by David Bokman
The Portmaster gave a confused nod.
“Get out of here, then!”
“Zena, there’s a knife… Are you okay?”
“You and you,” she said, pointing at the guards, “get my brother out of here. Now.”
Zena was not heading out of the building. Instead, she made her way down to the turmoil, her guards close behind. A young woman holding a dagger, upon spotting the Townmaster, rushed towards her. Before she had time to attack, Zena grabbed her arm, twisted it, and let the dagger drop to the floor. Keeping the young woman’s arm restrained, Zena thrust her knee into the woman’s chest, leaving her gasping for air on the ground. The Townmaster stepped over her, deeper into the chaos. Her guards could handle the woman from here. She dealt with a few other criminals in a similar fashion, none of them getting especially close to harming her further. This damn knife is slowing me down, she thought, but against common bandits, that was of no major concern. She was in the middle of helping a wounded guard up from the ground when another shout came. This time, it was one of the guards shouting.
“Fire!”
Zena looked up, instantly forgetting about the guard she was assisting. The voice had spoken true; a burning liquid was spreading across the floor of the temple, and spreading fast. There must be bandits outside, too. Throwing fire bombs into a temple? Do they even know what this place is? Now was no time to discuss the moral implications of burning a temple, though. Now was the time to make sure you did not burn with it. Whatever this liquid was, it proved potent; within seconds it had engulfed a square perhaps twenty feet on each side, and it showed no signs of stopping. “The main exit’s gone!” Zena shouted. “Back entrance, everybody! Quick!”
At this point, many visitors had already made it out of the temple or been slain, and many of the remaining ones were in bad shape, having either been trampled or stabbed in the chaos. Stopping to coordinate the effort, Zena finally became aware of the strange pain caused by the knife. It did not feel much different from being punched, if the punch was a constant, pulsating one originating from inside her stomach. She would worry about that later, though.
Most of the bandits saw this as their chance to flee the scene, and those close to a window quickly capitalized on the opportunity to jump out while Zena and the others were busy with the fire. This had the upside of making evacuation easier, but letting the bandits get away with their lives left a sour taste in Zena’s mouth. We’ll take care of them soon enough, she reassured herself, ushering the civilians towards the back exit. All in all, it seemed only a handful had succumbed to the flames. A terrible way to die, but at least she had not lost any more guards to it.
Outside, tensions were still high. Guardsmen were running around in every direction trying to make sense of the situation, to little success. Whoever orchestrated this attack seemed to have gotten away, at least for now. A group of guards quickly gathered around the Townmaster, leaving the fleeing commoners to fend for themselves. The Townmaster, however, seemed more concerned with the temple than her own well-being. It is not the temple I am worried about, she thought. It is how a burning temple will make me look.
“Townmaster, ma’am?” asked one of the guards. “Are you okay? We should get you to a physician!”
“It’s nothing,” she said. After closer consideration, and another punch of pain in her gut, she added, “Perhaps send a physician to my tower, just to be sure. I will not visit a common infirmary.”
“Of course, ma’am. Let us escort you back to the tower at once.”
She took a final look at the temple and tried to locate any of the perpetrators. A fool’s errand. “Very well, we head back. And find me whoever did this. I’ll need a meeting with the Portmaster, and the commander of… both commanders. Tomorrow morning. All of them. Understood?”
“Certainly, Townmaster.”
Who the hell attacks a temple? she thought, as the guards escorted her back to her tower. Who in Haara’s name is stupid enough to spit in the face of our oldest tradition? They will die for this. They all will.
⧫ CHAPTER XXIII ⧫
The heralds stayed in Vestrok for two nights, but as soon as they departed, they wished they had stayed a third. The warmth of a bed and the taste of an ale would both be sorely missed on the road, but staying in this northern town would get them nowhere. They had not, despite Cadwell’s jokes, found any ice wolf riders to bring their message to Attila in Kardh’Ao, but they had found an old man who apparently specialized in owls. According to him, they were just as good as ravens, if not better, when it came to delivering messages. None of the heralds had ever seen an owl messenger before, but they had little choice but to trust the man. They paid him a handsome fee to keep his mouth shut, wrote a short letter detailing their discoveries regarding the dormant rift, and sent the owl on its way.
They had also come across a woman selling gloves. She claimed to be forty years of age, but her face looked like it belonged to someone almost twice her age, all wrinkled and dry. She had thick, long, braided hair, like almost all the inhabitants they had met. Presumably for warmth, thought Samson. Or perhaps it is just the preferred style up here. The gloves she sold, however, were certainly for warmth more than for style. Each pair of gloves looked like they had required an entire sheep’s worth of wool to knit, and while they looked unevenly crafted and sporadically dyed, they also looked like an absolute necessity if the heralds were to go through with their plan to travel further north. When paying for the gloves, however, the heralds met an obstacle.
“Don’t want coin,” said the woman.
“Sorry?” The Dart kept her silver-filled hand open.
“I don’t use coin. Can’t eat coin.”
“You can use the coin to get a meal from the tavern, though.”
“I don’t go near that place.”
“So what do you want, then?”
“Anything you can spare that is of equal value to these gloves.”
“We can spare coin,” said Cadwell, his voice curt and brusque.
“Don’t want coin,” the woman repeated.
The Dart sighed. “Anyone got anything they can spare, anything that happens to share its value with four pairs of knitted gloves?”
“I’m already low on rations, I’m out of rope, and she’s not getting my broadsword.”
Sam shook his head. “Nothing that we don’t need ourselves, no. I’m not really a big spender.”
“Na?”
“I don’t think…” She checked her pockets, found an item she had all but forgotten, and said, “Actually, answer this: what is your opinion on magic?”
Cadwell had still been laughing when they left the general store, carrying new rations, rope, and other supplies. “Remind me again what the price of an arcane scroll is, arcanist? Oh, don’t tell me! I know, it’s four pairs of gloves, isn’t it?”
“It was of no use to me anymore! I’ve learned all I could from that scroll. Besides, it is an extremely simple spell; even I can manage it somewhat efficiently, so it won’t cause them any trouble. And unless she’s an arcanist it won’t do her much good anyway! It’s really just a trinket.”
“You have to admit though,” said Mae, not trying especially hard to hide her smile, “that it is a rather odd trade.”
“What was the scroll about?”
“Mae, you remember that trick I did back at the gates of Kardh’Ao? Changing Jaio’s hair color? That’s what the scroll was about, roughly. I’m sure proper arcanists can do a lot more than change someone’s hair color without fainting, though.”
“So pretty harmless, at least.”
“You should practise it!” said Sam. “Change my hair color! I’ve grown bored of this sand color, anyway. Make it… white! Like snow, that’d be fitting.”
“Sam, I—”
“He’s right,” said Mae, “you should practise, or you’ll never get better. Go too long without casting the spell, and you’ll forget it to the point where you’ll need the scroll again.”<
br />
“Right here? In public?”
“These northmen don't seem to care much about magic, anyway. If everyone shares the views of the glove-woman, you’re probably free to do whatever you want as long as you’re not hurting anyone. I must say, I prefer this approach to magic.”
Florianna sighed, and locked eyes with Samson. “It’s on you if this goes wrong,” she warned, before getting to work.
To the others, it looked as if the young arcanist was trying to solve some sort of advanced riddle in her head, twisting and turning the problem in her mind. After a few seconds, it seemed the riddle was beginning to get solved, and Samson’s hair began shifting from yellow to whiteish to white. After ten or so seconds, not a yellow strand of hair remained. “There you go!” said Mae. “Now make half of it black.”
“What?” said Sam. “No I… Na, there is no risk this becomes permanent, right?”
“Some risk, I think,” she said, her voice a bit strained from maintaining the spell. Once again, it looked like she began solving a puzzle in her mind, but this time it took a good ten seconds before any progress started showing. Slowly, very slowly, strands of Samson’s white hair began turning grey, and then black. When perhaps a quarter of his hair had turned to black, Florianna let out a gasp of exhaustion, and fell to her knees. Samson’s hair instantly reverted to its normal yellow color.
“You alright?”
“I’m… It’s fine.” Florianna was breathing heavily between her words. “I’ve just… modifying spells is tricky, especially without the scroll. And it’s… When it’s life or death, I do it on instinct, which makes it easier. Now that I have to focus on it…”
“You did good. Keep practising. Consider Samson your personal canvas.”
“Consider me what?”
“Anyway, ale, anyone?”
They had departed a few hours after sunrise the following day, without their horses. The terrain had already become tricky for their steeds south of Vestrok, and north of it, they would only lose time and food bringing them along. When they asked the inhabitants of Vestrok which path to take north, many of them looked confused, some almost impressed. They had been told to start on a path leading east, that would after a few hours turn north, and keep going north almost all the way up to the mountains. The inhabitants, true to their straightforward nature, made no secret of how perilous the path was. “It is a cold death,” said one of the hunters. “Even for us, who have lived here all our lives. It sneaks up on you, and when you realize you’ve gone too far, it’s too late. Even now, when it’s not winter, people die up there. Going anywhere near the mountains is a fool’s errand.”
Feeling about as safe as fish in a fishnet, the heralds bid farewell to the hunter and embarked on the path eastward. “So, where are we going?” asked Na. “Vanessa said the other Herald she had met was going north of Vestrok, right? That doesn’t really give us a clear destination.”
“Whatever this Atlas is, I think it’s well hidden,” said Mae. “So I’d imagine it’s somewhere in the mountains.”
“They look dangerous.”
“Not really. The Cold Peaks are probably less dangerous than the stories give them credit for. It’s a mountain range spanning less than a hundred leagues, and if you know what you’re doing, they should be easy enough to navigate.”
“Sounds a lot like you’re speaking from personal experience.”
“My path has taken me there once or twice in the past, yes.”
Samson’s face was adorned with a nervous look. “I don’t much like this.”
“Can I ask a personal question, Sam?” said Mae.
“Of course.”
“Why are you here? You don’t seem to share the same interest for the rifts as Florianna or I, and unlike Cadwell, you won’t get executed if this mission is not successful. You could just… leave, couldn’t you? Not that I want you to, of course, but… why stay?”
“I…” Samson took a moment. “I don’t know where I’d go or what I’d do if I left. I don’t really have anything to go back to in Grensby; the only thing keeping me there was Alf. I’m sure I could get my job in the tavern back if I wanted to, but it wouldn’t feel… right.”
“Kardh’Ao, then?”
“I hated that place. Too big and too… hostile.”
“Quite right,” agreed Cadwell.
“So as sad as it is to admit, you people are really the only ones I know, and as long as I stay with you, I don’t have to worry about what to do next. I suppose that’s why I keep tagging along.”
Mae’s face seemed to soften up somewhat, and she walked a few steps closer to Samson, giving him a quick pat on the back. “And you’re always welcome to travel with us, Sam. Now let’s go find this damned Atlas – the north is colder than I remember.”
Everything seemed to happen slower in the north. Whereas the south had its quick, fervent rain, the north, especially north of Vestrok, had its slow, methodical, almost calming snow. The people seemed slower, too. More relaxed, in spite of their living situation. Animals and wildlife seemed unhurried too, and it did not take long until this aura of serenity grasped the heralds. Perhaps it's’ the cold, thought Na. Maybe it’s slowing everything down. I would almost like it, if the cold wasn’t so… cold. Whatever the reason, the slow atmosphere was halting their progress somewhat, and it was not made better by the terrain, which was almost unnegotiable in some places. Slippery, jagged rocks and a path filled with holes and uneven surfaces forced the heralds to walk with half-steps.
“One more of these damn holes in the road and I’m turning back to Kardh’Ao and planting my head on the execution block,” said Cad amidst a storm of curses.
“They’d probably need two blocks for your thick skull, though,” said Mae.
“That’s okay, they won’t need one for yours, I’ll take care of that right here.”
“Friends!” said Samson, unsure whether the words were jokes or threats. “I’m sure the road will get better soon, and we can stop as often as we want. It’s not like waiting an extra day will—”
“Look!” said Na, pointing to somewhere in the distance, further down the road. “Another rift!”
Cad stopped, squinted his eyes, and quickly gave up. “How the hell do you keep spotting them before Sam does? Are you some sort of aeni in disguise?”
“She’s an arcanist, and the rifts are magical. We’ve been over this, Cad.”
“They’re magical, according to you. Whatever. Let’s check it out; the sooner we can leave this frozen hellscape, the better.”
In the time it took for the heralds to reach the rift, another group of people had already made their way to it. Upon seeing the heralds approach, one of the group’s three members, a broad-nosed man, held up his hand in greeting. “Who goes there?”
Cadwell put up his arm in response. “Herald Churchcross. Me and my colleagues are on an expedition regarding these rifts. We’ll take it from here.”
“Herald?” asked the broad-nosed man.
“We come from Kardh’Ao, do you know of it?” tried The Dart.
“I know of Vestrok, and I know of several villages up in these parts. That’s about it. What’s it mean being a Herald, then?”
The heralds quickly looked amongst themselves. What the hell does it actually mean? Mae asked herself.
“Hi! Herald Na.” Florianna stepped forward. “Kardh’Ao is a city in the south. They sometimes name adventurers as heralds and give a mission for them to accomplish. The title is supposed to ensure nothing or nobody comes in the way of them accomplishing their mission.”
“I see, I see. And we are currently in your way?”
“We hope you are not, no,” said Cadwell.
“Well I’m very sorry, but up here in the north, we don’t have any heralds or noblemen or kings. Just people and traditions. And allow me to recite one of our most sacred traditions to you: finders keepers. This rift is ours, you go find yourselves another one, heralds.”
“What do y
ou mean, yours? It’s not a coin, it’s nothing you can just put in your pocket and walk away with.”
“We found it, so we decide who gets to see it. That’s how it works up here.”
Cadwell put a hand on his hilt. “Well we—”
“Cad, let’s not,” said The Dart. “We’re not interested in claiming this rift for ourselves. All we want to do is look at it, measure it, see if anything stands out. It will take us maybe five minutes. I’d offer to pay you, but I’m not sure you want our coin.”
“You don’t seem to understand, you south—”
“I come from Istig.”
The broad-nosed man brooded for a moment. “Now that place I do know of. But you’re not from there. How did you hear of it? I doubt it’s mentioned in many of you southerners' books.”
“There is a certain type of ice,” The Dart continued, “that can only be found north of the Northern Horizon. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, perhaps even seen it?”
“Undying Ice, yes. Seen it once, why?”
The Dart, rummaging through her bag, said, “I just so happen to have a piece of such ice in my possession… Ah! Here we are.” She took a small glass vial from her backpack and threw it to the man. Inside it was a piece of deep-blue ice, perhaps three inches long and a single inch wide. Even though the northerner was wearing thick gloves and the Undying Ice rested in a vial, he visibly recoiled when touching the vial, having to change his grip to find a place warm enough to touch. “How did you—”
“Like I said, I’m from Istig.”
