A whirl of air blew through the alley, temporarily clearing the steam, and for the first time she saw Barhall for who he truly was. Contrary to first appearance, there was a good deal of differences between him and Nandor. While Nandor’s face was bearded and wild, he always kept clean—even during their travels, like that of a proud wolf tending its furry coat. Barhall, on the other hand, stank of booze, and there was discarded scraps of food and questionable colors tangled in his mess of hair. He was not the filthiest man she had ever seen, but he was unquestionably close. The differences did not stop there. Both were large men, but Barhall was considerably larger in the midsection than Nandor, and smaller around the shoulders. His eyes were darker, and not as inquisitive, and his face was more round and bumbling rather than sharp and chiseled. After looking at him for a good moment, she had no idea how her mind had ever confused him for Nandor. Perhaps the pain had simply obscured her vision, or perhaps it had been wishful thinking.
Either way, the harshness of reality hit her, and she found tears forming in her eyes. Dobry…
Barhall frowned, and the look did not fit his lumbering features. “Do you cry for the boy?”
She nodded, and found that she could not speak. Although she had only known Dobry for a short period of time, he had proven himself to be a good man. Protective, smart, and kind. He did not deserve to die at the hands of a scoundrel like Gevor. He deserved so much better.
Barhall let out a deep sigh, and then leaned against the wall. “This world is not fair, little girly. Most at the college call me dumb, but I have learned that much. In my years serving the college, I have seen men graduate who spat on me and could barely spell their own names, and I have seen men fail who were smart and kind, but had the wrong set of opinions. People die who should live, people thrive who should die, and the world goes on. Don’t try to make sense of it all,” he advised. “I find it just becomes maddening when I do.”
She nodded again, trying to hold back more tears. There will be a time and a place to morn for Dobry, and to avenge him, but now is not it.
“Will you still search for Nandor?”
At last, she found words. “Yes. I must.”
“Then I will help,” Barhall proclaimed, and pulled her to her feet. “Come now, no tears, no crying. We have a task,” he spoke simply, and half-dragged her out of the alley. “You said you were following a trail?”
“An aura,” she corrected.
“Ah. Ok. Whatever. Do your mystic work, and lead the way. I will be your guard,” he stated, attempting to broaden his shoulders and suck in his gut. But if anything, his belly only stuck out a notch further.
She rolled her eyes. “I-it’s not mystic power…” she began to explain. Then she looked up at the janitor. His eyes were blank. He did not care. “Yeah, okay. I’ll find the aura,” she wiped the tears away from her eyes and secured the goggles to her face. The road was empty, which made her work easier. It did not take long for her to find the silvery-blue trace. “I think I’ve found it…” she uttered to Barhall as she walked over to it. “But it is faint, and I have to keep my eyes on it.”
“I will clear a path if anyone gets in your way.” Barhall said, and gave her a push, as if saying she should begin. She glanced backwards with disapproval. He was being far too handsy, but if Barhall noticed the look, he did not appear to acknowledge it. Perhaps it was just the way he interacted. Gruff, and uncouth. But then again, perhaps there was more to his story then he let on.
Suddenly she doubted her new companion. Was he helping out of altruism, or did he have another motive? In her brief experience, few people were truly so kind. Benjfrost, Gevor, even Dobry, she suspected, had a hidden reason for his actions. “You said you were a friend of Nandor?” she asked.
“Oh, yes! A good friend. We used to drink together back in his college years,” he confirmed.
Before returning her gaze to the aura, she looked Barhall over again. He did not seem like the type to lie, and his words were too simple to be anything but honest, but she still felt a questioning sense of apprehension, and it did not let go. “Why are you helping me? Is it just because he is your friend?”
“Um, yes.” There was a long pause. Too long of a pause. Nix instinctively clenched her good fist, unsure of what she would do if she found him lying.
“Is that it?”
His eyes suddenly darted to the ground, deep in shame. “U-um… no. Also, I was told that I would be removed from the college soon. After the loss at the war, they don’t have the funds to continue paying me… but if Nandor was back, and I helped find him… perhaps…” his voice faded away, and he did not meet her eyes.
Ah, suddenly she understood, he is out of a job. Probably the only job he has ever had in his life. He is desperate. “If Nandor is alive, I am sure he will do what he can to help you,” she offered.
Barhall nodded, “I know. Nandor was always kind to me.”
She looked back to her unlikely companion. There was a sadness in his eyes, and a simpleness on his face—but it was not the simpleness of idiocy, it was the simpleness of honesty, and kindness. Occasionally, when the light hit him just right, he appeared more than a janitor. In another life, he might have gone far. I can trust him, she knew.
She lowered her eyes back to the street, and followed Nandor’s warped aura.
***
The aura led to the city gates. Nix exchanged a look with Barhall. “Do you own a set of skis?”
He shook his head, confirming her fears. Without some form of powered skis to utilize, the large man would be at the end of the line. To travel in the wild without the miraculous invention was to invite all sorts of trouble. Wild animals such as dire wolves, bears, yetis, and other creatures could easily catch a human without skis. In some places the snow was so deep and unpacked that without a set of skis a man would be hard-pressed to even walk. Then there was the cold and the distance to consider—she only had her little tent, and did not desire to share it with a veritable stranger if the search for Nandor turned into a multi-day journey.
Reluctantly, she voiced her doubts, “Without powered skis, it would be unwise for you to continue.”
“But I want to help!” Barhall protested.
“There’s too much danger in the wild. You could get trapped in a deep snow drift, and you would never be able to keep up with me. And the beasts could catch you…” she let her voice trail off. She had no wish to dishearten his good-natured attitude, but at the same time, she felt she was ready to travel alone.
Too many people had already suffered due to her quest. A quest that was, by the measure of all reasonable people, hopeless. Grandmaster Forojen had given her a small supply of coin, and it was probably enough to secure a cheap set of steam-powered skis, but then she would have nothing left for emergencies. No, she thought firmly, it is time that I travel alone. It is time that I face whatever end is in store for me. Death, or more sorrow. I am ready.
“Barhall,” she spoke his name to calm him, “I can travel alone from here. If Nandor is alive, I will tell him of how you helped me get through the city, and how you saved me from Gevor. Your good deeds will not be forgotten, but here is where we must part.”
The large man let out a deep sigh, and thoughtfully scratched his protruding belly. “Oh, okay. If that is how you see it, but I will worry about you. I have heard that there are many dangers in the wild. I think you could use someone like me to help protect you.”
“It isn’t that I wish to dismiss you—and I am thankful for all you have done, I just think it is time. I have skis, and I know how to travel quick and safe. Nandor taught me himself. I will be okay.” She reached out and patted his hand reassuringly.
And if I am not okay, there isn’t much left for me in this world anyway, she added in her thoughts, but was too wise to voice it.
“If you were taught how to survive in the wilderness by Nandor, I suppose you are already in good hands.” At last, Barhall seemed to accept her words. “But promise me tha
t you will return. Even if Nandor is dead. You will return.”
She bit back an urge to speak the truth. I can’t make that promise. In fact, I’m not even sure if I mean to return. If Nandor is dead… what’s the point? Everything I’ve done… Dobry’s death… Her head fell into a whirl of dark thoughts, but through the mist of it all, she somehow managed to form a gentle lie. “I promise, I will return, and I will be safe. You have nothing to fear, Barhall, but I am humbled by your concern.”
And with that, she mounted her skis, and departed from the gates of Froj.
Chapter 13: Darkness for Light
The Ice Rangers are the guardians of the rural lands around the clockwork cities. A rugged organization of warriors, hunters, and guardians who safeguard the wildlands from encroaching on the civilized territories of men. Their close-knit organization receives funding from locals, who value their protection immensely. They are almost universally loved, and regarded as heroes, and romanticized for their daring deeds.
—Common Knowledge Volume II
Nixie skied slowly around the mountain, in utter silence. The soft crunching of snow beneath her skis was the only sound, and it wrought old memories with it. The way Nandor had skied—so elegant and mystical. So proud and strong.
Her own technique was significantly lacking in comparison, but she was still a decent skier, and she had only gotten better during her travels. The aura she followed was gradually becoming stronger as she went, and she knew she was fast approaching whatever end awaited.
She was struck with more strange sights as she followed the trail. The blue-silvery trace became more silver, and the silver diverged along paths as if it had traveled on its own, like it was a separate entity entirely. Gradually, she felt that she understood.
Nandor’s aura had not changed, it had simply been tarnished by the aura of another person. Perhaps his kidnapper. She was becoming more and more certain of it. The brilliant blue of Nandor was still there, it was merely intermingled with the silver aura of someone else, making it appear dulled and grey in comparison to his usually lively color.
But the discovery only wrought more questions than it answered. Who’s taken Nandor? Why are there more and more silvery trails, as if the kidnapper has gone back and forth many times? Is it a friend, or a foe? Considering the enemies Nandor had made, a foe seemed more likely. She kept her dagger close at all times, and she still had Mikja’s longsword on her back, but she did not plan to use it. She knew her own limits. She would fight if she had to, but at the end of the day, she was no warrior. If Nandor was captured by someone cruel, she would likely die at the captor’s hands. She both understood and accepted the possibility with an inner shrug of indifference.
The trail did not lead down the mountain, instead, it trailed along the outskirts of the walled city. There were scatter homes with small ice fields of farmland, and sparse evergreen trees. The people who lived in these parts were cut from a different cloth than those who lived in the city. They fended for themselves, and grew and hunted their own food. A few people waved at her as she passed, and she found the feeling quite odd. It was as if the loss Froj had suffered during the battle mattered little to these country citizens. Perhaps they are the smart ones, she thought for a moment, before reassessing the thought, no, not smart, just ignorant. If a goblin swarm comes, or a barbarian clan, or even just a particularly large monster, they’d all be dead or homeless within a night.
Yet, at the same time, there was a simple pleasantness to the mountain country land. Even during dark thoughts, she nearly found a smile drift to her lips when she saw a mammoth contained in a small yard, being fattened up for slaughter. There were woolly sheep as well, and woolly goats, and even the occasional shaggy bull and shaggy horse, although few rode on horseback since the invention of powered skis.
Nandor had been too wounded to travel this far by himself, Nix knew—even with his nearly supernatural fortitude. But if he had been able to pick a place to crawl away to die, this was not a bad place to choose. It was relaxed, comforting, simple and honest land. Small, independent families called it their home, but there was enough taste of wilderness near the edges to find relief in. A man such as Nandor—a rugged nomad who spent more time in the wild than in the city, he would find peace in such a place.
From the little Nix could see, the people were kind, and unassuming, and the noise was far less than within the city walls, although there were still steam-works and clockwork machinery, it was far less obtrusive, and the air was far more fresh.
For a few hours she traveled through the country land. The mountain of Froj, and indeed, the three separate mountains that all of the clockwork cities of men were built upon were large—enormous and wide—not sharp, pointed peaks, but long, arduous extensive and widespread. It allowed for a diverse landscape within a short amount of time, from ice shrubs to large trees, from city to farmland. The ice fields where most food was grown was far below the mountain, near the paradise valley and newly grown green forest, but the mountain countryside still produced enough food to stabilize itself, on most days. Even with as hard as it was to grow crops.
Eventually, she was brought a little further down the mountain, into the woods a ways. The irregular trail turned to a packed pathway through the trees, and she found that she no longer needed to use the goggles to follow the auras, but she kept them secured to her eyes just in case.
The day turned to dark and strange shadows played with her imagination as she followed the isolated path. Her injuries began to feel doubled as the night became colder, and soon she realized that a wiser person would have set up camp. But she felt she was close to finally coming to an answer, and therefore she could not rest.
A cottage stood at the end of the pathway. It was built with stone and painted in all sorts of decorative colors. There was a swing in the front lawn and a hatchery and a shed where a hunter could work to skin his animals. Toys of tiny clockwork tinker-soldiers littered the ground, and stone-chalk drawings covered the house with the artwork of a child’s wild imagination.
This did not seem like the place of a kidnapper.
Except that there was a foul smell the closer she approached, and it sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if the warm, homey place had recently been corrupted by some foul, unfeeling force of evil.
She quietly dismounted from her skis, and then found her dagger, and held it tight. She approached the wooden door slowly. There was no warmth coming from the inside, nor noises of family conversation and laughter. There was only the feeling of dread, and endless isolating cold.
Nandor, what have you gotten yourself into?
The next question was just as hard to answer—to knock, or to enter unannounced? Her first instinct was to barge inside and deal with the consequences as they came, but after a second more, she realized that such an action might not be so keen.
Perhaps it was just a family home—the house of a hunter and his wife and his children. Perhaps she had been following the wrong aura the entire time—it was certainly possible. She had never noticed Nandor’s distinctive blue, but that was because it had been obscured, wasn’t it? That and Forojen’s goggles were not as effective as Nandor’s spectacle.
There was no way to be sure. No right answer accept to act.
She lifted her trembling hand, and knocked.
Silence greeted her.
She knocked again.
Several moments passed.
Nothing.
Her hand fumbled for the door knob, and gave it a light twist. The unoiled hinges creaked as it slowly opened. The room was almost dark save for several flickering candles. The fireplace had not been lit in days. The steam warmer was smashed to pieces.
But none of that made her shiver in uncontainable dread.
The blood, however, did.
It was everywhere. A red paste of both fresh and old dried blood sloshed on the stone ground—so much it was at least an inch deep. The walls were splashed in smears of scarlet death. And the
smell… bodies were piled at one corner of the small home. They filled two beds with drenched bloodied sheets. Men, women… parts of legs and arms had shifted out of place, splashing as they fell to the pool of blood on the floor. Half-rotted and frozen human organs were scattered erratically around the kitchen, and tools for cutting and slicing were stained red, just beyond reach.
And there—at the opposite side of the room, was Nandor.
He was almost entirely naked, and he looked nothing like how he had on the day of his disappearance. He was unmoving, but it was more than that—it was as if he had been… changed. Regrown, even. His normally robust skin was pale and soft as baby flesh, and where there should have been massive scars from his recent wounds, there were only soft, pinkish lines.
His body was the one clean object in the room. No blood maimed him—it even looked like he had been cleaned recently. It was as if he was a polished trophy, or a prized possession, carefully tended while the house fell to death and ruin.
Nixie’s eyes darted from Nandor’s body to the pile of corpses, to the strange organs and tools on display. My god… what—who—could some sort of monster cause so much carnage? A murderer? Why would they want Nandor?
She took a slow step into the home, causing the half-frozen blood to crack and wash over her crisp blue boots, and sending a ripple throughout the room. The smell of death consumed her, and she nearly lost her dinner.
“Nandor?” she softly called into the abyss. “Can you move?”
His body did not as much as flinch.
“Nandor, please…” Tears formed, but she still held her dagger steady. Whoever—whatever had caused this… it was not human.
Her eyes darted nervously around the room—she was alone with the dead. Perhaps the killer was away.
She took another step towards Nandor, and reached outwards with her wounded hand. His body was deathly cold—almost frozen, but he felt oddly whole. Before he had disappeared, he was missing almost half of his blood, now, it was as if it had been impossibly replenished. “Who did this to you?” The words dripped softly from her lips as tears trickled down her cheeks.
The Crystal College Page 9
