Unbroken

Join Adept Judith as her unique, handpicked squad hunts a wily Beast through the treacherous mountains surrounding Hochwihr. Written in 59 AS.

 

“Everything Breaks,” those are our words; the words of The Hammers of the Mountain. They harken back to the Hunt that most now call our Chapter’s first, when sledgehammers were brought down on the Living Rocks, defeating them when our sabres failed.

 

In the years to follow, when our Chapter was officially formed, those words would inspire us. Even when the Beasts seemed unstoppable, even when the Menagerie of Crowns unveiled its secrets, we found courage in that simple fact: everything breaks. We have held strong for twenty-one years, facing with stalwart stubbornness that which should have set us running.

 

But our words hold a pitfall. Whenever we say them, whenever we roar our defiance at the Beasts, there is a place, deep in the tunnels of our minds, where they echo and warp and come back to us: “We break, too.”

 

Not our minds, of course; never our minds. But we realise, each of us, that one day there will be a Beast that is too strong, too fierce, simply too quick for even our bodies, and it will kill us, and we will be burned like so many of our Siblings before. All we can do is hold firm, so that that Beast might be so shocked, so dazed by our stubborn defiance in the face of our inevitable end, that those who remain may finish what we started, may perform their duty to humanity with our final aid.

 

Everything breaks.

 

Even Master Hunters.

 

It was our third day outside Hochwihr. When we set out from Serncar – happy once more to see that Riestaten’s new Keepers were, indeed, more willing to work with their neighbours than the previous ones – I had imagined the Riestaters’ mountain abode not unlike my home: a mining town carving its way into the feet of the mountain. My imaginations were proven foolishly naive the moment we arrived.

 

Two large, stone curtain walls, a spike-filled pit between them. A single entrance with two gatehouses, an outer and an inner, with a bisected drawbridge held up in between. Walls upon dividing walls, carving Hochwihr into easily separable, symmetrical segments, all with their own squares, rooms, and latrines. A sturdy tower in the middle, straddling the builder-militia’s quarters, from which Keeper Conrad ruled.

 

I disliked Hochwihr. I disliked its rigid symmetry. I disliked its ever-encroaching walls. I disliked its pantomime, Conrad’s men forcefully nailing beauty onto everything – the walls of patterned brick, the supports of carved wood, the uniforms of doublets and jerkins and hoses and codpieces – as if to convince themselves that this was, really, a good place to be.

 

But Hochwihr’s inhabitants do not want to be there. They are trapped there, prisoners all, for being deemed ‘unfit’ for Riestater society. Perhaps they showed inadequate respect for the Wall and the Fields; perhaps they openly undermined the Servants – a more ironically named ruling class there never was –; perhaps they betrayed the stiff, sex-based division of labour within Riestaten; or perhaps they broke some taboo I could not even conceive of as an outsider. They all did something; something to cause them to be sent to Hochwihr to spend the rest of their lives working the mines further up the mountain. Or they were born to those who were.

 

I am not that naive, though. I know we in Serncar, in all of Iseron, have forced our criminals into hard labour and banishment for generations. But the hard labour is almost always temporary and doesn't doom the children you might have during it. Banishment at least affords you your freedom. And perhaps most notably: there are simply not as many laws to break in Iseron. And so, I was glad that it was my third day outside Hochwihr.

 

My third day on the Hunt.

 

We had been summoned to deal with a Beast whose Riestater name translated to Old Crackhorn. Once, we were told, it was an ibex; a particularly hardy mountain goat. The Dark Ones took hold of it in death, however, and turned it from hardy to near indestructible. Worse, it was a wily Beast, rumoured to have purposefully caused several deadly rockslides before disappearing up the mountain. After an untold number of attempts by the Servants and their builder-militia to stop it, they finally accepted that they needed help. Fenblith gladly obliged, and selected my Chapter to see the work done. After all: who better to lay low a rockslide-causing Beast that hides in the mountains than those whose foundational Saint, Austin the Hammerblow, began their Chapter by doing exactly that.

 

We had assembled a rather unique squad for the task. Usually, a squad is made up of either one Adept and four Ranked, or five Ranked with no Adept. If there is an Adept, the squad functions independently, and can be sent out without a Master’s supervision. If there is no Adept, the squad functions under the supervision of a Master, generally alongside other squads.

 

Our squad consisted of four Adepts and a Master.

 

Aside from myself, there was Sister Dora, Brother Nicholas, Sister Frances, and our leader, Master Bartholomew. We Adepts had been selected for skill at mountain traversal and shooting, as well as the ability to function independently, as we were expecting Old Crackhorn to refuse to get close to us, ensuring we would have to give chase until someone got a shot they knew how to take. In case Old Crackhorn did decide to attack us directly, we were to rely on Master Bartholomew. While we of course each knew how to stand our ground with our sabres, the Master had studied under Saint Austin himself, and was a force of nature with his bespoke, Master-crafted weapon: a Starsteel hammer.

 

We had left early, the sun still fighting to overcome the mountain’s far off peaks, casting us in unseasonably chilly shadow. As the day progressed, we grew restless, annoyed that our quarry had still not shown itself. Brother Nicholas grumbled that if he had known we would be going on a simple stroll, he’d have dressed more lightly, and brought more food. Sister Frances teased that he hardly needed any more food, but before Brother Nicholas could respond, Sister Dora gave a whistle, and pointed sharply up.

 

I am not convinced it was once an ibex. It went on all fours, but its feet seemed to grasp at the rocks beyond what a goat’s feet should be able to do, and the legs seemed just that little longer, just that little more mobile. It had a sturdy, almost tubular body, but it was tapered, ever so slightly, to give it the impression of shoulders and chest. Its head, crowned by massive, curving horns, was undoubtedly goatlike, but in its features lay traces of something simian, and its rectangle-pupiled eyes seemed to study us with more than animal intelligence.

 

It mattered little in that moment, though: a Beast is a Beast, and a Hunter must Hunt. Master Bartholomew gave the order to attack. Old Crackhorn was only some twenty feet above us, but it ducked away before we could shoot, and the rockface was too steep for us to climb, so we rushed around. By the time we reached where the Beast had been, it was gone.

 

Brother Nicholas let out a hefty curse, but this time Sister Frances whistled and pointed before I could reprimand him, having spotted the Beast a little ways in the distance, staring at us once more. We did not need an order to rush forwards, each of us trying our best to find a route that would take us within range for a proper shot.

 

Thus, we forced our way across ridges and through cracks, Old Crackhorn continuing to move away before standing still to study us over and over. Once, Sister Frances fired a hopeful shot, the echo cascading down the mountainside. The bullet went wide, though, the distance too much for a musket to reliably bridge. Master Bartholomew chuckled and commended Sister Frances’s ambition, but then ordered us to conserve our ammunition.

 

And so, on we went. Old Crackhorn’s gait was bizarre, between the climbing of goat and human, but it was effective. The Beast scaled surfaces we had no hopes of scaling, forcing us around again and again. Worse, it squeezed through cracks we could not pass through in armour, forcing us to take more open paths while it used shortcut after shortcut.

 

As a result, we were beginning to feel the strain of the pursuit when we walked into what I believe was a purposeful trap.

 

It was a web of cracks, most of them too narrow for us, which led us to move into a dead-end, the only passage leading onward too narrow to use. And just as we had begun to collect ourselves enough to think of a way forwards, we heard a horrible rumbling.

 

I looked up at the sound and glimpsed Old Crackhorn, staring stoically down at us as a rockslide tumbled from where it was standing. Master Bartholomew bellowed for us to find cover, but it was too late.

 

The rocks crashed into the dead end. One swept into Brother Nicholas, ramming his leg out from under him with a sharp snap. Another, larger rock crashed into Sister Frances, crushing her into the ground with the horrible crack of bones and steel. A smaller stone caught air and sailed for Sister Dora’s head, but – in a moment of speed and precision even a Master should be proud of – Master Bartholomew managed to strike it with his hammer, changing its trajectory so that it only hit her shoulder. Then, to my horror, another rock caught him in the back, slamming him painfully into the mountain’s flank.

 

I was the only one to remain unharmed. I had been standing nearest to where the rockslide came from, but that meant that – as Saint Austin in the canal – I was able to dive against the rockface in front of me and let the danger fly overhead. Rocks continued to fall for a little while after Master Bartholomew was struck, but as soon as I could, I rushed to his side, slinging my musket across my shoulder as I knelt down next to him.

 

He was looking poorly, dazed and unmoving. He remained conscious, however, biting through the pain to ask after the others the moment he saw me.

 

I checked on Sister Frances, but it was clear that she had not survived the impact. Brother Nicholas lay facedown but awake, growling at the pain in his broken leg. Sister Dora managed to get herself sitting upright, but her shoulder was devastated. She forced a smile onto her face, trying to give me some semblance of reassurance, but it was clear I would need to treat her and Nicholas’s injuries and go fetch help as soon as possible, and I reported as much to Master Bartholomew.

 

He responded in a pained hiss, saying I could not leave while Old Crackhorn lived, lest the Beast come down to finish the job while they were defenseless. I asked if there wasn’t any way for him to help.

 

Which is when he revealed he had almost certainly broken his neck.

 

I was shocked, but Master Bartholomew, somehow, remained clear-headed. He described the pain leaking from his neck into his shoulders and arms, and told me he was not allowed to move, if indeed he even could. I asked how he was ever to get back to Hochwihr, to which he drily said he expected to return with a Starsteel dagger in his heart.

 

I began to protest, but he cut me off, ordering me to heed his words. Old Crackhorn was still loose, and I was the only one of my Siblings left to fight it. I was to remove my cuirass so that I might finally follow through the cracks and take away some of the Beast’s advantage. My helm, thankfully, was brimless, as we knew we would have to be able to easily look up during the Hunt, so it and my gorget could stay.

 

Obeying, I removed my cuirass. Next, Master Bartholomew told me to remove my sabre, too, as it might get in the way as I climbed. I asked how I was supposed to defend myself if the Beast decided to attack me.

 

He told me to take his hammer, and use it to pull myself across obstacles whenever it might help.

 

I was startled. Horrified, even. I protested that his hammer was tantamount to sacred, crafted by a Master Maker to honour Saint Austin. Master Bartholow responded that it was a tool meant to slay Beasts, and with fire in his strained voice he exhorted me to take it and use it as such.

 

With trembling hands I took my sabre from my belt and picked up the hammer, its Starsteel head drawing me in as I raised it to my face. In its starlike reflection, I saw my own determined expression, and was heartened. I also saw, as a blurry apparition across a silver night sky, the reflected outline of Old Crackhorn.

 

I spun around and saw the Beast, arrived to finish its work.

 

It stared at me, horizontal pupils drawing me in. It was out of reach for an attack with the hammer, but my musket, still slung across my shoulder, would hit it from here, if only I could get it in my hands.

 

I felt the weight of the hammer, felt the reassurance of Master Bartholomew, unable to see why I had turned but wise enough to guess and stay quiet, and I knew what to do, knew to trust in my Sister. I murmured, merely murmured, and told Sister Dora to distract the Beast.

 

As if we had planned it, she noisily drew her sabre from its scabbard. Old Crackhorn twisted aside, turning to face the sound. I dropped the hammer, forcing myself to treat it merely as a tool, and swept my musket’s stock against my shoulder. As the hammer fell to the ground, my musket’s hammer fell to the pan, and fire burst from my barrel like sparks from an anvil.

 

The bullet bit into Old Crackhorn’s side, making the Beast roar in pain and anger. It turned and ran, but its gait was stilted, now; uneven. Taking a risk, I dropped my musket, snatched up the hammer, and rushed forwards. I leapt at the crack that had barred our way and squeezed through it, my gambeson shielding me from the rough surface as I fought for speed.

 

Then I was through, and I saw Old Crackhorn fleeing, and I was in pursuit.

 

After all that running in armour, I felt as if I flew, and with its injury, the Beast had slowed down. Finally, I was gaining on it.

 

It still tried to trick me, to use the terrain against me. But I kept forcing my way through, kept using my newfound mobility to get closer, ever closer. Then I saw a ridge lower than most, and I hurled myself at it, using the spiked back of the hammer’s head to claw myself up and over.

 

I was at the same height as Old Crackhorn.

 

The Beast turned to look and saw me, only flat terrain with easily jumpable cracks between us, and it panicked. It began to run more frantically, started stumbling, and I sprinted forwards, jumping the gaps as I kept gaining on my prey.

 

As I came close – close enough to shoot again, had I still had my musket – the Beast leapt down into a crack, clearly hoping to lose me. I jumped down without a moment’s hesitation, Saint Austin’s arduous journey up the hillside in the back of my mind.

 

I lost sight of the Beast, but it had only so many places to go, and it was dripping ichor. I followed the trail, turning through  cracks, ready to deal the final blow.

 

Then it occurred to me that this might be another trap.

 

I slowed, but only slightly, and started taking my turns more widely, ensuring I had as much room to move as possible. I worried I might be losing the Beast, but I knew that this was the right way to continue.

 

And I was right.

 

As I rounded a particularly blind turn, I heard the scrape of a hoof. I caught sight of two curved horns rushing towards me, a snorting snout underneath them. Using the little room I had bought myself and my increased agility without my armour, I twisted aside, letting the Beast ram past me.

 

As I turned after it, I took a double-handed grip on the hammer’s haft. Old Crackhorn tried to divert its failed charge, but it had committed too heavily, clearly desperate to end the chase.

 

With a prayer to Austin the Hammerblow and with gratitude to Master Bartholomew, I brought the hammer down.

 

There was a sundering crack as the hammer shattered the back of Old Crackhorn’s head. Its ichor-stained brain splattered free, and its body fell like a heavy sack.

 

I let my breath escape me. Only now did I feel how hard my body had been made to work. I cast my mind towards Master Bartholomew, and hoped he was still alive. I realised I would now have to go back to Hochwihr to organise a rescue and recovery to bring back him, Sister Dora, Brother Nicholas, and poor Sister Frances, not to mention Old Crackhorn’s remains. My trial was far from over.

 

But, by all the Hammers of the Mountain…

 

The Beast was dead.