by R. T. Cole
“Welcome to Whitecrest, Lord Thasus,” the King said. “I imagine you enjoyed your time at Hailstone Hold?”
“Your Grace,” Thasus addressed the King respectfully, as he bowed his head. “I imagine it isn’t a crime to lay with the fine women of the North, especially when they’re so readily available.”
Cyrus smirked.
“I wanted to be sure that you weren’t attempting to go anywhere... unwarranted.”
Vandal had been right, of course. Cyrus was paranoid that Thasus would try to sneak past Whitecrest without gaining the permission of the King to travel beyond the castle.
“This is why I’ve come to see you, Your Grace. I’m in need of a visit to the Frostford. I must speak with Lord Brock.” Thasus knew this wouldn’t be enough for the King.
Cyrus shifted in his chair and looked down curiously at Thasus.
“May I ask why a man from Angelia, the Prince’s son no less, would need to speak to some Lord of a frozen fortress?”
Not willing to share sensitive information, even with the North King, Thasus attempted to move on quickly.
“As you may realize, my grandfather and Lord Brock’s grandfather were companions during the Sorcerer’s War. This message comes directly from the East King, only to be received by Lord Brock.”
“You couldn’t have just sent a sealed letter?” Cyrus asked suspiciously.
Thasus had thought of a retort to this as well. “Delivering the message in person is the honorable thing to do. It was a specific request from the King himself.”
“Have you not heard? King Victor is gone from this world.”
Thasus looked at Cyrus with bewilderment. He knew that his grandfather’s health had been poor, but did not expect this news so shortly after departing the city. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, speaking a soft prayer for King Victor.
Cyrus allowed him to finish, and then addressed him again.
“My apologies for your loss. Any dealings that I had with the man were always of a peaceful nature.”
Thasus almost scoffed at this. It was in the nature of the Nortons to keep to themselves in all matters, even when it came to relations with other parts of Areon. He couldn’t think of a time, save for once or twice in his lifetime, that Cyrus ever spoke to King Victor. Ignoring the statement, Thasus still responded respectfully.
“Thank you, Your Grace. He was a great man.”
“Yes, yes... much better than your uncle, I’d say.”
There it was. He knew it would come to this. Cyrus’s animosity towards Marc Bowlin was singular. At any moment, Cyrus would bring up the relationship between Marc and his mother.
“My own mother was continually disrespected by your uncle; yet, I remained steadfast in my dealings with the East,” Cyrus pointed out. “It’s a wonder that I haven’t sent men to attack Stoneshield in any of the years that I’ve had the power to.”
In his days as Advisor to the King, Thasus wasn’t known to mince words, and he wasn’t about to start then and there.
“I know of Celia’s relations with my uncle, Your Grace. I also know of the result of that union.” He was about to start something else entirely. “Tell me: have you ever met your mother’s bastards?”
The King fumed. Bringing up his half-brothers was not the way to gain entry into the North.
“How DARE you! Your uncle is a swine!” Cyrus was standing up now, pointing at Thasus. “If you want to get past Whitecrest, you’ll do so without my support. And let me assure you, you’ll never find the way there; not without my approval.”
The King had spoken. Thasus had botched his mission already. He felt stupid for letting Cyrus goad him into defending his family like that, but what else was he supposed to do?
The King’s guards came to the center of the room and crossed their spears, blocking Thasus from approaching the King.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, my lord. Tell your father to send a letter like a normal person. I’ll forget this incident ever transpired.”
The warning couldn’t be clearer; now Thasus had to find another way to the Frostford. He was about to turn and leave in defeat, but thought of how late it was. The trip down the mountain back to Hailstone Hold would be a frigid one. He wasn’t about to spend all night in the cold.
“Your Grace, I apologize for offending you. I will leave as you ask, but may I request a stay in the castle for tonight? It will be some time before I make it down the mountain, and the hour grows late. I will be gone by sunrise.”
Cyrus sighed, but agreed.
“Sunrise, then. I won’t allow a Lord to die in the cold.” Even as he said the words, Cyrus couldn’t believe he was saying that. Thasus was larger than any man he had ever seen; surely, he’d be able to survive the weather. Nonetheless, the King made sure to provide quarters for Thasus before retiring for the night.
Thasus spent the next hour or so, waiting. The sound of patrolling soldiers had faded, which meant they either went to sleep or just decided to stop guarding his room. Either way, he assumed that this would be the right time. Knowing full well that Cyrus would continue to be difficult, Thasus felt that he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. In this situation, only a fool would try to find the entrance to the North using only blind luck; the risk would be too great, as the person would most likely encounter a number of guards and either be killed or imprisoned. Fortunately, Thasus was no fool.
As he sat in the room, he closed his eyes and concentrated. He emptied his thoughts of everything. He wouldn’t think of his family, he wouldn’t think of being captured by Norton men, nor would he think about the gravity of his mission. He only thought of one location: the location of the secret entrance to the North.
Concentrate. Concentrate.
In his mind, he left his room. He even walked down the hall, turned a corner or two, and made his way back to the throne room.
Almost there, he thought.
He landed at the throne and paused. He concentrated harder, but wouldn’t budge from that spot.
This must be it. But where?
He used his mind to picture himself searching the old chair. He touched the top of it, running his fingers down the sides, finding his way underneath.
CLANK
He stopped, and then began feeling around the bottom of the throne again.
There!
It was a lever of some kind. This was it: the way to the North. He opened his eyes, staring at the dark wall in front of him back in his room. He stood up, and opened the door to the hall. Peeking his head outside, he made sure that the guards were truly not present. All seemed to be clear, and he made his way to the throne room again.
Once he got there, it was as quiet as it was when he searched the room earlier. One last check around the room for any intruders, besides him, and he approached the throne. Thasus bent down and reached under the chair, pulling the lever. In an instant, he heard movement. It was large and it was loud. His eyes grew with concern, but then he noticed the movement was coming from the wall of ice behind the throne. The lever had connected to some kind of door there. He knew that was where he had to go.
Suddenly, his fear of the noise turned to shock as King Cyrus walked into the room. The two men linked eyes for a moment before the King spoke up in the darkness.
“I’m a bit fascinated at this turn of events, Thasus,” he said with genuine amazement. “Surely, a Pathfinder would be able to find his way to the Frostford without any assistance... but I still doubt it.”
His tone was that of a man with nothing but a grudge. Thasus wasn’t surprised. He was prepared for whatever came next.
“Are you going to arrest me?”
The King shook his head begrudgingly. To his own surprise, he was intrigued by Thasus’s skill and wanted to see this play out.
“Go,” he said. “Deliver your message, whatever it may be. But, I warn you: take great care to take the correct road. You don’t want to end up at Rikter’s Hollow, dealing with the
Gargans.”
Thasus wanted to chuckle. Past Whitecrest, there were only two roads at the fork in the snowy path: the Fool’s March to the Ford and the Fool’s March to the Hollow. Nothing he couldn’t already navigate using his distinct Foreseer ability as a Pathfinder. He formed a roguish smile.
“I don’t think it will be a problem.”
Chapter 12
HERO OF THE SORCERER’S WAR
The city shined bright, as the sun casted its radiance over the heart of Angelia. The castle stood in glory, towering above the rest of the metropolis, but even the walls of the small houses and shops along the cobblestone displayed a glaring tinge of ivory. Hundreds of people were gathered in the town square, in order to pay respects to the man who had been more than a ruler to them. King Victor had been a “man of the people”, as some liked to call him, and would travel from time to time throughout the city to get familiar with its civilians. He even knew the people who worked the stables, as well as the farmers who cultivated so much each season. But more importantly, he fought for his people.
As a Hero of the Sorcerer’s War, he helped bring about the defeat of the most infamous enemy to the realm in all of history. In the 60 years that passed, King Victor became a legend in his own right when he formed an alliance of peace with the rest of Areon, and vowed to uphold that peace for as long as he could. In a way, it was ironic that the King passed away once the son of Magor began a campaign of war on the rest of the realm. At least, that’s what the new King was thinking.
Vandal could only watch in disbelief, as his father lay atop the pyre ready to turn into flame and ashes. The torch jerked in his hand at the thought of what he had to do. As Victor’s only son, it was his duty to light the funeral pyre and send the former King to Volsi, the Hall of Legends. It was believed that anyone worthy of this particular funeral ritual would travel there in the afterlife; otherwise, any others would find themselves buried in the crypts beneath the city.
Vandal allowed himself to chuckle under his breath for a moment, thinking how his father would relish the thought of eternal paradise while Magor burned in the fires of Mistif. Then again, Victor had always been humble when it came to his status as a hero; perhaps it was just Vandal’s wish that Magor suffered such a fate.
Returning to the moment, Vandal prepared to light the twigs underneath his father’s body. He couldn’t help but shudder before he took his steps toward the pyre, but then Andemar squeezed his arm.
“We’re here, Father,” he assured Vandal.
Andemar and his family stood right behind the East King, looking on as the torch ignited the heap of wood. It was quite a sight to behold; not only did this moment signify the end of an era for Areon, but to see the entire city voiceless out of respect was almost beautiful. It wasn’t until the flames reached his grandfather that Andemar shed the tears he was expecting.
He thought of the last words that Victor shared with him; the words that he couldn’t repeat to his own father.
Tainted blood. Will of Ragnarok.
Andemar pondered those words since the instant they were uttered, but couldn’t understand what they meant. His mind found its way to the other mystery that his grandfather presented: The Foreseer.
If anyone could explain grandfather’s words, perhaps…
He felt a tug on his sleeve, pulling him away from his thoughts.
“Are you alright, Father?”
Andemar looked into the innocent eyes of his son, reflecting on the fact that Anden was asking if he was alright. The boy was growing up fast and more mature by the day. But, if Anden was going to survive this world, especially in a time of war, he needed to be prepared for loss. In a way, Andemar was thankful that Anden and little Ginny were there with him. The upcoming war would ensure that they would hear news, good and bad, from all corners of Areon; though, to experience loss so close to home, as difficult as it was, could be considered a learning experience. Andemar didn’t fully believe that, however.
“I’m alright, son,” he said, holding back further tears. “My grandfather and I were very close, so it’s still painful.”
Anden nodded sullenly.
“Great-grandfather was a good man. He was a hero.”
Andemar smiled at the simplicity of the remark.
A good man and a hero.
“Yes he was,” Andemar agreed. “We should always remember that.”
His son nodded and hugged him tightly. Andemar didn’t want to let go, particularly at that moment when all he could think about was how fragile and short life could be. Not one to dwell on morbid thoughts, he spoke softly to his children.
“You should give your grandfather a hug as well. I’m sure it will make him feel better.”
“Father… should we bow to him, now that he’s the new King?”
“Plenty of time for that, but for now, a hug will do,” Andemar assured his daughter.
While his children hugged the new East King, Andemar returned to his thoughts about the Foreseer in the city. Many times over, he contemplated visiting the fortuneteller, wondering if the words his grandfather spoke could be deciphered. Even though a Foreseer could supposedly see the future as a Watcher, he wasn’t sure if that would help in attempting to discover the meaning behind the words. A Foreseer’s power as a Pathfinder, as well as a Sensor, wouldn’t help much either. Victor seemed so convinced that this Foreseer could aid in the war, but Andemar was starting to really doubt this claim.
He quickly became distracted by the sound of the city bells as the funeral neared the end. As the blaze began to rise in height, the people could be heard crying, even over the clear ringing.
RING… RING… RING.
Vandal looked on triumphantly, proud of his father and proud to have been son to such a legend. Though, he felt that he could’ve done more to honor his father. He mulled over his past decisions to keep his sons out of dangerous affairs, regretting that he should’ve groomed them more. They could all fight and defend themselves, to be sure, but when it came to making the hard choices, he felt that the boys were ill prepared for the war ahead.
Realizing that he was possibly being too hard on himself, Vandal steeled his nerves. This war was the first to occur in years; his sons would learn how to take care of themselves, now more than ever. He then vowed to himself that he would win the war against Kelbain, in honor of his father’s legacy.
As Andemar approached, Vandal sent Anden and Ginny off to their mother so he could speak to his son alone.
“I hope it was okay to send them to you,” Andemar said.
Vandal smiled and nodded.
“Ginny told me that she would bow to me tomorrow,” Vandal whispered. His son lowered his head in amusing defeat and gave a soft chuckle.
“You know, this is what he’d want: to see us still being ourselves and laughing,” Andemar observed of his grandfather.
Vandal responded with a bittersweet smile.
After the ritual, Vandal and his son walked together towards the castle. Vandal was still troubled.
“I’m worried, son.”
“About what? Kelbain? Thasus and Rudi?” Andemar inquired.
“Everything,” Vandal replied. “We will defeat Kelbain, I have promised myself that much. But, I find myself worrying more about your brothers than anything else. I trust in them, but…”
“You’re a father,” Andemar pointed out. “You’re our father. If you weren’t worrying about us, then you’d be doing something wrong.”
“This is true,” Vandal conceded. “Thasus is the best fighter I’ve ever seen, and I know he can handle himself in the North. But, that place is unpredictable.”
Andemar made a face that implied agreement, but tried consoling his father anyway.
“Once he makes it to the Frostford, he’ll be fine. Lord Brock will aid us. You have to believe in that.” His father gestured his acknowledgement.
“And Rudi will be fine too,” Andemar stated, anticipating his father’s next thought. He knew tha
t Rudi was always treated differently while they were growing up, which is why he was impressed that his father tasked Rudi with such an important mission in the first place. But, he knew his father had a tendency to focus on self-doubt.
“You’re right,” Vandal apologized. “I believe in them both.” He placed a hand on Andemar’s shoulder. “Thank you for always being the voice of reason, son.”
Looking to change the subject to something more lively, Vandal pried his son about the soldiers he was training.
Andemar had wandered off pensively. He wanted to tell his father of the Foreseer and the words that his grandfather spoke.
Tainted blood. Will of Ragnarok.
“What is it, son?”
Snapping out of it, Andemar turned to his father, ready to divulge what he had heard…
No. He wouldn’t betray his grandfather’s dying wish.
“Just thinking about what I’m going to teach the troops next,” he lied.
“Hah! Already comfortable with your new post, is that it?” Vandal exclaimed.
Andemar hesitantly agreed. He felt terrible for keeping anything from his father, but he wanted to find things out on his own first. It wasn’t the right time to discuss these matters.
When will be the right time?
Andemar wasn’t sure if he was asking himself that question in regards to speaking with his father, or about visiting the Foreseer. Suddenly, he noticed that they were about to pass by the blacksmith’s shop. Directly across from there was the shop of the fortune teller; the shop of the Foreseer. He gravitated toward the shop, almost aimlessly.
“Be right back,” he said.
