The Arclight Saga

by C. M. Hayden

  Taro shot him a dark look. “Eat shit.”

  “Guys!” Kyra said before they could start arguing. “We’ve got more important things to deal with than this pissing contest. Just shut up for five minutes.”

  Fenn made a face. “Sorry,” he said to Taro. It wasn’t especially sincere, but at least he said it.

  “Likewise,” Taro muttered.

  Suddenly, Fenn seemed to perk up. “Wait. Raethelas! You didn’t lose it, did you?”

  Taro brandished the black metal of the Deeplight sword from his pocket. “Safe and sound.”

  “Good,” Fenn said, his voice full of relief. “The journal was about the only thing I was able to save.” He made a motion with his hand. “Can I see it?”

  Taro hesitated. “I think I’d better keep it.”

  “Come on,” Fenn said. “I’ve been meaning to cross-check the runes on the hilt with the runes in the journal. It’ll give me something to do while we hike…and I promise I’ll stop bitching.”

  Taro handed it over immediately. “That’s an offer I can’t pass up.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Northmen

  “Now that is interesting,” Fenn said as they hiked up the mountainside. He had his nose stuck in Craetos’ journal their entire walk, and was doing an impressive job of avoiding trees and rocks while his eyes were fixed on the pages. Taro walked beside him, both of them not quite as fast as Kyra. Fenn tilted the journal toward Taro, and he caught a glimpse of the page.

  Seeing it didn’t do Taro much good, as he couldn’t understand the words. Some of them were familiar, but even though he was now fluent in two forms of Deific script, the Draconic letters made the journal all but unreadable.

  “I’ve read this passage a dozen times, but I only just now understood it,” Fenn said, pointing at one of the scrawled paragraphs and reading directly from it:

  I pray that my children will understand why I’ve taken their Overlight. Mixing magics has proved a dangerous task. Each day I feel as though the powers within will tear me apart, mind and body. Still, I see the task at hand, and look on with hope. Soon this evil will be driven from our world.

  I have seen it.

  “I don’t get it,” Taro said.

  “Mixing magics,” Fenn repeated. “That’s what Craetos was doing. He was gathering fragments of each of the five lights.”

  “But why?”

  Fenn shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t think he could defeat Nuruthil without it. I don’t really know.” Fenn lowered the journal. “I’ve heard of some magisters whose templars are infused with more than one light, but it’s exceedingly rare.”

  “Like Vexis,” Taro said grimly. And Nima, he thought, but did not say.

  Fenn nodded. “The Netherlight and the Arclight. You’ve seen what can come of that. Kurian too. His templar would’ve been infused with the power of the Overlight when he was young, and when he came to the Magisterium, he’d also be given his Arclight magic.”

  Taro thought about it. “Could you get all five?”

  Kyra chimed in, glancing back at them, the loose strands of her hair billowing in the mountain air. “It would kill you,” she said. “Remember that day in the Conservatorium when I opened your templar?”

  Taro nodded. “Antherion went ballistic.”

  “Opening a templar like that, even if you know what you’re doing, is dangerous. It affects the body and soul in ways we still don’t completely understand. Doing it five times would probably leave you numb to the world or, more likely, dead.”

  Fenn lowered the journal for a moment. “There’s something I’ve always wondered: can Kurian see the future?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kyra said. “If he could, he never mentioned it.”

  “But if any of the dragons know we’re coming, shouldn’t they send some people here to greet us?” Fenn said hopefully.

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Taro said, then backtracked a bit. “Not that I’m an expert. But the way Arangathras described it, it’s not something they have much direct control over. Apparently Craetos was the only one who did. And, to be frank, I think a large number of possible futures end in us dying here in the wilderness.” Taro cleared his throat. “Besides, I got the impression that they consider Midsight sacred, I don’t think they’d use it to pick up guests.”

  They were on the last leg of the trip to the summit. The incline seemed to grow more steep, and Taro had to grab hold of roots and branches as he pulled himself up. Finally at the top, they sat and caught their breaths, taking a moment to look around at the sprawling green and white countryside.

  There were trees as far as the eye could see, valleys to the north, and more mountains to the south. The terrain wasn’t even, and there were a great many bumps and rough patches of rocks splitting through the forests, intermixed with rivers and rivulets. Light patches of bright snow dusted the tops of the trees and sat on the banks of the rivers, a contrast to the dark green of pine needles.

  Looking north, Taro saw something promising. Smoke rising from the barest hints of pointed roofs. Perhaps a town? He pointed it out to Fenn and Kyra.

  It was what they’d been hoping for, so once they’d caught their breaths, they continued down the side of the mountain toward it. They snaked through the maze of trees, slid down slippery rock faces, and crossed two shallow rivers on their way, having no other choice but to wade straight through them. Despite the air being only moderately chilly, the water was positively freezing, and Taro reasoned that it must’ve come from the tops of the snowcapped mountains nearby.

  It took two hours to make it to the source of the smoke, and as they neared, Taro saw that it was indeed a village. The construction was unlike any he’d seen before. It was like a fort built on a small hill, surrounded by a wall of pointed timber. Inside were a dozen smaller buildings, each with straw roofs, and a larger rectangular building near the back. This building was long and tall, carved with red and gold flourishes, and was equipped with its own fortifications and hoardings. Engraved into its walls were the likenesses of animals: elk, mountain lions, grizzly bears, hawks, and a dozen others.

  There was only one way into the village, a main gate being watched over by a guard standing atop a wooden watchtower. The guard wore a heavy, curved helmet that stopped just above his thick beard; it was shaped like a grizzly bear, and even had eyes and teeth painted on the top. He leaned against the ramparts, his axe propped beside him, wearing a long calling horn around his neck.

  Taro and the others crouched behind a cluster of spruces as they examined the fort.

  “Think they’re friendly?” Fenn asked, sounding a bit unsure.

  “There’s only one guard,” Taro noted.

  Kyra shook her head. “No, there are two more. See the openings in the walls?” She pointed to two small openings in the timber walls, square holes where archers could fire through.

  “I’m surprised the dragons let humans live on their land,” Taro said.

  “The dragons don’t use the lands below,” Fenn said. “Castiana flies above it, and all of their other smaller towns are built on the tops of mountains. I’ve heard that the Northmen live in Caelis Enor, but I have no idea what to expect from them.” He looked to Kyra. “What about you?”

  Kyra shrugged. “Their proper name is the Nuren, but I don’t know much more than that. I suppose we shouldn’t assume the worst, right? We need their help, after all.” She didn’t sound so sure, but stood and made a motion toward the gate.

  Taro held her by the shoulder. “I think we should wait. Guards and walls don’t usually mean ‘guests welcome.’”

  Kyra shook her head. “We’re travelers from the South, we came looking to trade, but our ship was damaged. We’re looking for supplies for our wounded, and a way back home. That’s our story. Simple.”

 
“Not a complete lie,” Fenn said begrudgingly.

  Just then, a horn sounded in the distance, followed by a thunder of galloping horses. The guard beside the gate answered with his own horn, and a party of seven men on horseback stopped in front of the gatehouse as the portcullis lifted.

  Each of them were enormous men, covered in wolf and fox pelts, leather armor with metal plates sewed into them, and all bore heavy axes or spears strapped to their backs. The horses they rode were absolute beasts, bigger than any horses Taro had seen in his life, and even they had armor covering their necks and sides.

  The armor on the men was well-used, full of nicks and slices, and their faces were dirty, as though they’d been on the road for days. Several of the riders had bucks tied to sleds behind them, as if they’d just returned from a hunt.

  The man that rode at the forefront was clearly their leader, a titan of a man with beefy arms and a scar-covered face. He had a loose, wild beard so long it touched the back of his horse’s neck.

  “Now’s the best time,” Kyra said, starting for the men.

  Taro didn’t exactly agree. In fact, the more he watched them, the more he wanted to turn around, but Kyra moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to object. She walked toward the Northmen, straight-backed, and looking confident. Taro and Fenn could do little more than follow her.

  They were noticed in an instant, and the Northmen galloped towards them, surrounding the three with their weapons drawn.

  Kyra raised her hands. Taro and Fenn followed suit. “Excuse us, we don’t mean you any harm,” she said, her eyes darting from one Northman to another. “We’re travelers from the South.”

  When the men didn’t respond, Taro leaned toward Kyra and whispered in her ear, “Maybe they don’t speak Amínnic?”

  Kyra nudged Fenn forward. “Can you talk to them?”

  “Me?” Fenn said. “I don’t speak barbarian.”

  Kyra shot Fenn a hard look, then turned her attentions back to the leader, whose face was drawn into a scowl.

  “Travelers,” she repeated, pointing to herself. “Kyra, of Endra. We’ve come to trade.”

  Moving slowly so as to not startle the men, Taro removed his aurom from around his neck. It was solid gold, and quite valuable. He approached the leader with it outstretched, and dropped it into the man’s enormous hands.

  The leader looked it over, and bit it with his gamely teeth.

  “A gift,” Taro said.

  “He doesn’t have a clue what you’re saying,” Fenn said matter-of-factly.

  Then the leader spoke, still clutching the gold aurom. His accent was hard and thick, but he certainly spoke perfect Amínnic. “We do speak your language,” he said. “And your gift is welcome, sons and daughters of Endra.”

  When he said this, there was a stir amongst his men as if they didn’t quite agree. One of them spoke up, the youngest of the group, not much older than twenty. He had a long, hard scar running from the base of his collarbone and up past his eyebrow.

  “Lokír,” the man said, staring at the leader. Taro reasoned that this was the leader’s name. “Their arrival cannot be a coincidence. King Mjolir—”

  Lokír thought for a moment, rubbing the gold medallion between his thick, dirty fingers. “We’ve never turned away weary travelers before, and we shan’t now.”

  “But—”

  “Be silent,” Lokír snapped. He frowned hard, the lines on his face creasing even more. He sized the three up. “A girl, a cripple, and a boy no more than skin and bones? They pose no threat to us. Harming them would bring shame.” He looked to his men. “Bring them inside. See them to meat and drink.”

  “This is a mistake,” the same man from before said.

  When he said this, Lokír turned his horse and glared daggers into him. As he passed on horseback, he touched his large hand to the smaller man’s chest and spoke just above a whisper.

  “Bjorn,” Lokír began, his voice as hard as ice. “Question my command in front of outsiders again, and I’ll part your head from your body.”

  The one called Bjorn returned the glare, but ultimately looked away, defeated.

  With that, Taro, Kyra, and Fenn were led through the gates. There were relieved sighs all around, but as they passed the gatehouse, Taro had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Taro looked up to Lokír, still on horseback. “Excuse me, sir, what do you call this place?”

  The large man kept his eyes forward as he rode. “Nurengard, where sits the Hall of Aruseldr and the seat of the Red King.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aruseldr, The Red Hall

  The hospitality of Lokír was more than Taro, Fenn, and Kyra could’ve hoped for. Each were given their own quarters to rest before being led to the large building near the back of Nurengard. They called it the Red Hall, due to the fact that it was constructed mostly of redwood and burnished iron; it was the only building in the village without a straw roof, instead it had a sturdy wooden one with a hard slant that almost touched the ground.

  Decorating the sides were carved figures of wolves, elk, and deer in various poses. Each engraving was carved with such precision, it was hard to believe they were made by human hands. Each animal looked as though it could spring to life at any moment.

  The hall itself was ancient, and had been refurbished and re-painted several times. There was a thick lacquer on the floors, but the walls and pillars inside were rough, aged wood collected from the forests in the countryside.

  Inside was a long table that could’ve comfortably sat fifty men, and to the right was an enormous fireplace larger than Taro’s entire bedroom back in Endra Edûn. The skinned, tied body of a deer was roasting over one of the flames, and nearby sat several cast iron cookpots. The hearth was wide, and took up almost the entire side of the hall. On the far end of the table was an enormous red chair—more a throne—carved from a single wide tree trunk, adorned with pelts and furs.

  There was a set of enormous antlers above this Red Throne, as it was called, and a dozen more decorative animal heads covering the walls of the hall. Bears and moose, foxes and elk, not to mention beasts Taro didn’t even have a name for. Hanging above the fireplace was the symbol of the Mast; even this far from Endra, the faith of the Old Gods was strong. Based on the enormous oak helm above the table, their patron god seemed to be Lorendamu the Helmsman, the god of time and circumstance. Not surprising, as Lorendamu was also the patron of the dragonkin.

  Men filed in, quickly filling the seats at the long table, but the Red Throne remained empty. Each of the Northmen were at least a head taller than Taro. Each was gruff and hard-eyed, and most sported a long, unkempt beard.

  Lokír and Bjorn were seated to their right, and Taro, Kyra, and Fenn were ushered into seats as the food was brought in. Servants brought great heaps of smoking yellow potatoes covered in sweet butter and plates upon plates of venison and fish, duck, and lamb. It was a feast unlike any Taro had ever seen. The goblets of mead were so large that he could barely lift them to drink. There were no forks to eat with, only knives and hands.

  The ornateness of the dishware caught Taro’s attention. Even the cups were carefully carved with care and precision, with images of prancing deer, soaring falcons, and tangled woodlands.

  Lokír stood and raised his goblet. His beard was so long, it touched the table even in this position.

  “As it was in the days of the Thrain,” he began, “we welcome strangers, as we ourselves were once strangers in the dragon lands. In doing this, we seek the favor of Lorendamu to ensure a bountiful hunt in the coming season.” His men did the same, and he continued, “May the Old Gods bless the stars that form us, that give us light in the darkest bout of night. That guide us through the Great Sea toward home.”

  The men answered, “From starlight we come, to starlight w
e return.”

  With that, the men began to eat, and Taro dug in as well, sensing it was expected. He had to admit, they knew how to treat their guests. Still, as he ate, he could only think about the men back at the Eventide. He knew right now wasn’t the time to bring up the subject to the Northmen, but the well-being of Lord Cassin and the warders had to be Taro’s main priority.

  When Taro glanced sideways at Kyra, he knew she was thinking the same thing, and she was barely touching the enormous charred turkey leg in front of her.

  Lokír had been watching her, too, and after swallowing down a chunk of pork, addressed her directly. “Eat,” he said, his accent seeming thicker than before. “You need some meat on you.”

  Kyra smiled sheepishly and took a bite. “You’re very kind,” she said diplomatically, after chewing her food.

  Taro looked at the Red Throne at the end of the table. “Are you not their leader?” he asked Lokír.

  The bear-like man shook his head, and tore another piece of meat off with his teeth. “The Red King is…in dispose.” From the tone of his voice, it sounded like this was all he had to say on the matter. Taro didn’t think much of it, and there continued an evening of food and drink, though it was soured by the thought of the Eventide crew.

  Despite their brutish appearance, the Northmen were surprisingly kind. When the feast ended, one of the older boys took Taro by the hearth and was talking about the proper way to skin a bear. He seemed surprised that Taro had never hunted before, and offered to take him along should he decide to stay in Nurengard a while longer.

  Kyra came and touched Taro on the shoulder. He excused himself from the conversation and met her in a corner.

  “I think they’ll help us if we explain the situation,” she said.

  Taro agreed, but just as they were about to approach Lokír, the door on the far end of the Red Hall opened. The man that limped in was a badly injured Northmen with silvery-red hair and a barrel-shaped chest. His clothes and skin were burned, his face was torn and scarred, and he staggered when he walked. Despite this, he refused to allow the guards escorting him to help him stand, and walk with determined stubbornness toward Lokír.