Chapter Fifty-Six: Fruitful Descent

  The soft breeze blew through the muted grey tundra. The sun’s golden rays framed the windmill on the town’s western edge as it set beyond the Greyspire Mountains.

  There, from beyond the creaking blades of the windmill, a brown-haired, pudgy man rode upon a steed in the same shade of the coming night. To his side, in a casual, measured, domesticated gait, was a golden-furred canine, likely a Caulcor Hound—curiously, a noticeable degree larger than what was common of its breed.

  While sauntering into town, the man munched on a collection of pine nuts and berries—freshly ripe and succulent—his lethargic gaze landing on the sign in the centre, Jokanek. The town, which marked the final outpost in the western part of the empire’s Agurdia province, was a mere two-hour journey on horseback to the Greyspire mountain pass.

  Contrary to typical expectations, the man did not immediately head towards the town stable; instead, his eyes seemed to be engrossed in something unseen in front of him. He dismounted as he strode towards the town centre, towards the podium where a town crier would have graced the inhabitants with his or her tuneful, or perhaps grating, voice.

  There lay a noticeboard just outside an unassuming cottage, one that housed a modest sect of the Eldeitian adventurers’ guild—now all but an extension of the church and the governing authorities of the empire.

  Where the bounties hung.

  The stout man examined the list, which featured drawings of different faces in charcoal and ink. Names of the most notorious outlaws and miscreants on this side of the empire, packs of goblins to be exterminated, a notice on a drake’s nest just northwest of the town, terrifying the island settlements on the lake.

  His gaze then followed the board’s contents, and he briefly focused on the picture of a young man, aged around seventeen or eighteen, according to the descriptions that lay in ink.

  An imperceptible grin flashed over the man—if anyone were paying attention to this inconspicuous visitor. Then, a mere second later, he turned away from the board, guiding his nightly steed by the reins towards the town’s stables.

  Upon his approach to the stables, a guard moved towards him, a barely perceptible shift in the stout man’s form suggesting surprise at the visitor.

  “Need a place for your dog? Seems like a friendly one,” the guard beamed at the Caulcor Hound.

  The man replied, a rough countryside accent mixed with mercantile refinement.

  “Certainly, if there’s a place that would accept my friend,” the man stated with a smile, looking at his canine companion lovingly.

  A chuckle escaped the town guard. “Hah, if you’ve got the coin, Balthus’s place has a large enough room for ya. Loves the odd animal.”

  “Ah, then I am sure he will find good company there. What do they call the place?” The man answered with a low, baritonal sound.

  “Pine’s Plain is what it’s called. You can bring your friend down to the mess hall; patrons love a good bundle of fluff. It would be a pleasant sight after my shift,” the guard intoned in friendly familiarity.

  “We will see if Temtet here is in the mood. He could get a bit testy around unfamiliar faces.” The man gave the Calcour hound an affectionate rub near its ears.

  “Suit yourself. The stable is closing soon. Best you get a place for your… horse there.” The guardsman stepped away warily as his eyes finally landed on the ominous jet-black shade of the steed.

  The pudgy man comforted the horse as he made off to the stables, but not before paying for a generous helping of hay and feed.

  Then, the man and his canine companion made for the inn, while the steed was earnestly devouring its long-awaited feast.

  The man entered the room, the largest available at the fine establishment known as Pine’s Plains. The name, though uncreative and almost mundane, fit perfectly with the landscape it described, nestled at the edge of evergreen woods and the vast tundra to the east.

  The canine followed, its paws echoing on the floor, as the man closed and carefully locked the door. The key clicked twice, and he continued to twist, as if seeking superfluous reassurance that the room was secure.

  He settled his belongings at the bedside before placing his pouch on the counter, where the scent of old wood mingled with the soft clinging of coins.

  He sat down, and the tension left him as he breathed out, knowing they were no longer being watched.

  Arcane energy once more brimmed in the man’s hand. He made a series of waving gestures, hovering his hand over his face and body. The stretched clothes relaxed as his portly build transformed into a slim, almost malnourished stature; his clothes now hung loosely.

  The pudgy face slowly vanished, and in its stead, a youthful visage emerged. Within a few seconds, the complete definition of his jawline and the sharp angles of his cheekbones were apparent, which was a stark difference from how they had appeared just a short time earlier.

  The face of the runaway, deserter and heretical mage, plastered on an unnoticeable corner of the noticeboard in the town square.

  With no information on his whereabouts, or anything accurate for that matter. No mention of a steed of night nor a fully grown dire wolf.

  Only the fact that he had murdered servants of the five and that he was at large, somewhere in the empire, a nation that spanned a fifth of the continent.

  In another series of gestures, the golden fur on the canine slowly morphed into a matted, grey overcoat. The domesticated, almost cheerful facade made way for the stoic, unreadable, intimidating likeness of a dire wolf.

  Emmett shook and growled, almost in relief at the arcane disguise finally being lifted, his eyes landing on the face of his companion—now bearing the likeness he was familiar with.

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  Selriph placed his hands near its collar, scratching affectionately.

  “Good work, friend… thanks for cooperating. Truly.” His voice was soft, melodious and full of gratitude.

  The wolf stared back blankly; the only indicator of its approval was its flopping tongue.

  “Here… for your troubles,” Selriph withdrew a large chunk of meat from his pack—the last portion of elk from their recent collaborative hunt, acquired after they had passed the snowline of the Greyspire Mountains during their uneventful descent.

  “Just don’t make a mess, I—”

  The wolf tore into the fresh, messy strands stretched across the wall as it munched on its helping of meat.

  Selriph could only let out an exasperated sigh.

  As the sun’s rays disappeared through the half-opened window, Selriph came back into the room, tray of food in hand, and a warm, homely, and gamey scent came from the roasted stew as it wafted into his nostrils.

  Selriph closed the door with his feet. His eyes gazed at the messy pile of red stain and strands of raw elk — Emmett’s culinary aftermath — which he would clean later.

  If it were even possible to remedy the red mosaic on the wooden floor. Perhaps not even the most potent of cleaning supplies could wash off those stains.

  The youth quickly placed the tray on the table and rushed back to the closed door, the rusty clicks coming as a reassuring sound in his mind. No one would come into this room and witness the fully grown dire wolf and Selriph’s incriminating belongings.

  The boy pulled out his leather-bound personal notes along with the patchwork map that had been his guiding star on his journey thus far.

  The soft thud met the crinkle of parchment. The youth’s hand unfurled the map as the clacking of the wooden spoon and meaty tears to this right—his hand serving himself a healthy helping of the stew of the day — the very same meat that his companions had just consumed.

  Selriph’s mouth met the comforting embrace of the warm, savoury stew. His first taste of civilised food in what felt like eternity, fuel for the soul and his weary mind. The boy gazed at the map, a physical reflection of his journey in creased paper and ink: the better part of two weeks traversing the mountains.

  He’d half expected the forces of fate—something that very clearly demonstrated intent to weave a web of obstacles on this already taxing journey—to place one final gauntlet.

  However, nothing came; instead, the four days it had taken to descend to the eastern side of the mountain range could only be described as fruitful monotony. The snowline had been cleared by the second day. That coincided with a bountiful kill that sustained the boy and wolf for the rest of the trek.

  No avalanches, frost trolls, hostile beasts or even bandits. Just a straight, uneventful march to the first settlement east of the mountains.

  Selriph refrained from making any comment, internal or external, lest he tempt fate’s ire once more. Instead, he focused on the next consideration on his journey:

  The first was the issue of lodgings—having found a loose collection of decade-old coins in Ereknul’s study, it was enough to sustain him for four days to a week on the road.

  That was scarcely enough for what would likely be a three-week trek to the boundaries of the eastern province, or towards the Capitol—Solvelis, the city of Sun—should he choose a more northerly point of exfiltration from the empire?

  We will need to find ways to earn coin…

  He gazed out of the half-opened window to the town square where he had perused the notice board just a mere hour ago.

  The most straightforward method of acquiring currency would be to fulfil a contract along the way. Goblin infestations? Escorting a band of merchants? Mundane deliveries of words and goods between settlements? Those could easily earn him what he needed.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. The runaway had no identification from the Eldeitian sect of the adventurers’ guild—and procuring one wasn’t exactly congruent with his intentions to maintain his low profile.

  Thus, even if he completed contracts indirectly or otherwise, there’d be no means of claiming their bounty.

  There has to be another way… but for now…

  The youth shook his head, bidding away the temptation for contemplative paralysis as he paced over his pack. There, he withdrew the following items: the tome of arcane foundations, along with a cracked crystal.

  The former artefact that housed the old mage’s soul—the only thing he withdrew from the study—now shattered in two.

  The tomes that lay there contained knowledge, to be sure, but they centred on the art of creating and maintaining the wooden vessel, which was hardly useful for the journey Selriph had embarked on.

  However, the former crystal still held value. Even in its shattered state, it carried a significant portion of the arcane energy—and maybe consciousness—it once held.

  Fragments at most, perhaps decipherable with the right tools and knowledge. Something that the runaway mage was keen to acquire, given the indecipherable jumble of words that he perceived in Ereknul’s last moments—no doubt carrying a warning of what doomed fate allegedly awaited him.

  If Selriph could acquire the means, perhaps he could extract the memories and information held in the stone itself—one that could be helpful in determining if Ereknul’s ghostly final words or what he claimed held any truth at all in the first place.

  For all he knew, the talk of prophecy and visions could have just been a ruse to persuade Selriph to allow him to take up residence inside the promising mage’s body.

  Even if that truth couldn’t be extracted, the broken halves of the crystal could serve as a casting focus, not unlike the gem that adorned the blonde hair of the male elf that Selriph had been acquainted with on the other side of the mountain range.

  As their visages, words, and likenesses intruded into the boundaries of his consciousness, he pressed his cold hands on his head, and he whispered under his breath, full of regret.

  “What transpired has passed … just leave me alone…” the youth’s voice, almost an ardent plea.

  No… I have to confront this… in due time. For now… focus on what is ahead.

  His hands balled around the split gem. The faint static of arcane energy, but nothing that resembled life.

  In his mind’s eye, he could still feel, hear the encounter with the wooden mannequin play out, the clang of steel ringing with a burst of magic, like an uncanny toll of untuned bells.

  His words came low. “Ereknul, I’m sorry it came to this… it was just too risky…” as he stared into the swirling, milky clouds in the crystal.

  “You probably cannot hear my words anymore—but just know this, you will find yourself where we belong, a living, breathing college for Magic’s study.”

  He then felt the brush of fur. The dire wolf’s eyes stared at the half-finished stew—or rather, the crystal—and then back to the owner.

  Selriph knew the wolf wasn’t asking for a share.

  “Don’t worry, friend, that includes you and the old girl out there. "

  As he rose from the creaky stool, he stared into the faint swirling currents within the crystal. He paced towards the window, observing the dark, quiet horizon sprinkled with faint stars, the cool air filtering onto his cheeks.

  Where the border to Nalthrys lay in wait, a mere eighteen-day trek away across the shimmering waters of the Great Lake in the distance.

  So close, but it won’t be easy. Eyes will ever stalk the border.

  Nonetheless, the boy shut his eyes, envisioning the huge, fertile plains of the empire’s breadbasket.

  A fact he conjured, stated in his mind: somewhere in the hundred, nay, thousands of kilometres on the empire’s eastern flank, there had to be a weak point.

  One where the patrols did not train their gaze, where the roar of the airship did not come from above, where the Pegasus knights did not look down from the heavens.

  Perhaps guided by a few souls that operate a clandestine network—a shepherd’s trail —to get him across. For coin, of course, rather than any sense of altruism.

  Anything—a trickle of information, an ingenious spark of creativity—leading a means across.

  All Selriph had to do was look for it.

  There has to be a way… I am sure of it.

  For the runaway mage, black gulper horse and dire wolf.

  One final leg, one final effort, one final hurdle. To the life of magical study beyond.

  Freedom, just beyond the horizon.

  The runaway youth clenched the crystal, his eyes landing on the wolf that now snuggled by his chair, then on the stables where Nightwind rested, and finally, on the starlit mosaic to the east.

  A whisper of conviction escaped his lips. “I promise… no matter what fate has in store, we will make it out of Eldeitia…!”

  [End of Volume II—Crossing the Greyspire Mountains]

  *rustles through notes*