There, eight men on the street,
Eight men of great wonder.
Will they perform a feat?
Will they stop, smile, and greet,
Or tear earth asunder?
* * * * *
In fact, they did nothing.
Had they known of the Governor's reaction -- to have the town's defenses prepared and mounted; to have key areas along the wall secured; to move men to various locations throughout town in anticipation of a breach; and so on -- still they would have done nothing. Had they known of the Governor's intention -- to ride out and meet them, alone, the singular embodiment of an autumn storm -- still they would have done nothing. Even as more men appeared on the wall, men with bows and crossbows, men to load, wind and aim the arbelests scattered across the top of the wall; even as more men marched to the gates -- which were being closed and barred before their very eyes -- men who expected the worst yet didn't know what to expect at all, the eight men in black coats simply watched from their place on the hill.
They were silent sentinels, these eight men. These eight channelers: their long black coats, the hem of each man's coat swaying in time to and the direction of the whims of the wind, identified them as readily as any banner. Their arms were folded; they stood at ease, and at the mercy of the sharp gusts from the northwest, a biting, bitter wind that seemed to gnaw at the skin as if it wanted the bones, the marrow within them, to freeze it, to freeze everything. They seemed to be unaffected, however, as though the cold did not so much as touch them. Several had long, unbound hair, and that, too, streamed in the wind's wake. One man's hair was even done up in a multitude of braids, with tiny silver bells at the end of the two thickest lengths; they jingle-chimed, musical yet also somehow discordant.
The sun was a ball of pale light overhead, practically invisible when clouds drifted in front of it; as it was, the world seemed drained of color and vitality, as though the creeping winter were leeching it from the land, the very air, turning all bleak and bare. In this weak light the channelers watched as a gray rider on a gray horse rode to meet them, his silver-white hair visible even from the hilltop. Still they did nothing, but there was a sudden sense of readiness among them -- and a subtle menace, although one might argue that it was mutual.
Finally the rider came to a halt a short distance from them, no more than twenty paces. He gazed at them levelly, unafraid; they returned the very same, expressing possibly
less on their faces, like they were carved from stone. And after the rider, no other than Cinnabar Calomel, self-made Governor of Myrken Wood and High Constable of the Myrken Wood Constabulary, spoke ... one of them stepped forward -- a man Cinnabar would undoubtedly recognize.
"Mm? We came to look, Governor," said Jasper Diotrephes, a small smile on his lips, a smile that did not quite reach those dark, near-black eyes. He looked much the same as he had when Cinnabar first encountered him: oiled hair slicked back, clean shaven, immaculate -- yet sinister as well, as if the channeler somehow clutched a knife behind him even with both hands in view. As if reading Cinnabar's mind, Jasper raised both gloved hands in a defenseless gesture, then folded his arms again with a wry grin.
"We heard about a wall -- another wall, yes? Around the town itself, now." Jasper gestured to indicate the wall, as if Cinnabar somehow might have missed it on his way out of town. "We were curious, mm? So we came to see this new wall for ourselves. We have heard such things about it, too. Interesting things, yes. Although I think I know a thing about your wall that you do not, Governor. Just one thing. Inconsequential, really.
"Alas, brothers," Jasper sighed, shrugging his shoulders and feigning disappointment, "I do not think we are welcome, even to look. Let us depart ere the Governor decides we would be better off hanging from that oak we saw a mile back, mm?"
And without another word, the eight channelers turned to leave. They did not open gateways, not here, in view of the town -- they had respect enough for its people for that much courtesy.
* * * * *
There, eight men at the gate,
Eight men in coats of black.
At the gate, leaving late;
Lost in the dark, they wait
For a time to come back.