural counterparts, their minds linked in a simple but effective pack consciousness under Unclean control. They ran low to the ground, dust spurting from beneath their paws, their high, ululating hunting cries echoing eerily across the desolate plain, a sound designed to inspire primal terror in their prey. Their speed was alarming, closing the distance faster than Hiero had thought possible.

“Maluin! Mantans! Rearguard!” Hiero’s voice was hoarse, barely audible above the drumming of Segi’s powerful legs and the rising howl of the hounds. “Buy us time! Make for the mesas – west!” He pointed towards the broken line of flat-topped rock formations shimmering like islands in the heat haze miles ahead, the only viable defensive terrain in this exposed, unforgiving landscape.

Without a word, the three veteran warriors peeled off, turning to face the oncoming tide of mutated canine fury. Maluin, roaring a defiant challenge that was purely Metz, swung his great billhook, its polished surface catching the harsh sunlight. Reyn and Geor Mantan melted into the sparse cover of rocks and twisted thornbushes, becoming almost invisible, their long, dark blowguns rising like deadly reeds. Hiero felt a pang of guilt, sending his staunchest allies into such desperate peril, but there was no choice. Their sacrifice was necessary to shield the true prize – Sagenay and the knowledge locked within his mind.

He urged Segi forward, M’reen a golden-brown streak keeping pace effortlessly beside the great hopper. He focused his will outwards, maintaining the integrity of his shield against the persistent psychic battering, while simultaneously trying to feel ahead, anticipate threats, navigate the treacherous terrain. The ground grew rougher, broken by ancient, eroded watercourses and littered with sharp volcanic rock. Segi, though bred for plains, moved with astonishing agility, leaping gullies, scrambling up loose scree slopes, its powerful muscles straining, its great lungs working like bellows.

Behind them, the sounds of the rearguard action were sporadic but savage. The triumphant howls of the hounds mingled with their sudden yelps of agony as the Mantans’ poisoned darts found their marks. The sharp thwack of Maluin’s billhook meeting flesh and bone echoed occasionally, followed by defiant roars from the big Guardsman. Hiero risked a fleeting mental contact, brushing against Maluin’s mind – a maelstrom of focused rage, grim determination, and surprising tactical calm. Holding, priest! Go! Geor is down – leg wound – but Reyn defends! Go! The contact broke, leaving Hiero with a renewed sense of urgency and a profound respect for the big man’s unwavering courage.

He pushed Segi harder, the hopper responding with great, ground-devouring bounds. M’reen kept pace, her breathing controlled, her amber eyes scanning the terrain ahead, alert for any new threat. Hiero felt the psychic pressure lessen slightly as the distance increased, but the cold awareness of the Unclean adepts remained, a focused beam tracking their flight. And beneath it, always beneath it, was the vast, dispassionate, chilling presence of the Other Mind, aware, watching, perhaps waiting.

Then, M’reen faltered, letting out a sharp hiss of warning, veering abruptly left. Hiero, following her gaze, saw the reason. Ahead, rising from the seemingly empty plain like a grotesque mirage, shimmered a new threat. It wasn't solid, not entirely, but a localized distortion in the air, a heat haze given terrifying substance. Within it, vague shapes coalesced and dissolved – figures that seemed simultaneously humanoid and insectile, armed with lances of pure, black shadow. A psychic projection? A Gaean entity manifestation? Hiero didn't know, didn't care. Instinct screamed danger.

He swerved Segi hard left, following M’reen, angling away from the shimmering menace, seeking the relative safety of a deep, dry wash that snaked across the plain towards the distant mesas. The air around the mirage felt… wrong, thick with a buzzing, static-like energy that grated on his nerves and made his teeth ache. He felt Sagenay stir weakly behind him, moaning softly, his shielded mind reacting subconsciously to the alien intrusion.

They plunged into the wash, the sudden shade offering a brief respite from the relentless sun. The sandy bottom muffled Segi’s footfalls. They were hidden, temporarily, but for how long? Hiero risked another mental probe back towards the rearguard. Silence. Utter, chilling silence. No triumphant howls, no defiant roars, no hiss of darts. Only the vast, empty landscape and the lingering psychic pressure. Maluin, Reyn, Geor… Hiero forced the thought away. Grief was a luxury he could not afford. Their sacrifice must not be in vain.

He pushed Segi along the winding wash, M’reen scouting ahead, her movements now wary, almost hesitant. The feeling of pursuit had lessened, but the sense of being watched, observed by something cold and calculating, remained stronger than ever. They rounded a bend, and M’reen froze, flattening herself against the sandy bank, signaling frantically. Hiero reined Segi in, peering cautiously around the curve.

The wash ended abruptly, opening onto the base of the first mesa. And blocking their path, standing utterly motionless, seemingly carved from the blue-gray rock itself, was the Glith. It hadn't pursued them physically; it had simply… anticipated them. Its heavy axe rested easily on one scaled shoulder. Its lustreless eyes, ancient and devoid of expression, fixed on Hiero. Behind it, emerging silently from fissures in the mesa wall, came Unclean soldiers, their projectile weapons leveled, their faces grim, purposeful. And flanking them, materializing from the very air it seemed, were two more of the gray-robed, cowled figures – adepts, their shielded minds radiating cold, focused power. Trapped. The valley stronghold felt a universe away. The northern forests, a forgotten dream. There was only the harsh desert rock, the silent, waiting enemy, and the sudden, chilling certainty of imminent battle.

M’reen, Hiero sent, his own mind suddenly calm, focused, the Killman instinct taking over. The adepts. Distract them. I will take the Glith. For Maluin. For the Mantans.

He swung down from Segi, settling Sagenay gently against the wash wall. He drew his sword-knife, its weight familiar, reassuring. He met the Glith’s cold, unblinking gaze across the twenty yards of open ground. The Battle Morning had ended in retreat; perhaps this Battle Dusk would offer a different conclusion. He took a deep breath, centered himself, and prepared to meet the charge.