PATTERNS

Ever since his experiences in Blackveil, Alton had slept poorly, if he was able to sleep at all. There were the fevers and nightmares, and those were augmented by the anxiety that glutted his mind with what-ifs and visions of everything ending in catastrophe. If he tried to sleep, the entire wall failed and Mornhavon rose above the rubble like a vengeful god who would bring all of Sacoridia to heel.

Often Alton was up before dawn pacing in his tent, the platform boards creaking beneath his feet, or he’d try to devise possible solutions in his journal, but the entries always ended in more frustration. He’d broken dozens of pen nibs by stabbing the pages.

Sometimes he went to the tower, the encampment as quiet as a sickroom, the third watch the only souls up and about. However, battering his will at the wall had proved just as futile as scheming in his journal had, so he decided to try something more productive. Sometimes he split wood for the cook fires; mindless repetitive work that allowed him to use his feelings of aggression productively. Grateful cooks made sure he received an extra hearty breakfast for his efforts.

Other times he saddled up Night Hawk to inspect the wall in either direction. He wrote his observations in his beat-up journal, and all of this before Dale had even rolled out of her cot.

The early morning sojourns did make him feel as if he were contributing something. The soldiers regularly patrolled along the wall but they were watching for more obvious signs of encroachment from Blackveil, such as monstrous creatures finding their way through the breach.

Alton focused more on the wall itself, particularly the cracks on either side of the breach. He measured and recorded their growth, which was often minute, and while he could not ascertain how deep into the stone these cracks bore, he had to assume they went all the way through the thickness of the wall. He was not reassured by his observations, for the cracks did progress, but at least he was doing something, something that was potentially useful.

As a side benefit, he knew Night Hawk enjoyed the excursions, and the gelding eagerly greeted Alton on the mornings he went on inspection rides. Riding Night Hawk, the companionship and the movement of his steed’s strides, soothed him.

One morning Alton stood at the site where tendrils of the cracks terminated, somewhere midway between the breach and Tower of the Heavens. The rising sun dimpled the granite facade with gold as he finished up his measurements and recorded them in his journal, the sound of Night Hawk pulling at grass somewhere behind him.

When he looked up from his writing, he almost dropped the journal. Maybe it was the change of light, but it looked like…it looked like the cracks had formed a pattern.

He stepped back a few paces and changed the angle of his gaze, thinking it would either clarify or erase the pattern, but there it remained: a pair of large eyes, formed by the cracks, staring back at him. No matter which way he moved, the eyes seemed to follow him.

He strode rapidly along the wall, gazing at the cracks along the way, and more eyes watched him. The more he looked, the more eyes he saw, and he began to make out whole faces etched into stone. Sad faces, angry faces, tormented faces. All faces of despair.

He halted, trembling, then backed away from the wall ready to bolt, but Night Hawk had followed him and Alton had only to reach out to touch the gelding. It grounded him.

What do they want? he wondered.

He could not tolerate their stares for they seemed to accuse him of something, of everything, stripped him naked, their gazes abrading his soul. He mounted Night Hawk and urged the gelding toward camp at a canter.