It had been paved, once. You could still see the slabs here and there, though many had been taken to build the hovels of the nearby hamlets and outposts. More had simply been swallowed up by the grass. The wet sod buried them, but if you dug any distance, you'd find them. He was sure of it.
Like memories, he thought. The rain blew in.
You could see a long way from up here, once you'd scrambled up the slope. A holy landscape. A ritual landscape. The great Valley of the Sun stretched off into the distance; but it was hidden from view by this ridge. Hidden until the very top, when it struck you all at once, and drew a gasp. A beautiful jewel of a valley, gateway to the desert to the north, Stonehold to the south, and the first step into the Great Plain further west.
You had to have imagination to picture it in its glory. A thousand celebrants coming from all around, and following this same path – paved then, stone-bright in the midsummer sun. They would be driving beasts, carrying ale and summerwine for the feast, laughing and joyful.
Picture it. You round the corner and – all at once – you take a step and find the sun. A huge, natural arena from horizon to horizon, with jewel-bright grass cropped by the ovistriders, and warm. Here you would sit, and feast, and celebrate 'til the sun had sunk, its duty done for the year; the harvest safe and full and gathered. This was a time for old friends; news from the heart of the realm; gladness and comfort.
Not... not like this. Not with the grey, sheeting rain. Not with just four of you for the observance. Something had changed. The empire? The sun?
All at once, the Marshal turned away from the valley. The movement sent cold water dripping from his helm and cloak.
Straightening, the dwarf by his side sniffed ruefully, rubbing his nose with a gloved knuckle. Helped by the elf, the old man moved to pull his cloak more tightly round his thin shoulders as they turned to go. It had been observed. The ritual, unbroken these thousand years – or so Aenur claimed – had been observed.
All four were armed. The borders were no longer safe.
The old world was gone. Part of him knew it. No tax-collectors had seemed a blessing – for a year or two at least. Families laughed; put a little away just in case. Then the raids had started. Help was slow in coming that first year; fewer still the next. In the third year, the beacons drew no help at all, and that was a dire time.
His father had a duty. Somerstôn's walls were strengthened – in the absence of good quarried stone from Three Bridges, his father had ordered the paving be torn up. What else could be done?
The little burh became an island; a border outpost. The beacons sometimes drew help; but more often mercenaries – as likely to become an enemy as to protect against them. Sometimes the beacon drew... other things. Warbands. Beasts.
Now was a time of monsters. The old, familiar world was gone, its rituals and certainties with it. The new one was struggling to be born.
The roads had gone. But there were still swords.
