Chapter 9: Crast

"This doesn't make sense."

Kalann was pacing the sands, the other three watching him. Once Faro's capture had become apparent, and after a brief round of introductions, he, Laura, Sparks, and Selia had put their heads together to pool what little information they had on the Urts. If they wanted to save Faro, they needed to know what they were dealing with.

And Kalann was certain something was off.

"We've all heard the old legends," he continued, mostly talking to himself. "Urts are many things, all of them bad. But one thing they were never described as was organized." He stopped in place. "Raiding villages, I can understand. But sending precise strike teams after survivors? Capturing instead of killing?"

"It's their master," Sparks mused. His brow was furrowed in thought. "Remember, Urts aren't born. They're made. And whoever made this particular bunch seems to have more on his mind than plunder and conquest."

Kalann wet his lips. Urts were bad enough, but Urts under the thumb of some sinister master with unknown motivations? The letter's warning was growing darker by the hour.

"Then we need to save Faro quickly," Selia said. Her face was lined with worry, her hands shaking. "If... whoever is behind all this wants him for a reason... we can't give him that chance."

Sparks nodded. "We'll work out the details later. For now, we have a rescue to carry out."

"Agreed." Kalann turned to the canyon. "Then I'll run and tell Hother as fast as I can."

"No!"

Selia's outburst caused the others to flinch. She took a breath. "I'm sorry. It's just..." She swallowed, and Kalann could see tears starting to form in her eyes. "We don't know if Hother will be willing," she continued, more calmly. "And if we have to disobey him, or spend time trying to convince him... we might run out of time. We can't afford that risk."

Kalann lowered his gaze, ashamed. Selia was right; there was no time to waste. Yet something was eating at him. His mind was flickering with images of fire and death, of Pailan invaded, of the town hall crumbling to the ground. The letter's warning throbbed in his brain: A shadow is sweeping over Geyron. This wasn't an isolated threat; the entire land might be in danger. They couldn't afford to just hide from it. But what would happen to their village if they stepped out?

He looked sideways at Laura, who was sitting in the lip of a nearby dune. She had said little over the course of the discussion, but Kalann could feel her eyes on them, silently taking in every word they said. He felt a twinge of guilt; she didn't have the luxury of worrying about what might happen to her village. She was already relying on them to save it. "We're going to save our friend," he said. "Will you join us?"

She looked up. Kalann could feel her hazel eyes boring into him. "If this threat is as large as you claim," she finally said, "my village will have to wait." She got to her feet. "I've got good eyes. I can follow their trail. Let's go find your friend."

Kalann exhaled. He felt like he'd just conquered a mountain. "Thank you."

"Well said!" Sparks lifted his staff up, his eyes alight. "Now, let's show those bastards why you shouldn't mess with Geyron."

* * *

The Urt climbed the last of the stairs and pushed into the room beyond. It was very cautious, and with good reason. Crast was unpredictable, even more so than Makuran. He was as sly and dangerous as a fox. He commanded respect, admiration, and fear from all under his command. And there was nothing stopping him from slitting your throat if the urge possessed him to do so.

Crast watched the Urt make its way toward him. He was a black-haired man, perhaps somewhere in his forties. He had strong, slim arms and a graceful body that slid on the ground like a snake. A long scar ran down his left cheek, a souvenir of a battle he had fought... and lost.

"Welcome," he purred. "I trust you have a good reason for being here?"

The Urt nodded, trying desperately to hide its fear. It amused Crast to no end; even savage creatures like Urts felt intimidated by him.

The room certainly didn't help matters. It was at the top of the tower of Kalang'rea, an ancient outpost that had been abandoned when the empire of Shindar fell so many years ago. Under Crast's rule, the once-abandoned husk took on a deathly pallor, the black walls twisting like the skeleton of some long-dead titan. It was an unnerving place, to be sure.

The Urt bowed clumsily. "Master Crast," it growled, "Makuran humbly requests your presence."

"As I expected," Crast responded, already making his way over to the stairs. "No reason for us to wait around, then, is there?"

"No, of course." The Urt stumbled after him, obviously relieved to be done with the whole affair.

Crast cracked his neck confidently as he started his descent. It was pitiful, really. Pretending to be Makuran's ally, as if they were on equal footing, galled him. But he could be patient. His time would come soon... very soon.