Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1)

by Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu

  “I reckon it would become a hero, praised in song for days to come,” added in the imp, climbing slowly into his saddle.

  I reckon indeed! The dragon allowed his thought to be heard by the imp, hoping that the intriguing seed had been deeply planted in his little mind.

  In silence they carried on at length, Nuuk still trying to unravel the meaning of everything he had been told by the dragon. It appeared that he was keen on finding more about the stones, but to what extent? Would he try and use them for himself? Could he do such a thing?

  After an almost taciturn consideration of the map, they concluded they were crossing the moderate plains between Doradhur and Aranthul. Below them, life was silent. The sun had set, its last rays almost completely unnoticeable at their altitude. A few orange sparks could already be seen inside the forests, far on the horizon. Though, underneath them, pitch black reigned.

  Small drips of rain pattered over their bodies, portending an imminent heavier rain even if they were carried by softer currents and a pleasant warm air permeated the sky.

  “I think we should take cover for the night!” the dragon broke the long bolstering silence, gliding effortlessly in circles to approach the ground.

  Sheltered by the lack of light, they landed in a clearing in the heart of a dense forest. It was surprisingly colder than in the sky, and the air they filled their lungs with was a rich mixture of sweet, delicate wildflowers and fresh pinewood. The tall trees that surrounded the grassy patch provided perfect shelter for the night, protecting them from winds in the high mountain and prying eyes.

  “I will sleep in that tree!” said the imp, pointing at a crooked-shaped pine, convinced it could provide a comfortable, hoisted bed.

  “I will sit here. At first light, we leave!” Ghaeloden replied sternly.

  The imp nodded. Once up the tree, he tested a couple of forked branches and as he had anticipated, the tree contained a perfect bed-branch.

  He wrapped the bag with the sceptre, his food and the scrolls around a twig, and used one side of it as a pillow.

  “It’s been a really long day!” he sighed, feeling his back and arms wearing him down.

  He then started wondering if the dragon might still be able to read his mind. "Good night master Ghaeloden!

  When nothing came back, he knew he’d be alone for the night. He had plenty to think about, and it would be better if he was left alone to do it.

  The day reminded him, in part, how it felt to be free again, to do as one wished and soar the skies and venture with no aim. He smiled while he stared at the dark-clouded sky above, thinking with pride that the dreadful heights hadn’t bothered him. In fact, he was keen to continue again in the morning.

  Though, the day had also tangled his mind and his smile faded. The dragon had slowly started to show his true purpose and hatred towards the wizard, which he could only understand. Probably, he would have felt the same if he had to see his own kin and king driven mad by the will of Felduror. Yet, he was not sure that the wizard was that powerful. He had seen and observed the man at length, almost daily, and it was hard to believe him capable of overwhelming a Drakhahoul king.

  He lingered on the thought. He considered how, to some extent, they shared the same destiny; bound by an old man’s will. He realised just now that the string that bound his wings was almost insignificant, compared to the weight the time with his severe master had bestowed on him. Perhaps he could not abandon his master that easily.

  He yawned wildly.

  If only there was a way in freeing the wizard’s mind without endangering everyone’s wellbeing by unleashing a madman’s fury. If only… he fell asleep.

  The dawn arrived with a chill wind. Certainly it would have been worse to sleep on the wet grass, considered the imp as he stretched and looked towards the opening.

  Ghaeloden was already up, inspecting the surroundings.

  “Good morning, Nuuk,” he said, seemingly in a good mood. “I had a slumbering, dreamless night. I remember closing my eyes and opening them at first light. This place is so quiet! I haven’t had a calm night such as this in a very long time.”

  Nuuk jumped onto the ground from his tree-bed.

  “We should do it more often!” Ghaeloden’s genuine suggestion surprised him.

  Nuuk smiled at the dragon. “We should certainly do it,” he said, preparing the harness over the dragon’s neck.

  Once ready, the dragon pounced in the air and soon gained altitude with powerful wing strokes.

  Unlike the evening that had brought some rain, the sky on the horizon was clear. The early sun’s rays encouraged a warm, rainless day and it felt as if outside Arkhanthï’s territory, the air itself was less sharp and cold.

  Soft shadows gradually advanced from the tip of the tallest trees unveiling like a muddling blanket a remarkable display of autumnal colours. From the darkest evergreen to the multiple variations of red, orange and yellow of the oaks, maple trees and larch, they all proudly took their place in the vivid canvas of the forest. Flocks of birds gathered near river beds vociferously preparing for the long journey they would soon have to undertake. Sporadic smoke puffs found their way up from the dense forest, revealing human presence in the nearby lands and forcing the dragon to raise higher in the sky.

  We should be careful now! Ghaeloden resounded in Nuuk’s mind.

  You are right, replied the imp. We are passing into unknown human territories and it would not be wise for us to be seen. Just as the imp finished his sentence a thought occurred to him. I do wonder, master Ghaeloden…

  Yes?

  … If I were to hold the sceptre and ride on your back, will it make us both completely vanish?

  That is a most valid question! the Drakhahoul replied. I guess however, there’d be only one way to find out! But, who could we ask to take a look at an imp and a dragon without having them disappear first?

  They both started to laugh.

  Shifting

  Naghnatë

  Hot, murky water was boiling loudly inside a big, charred cauldron. The voracious fire underneath made it jolt freely sideways on the craggy spit it was locked on, making its thick liquid vigorously spill over the edges with sweltering sounds. The bubbling popped in dozens of muddy, greenish drops that landed all over the place. Yet, it wouldn’t matter the mess it caused. It never did as long as it worked.

  This time Naghnatë has decided to use more of her ingredients and give it one more try. Last time, she had felt the marrow powder hadn’t been enough, and now she procured herself a whole lot more, as a precaution. A bunch of dry leaves made of yellow rattles, linden, lime and hickory was shredded into a pestle with the aid of deer and rabbit fat to help blend the scents. If fur fell inside by mistake, it would not matter at all either; the flavour only improved.

  The witch scratched at her head, causing wispy white hair to poke out from underneath her stretched, dusty-black scarf into what resembled more a twig broom than an old woman’s hairdo. Her wrinkled and weathered face was peculiarly deforming upon and through the jars’ reflection, as she strolled back and forth. She needed to collect everything from the shelves and drawers of the centuries-old, wooden furnishings. Every step caused many creaks and cracks on the old floor where the nails had long rotted inside their holes. That did not matter either, it wasn’t that she would linger longer than necessary in this atrocious place.

  As she paced inside the small hut, made entirely of one big kitchen, she mumbled something between her thin lips. She stopped and grimaced as the waft of vapours interrupted her with a refreshed liveliness of bad smells and she decided it was time to amend that. Reaching the trunk that served as table bench, as well as storage case, she took out a small box. The fruits within had been judiciously wrapped and kept dry. They weren’t as fresh as a few days ago, but were still emanating their vital trails of flavour. Bright yellow lemons, which made one squint the eyes by puncturing the thick skin, and reddish oranges as big as fists. They were not common fruit for such
desolate and cold lands, she had specifically requested her trusted traders to bring them to her from far-away southern lands, and at a good expense too. Though, they had become a necessity of late.

  She grabbed one of each, the freshest ones, and then closed the trunk, making sure to cover and protect the remaining fruit with the same care. With a sharp knife she then started chopping the fruit. The gesture caused the thin wrinkles on her veined hands to move animatedly up and down above her protruding hand’s ligaments. She squeezed the last drops of lemons and oranges and, before she threw their peels into the cauldron, she filled her lungs and nose with the pleasant scent their thick skin released. With vigour she stirred the cauldron one last time.

  This will help to gulp it down! she thought as she took the burned-metal pot from the spit and placed it on the floor, where it steamed and stained a dark, round mark.

  Although she had drunk the potion countless times, she still could not get accustomed to its heavy stench and bitter taste. Though it always worked its magic. Maybe she was getting a bit slower with age, after all she was three hundred and sixty-one years of age today. The realisation made her linger as she stared at the murky brew at her feet.

  Once the concoction had cooled and was ready to be consumed, she considered what she needed to do next. In order for it to fully work it was fundamental to consume it on the first night of the full moon after her birthday. What was important was that her solar year had to be completed, even by a few minutes, for drinking it sooner and the potion would not work and she would have to wait another year. And a year without it could be a little too much, too dangerous at her age. Coincidentally this year, the first day of full moon in the month occurred on her birthday and this pleased her very much. Although she had made a cauldron full of it, what she’d use was one single vial; the first one. It also had to be taken outside and left for a couple of hours in the moonlight, that was the trick, she believed, that made it all possible.

  So many times had she practiced the same routine, that she had almost forgotten how she learned it in first place. The same process, repeated for at least two hundred and thirty years, had become as natural as drinking water or eating; one doesn’t have to remind himself how it’s done as long as it was done.

  Yet of late, she felt less in favour of her elements. She gathered the signs from the air, the sky and the movement of everything around her, and knew that something was about to change.

  “Has the time arrived to finally meet my fate?” she murmured.

  She wrapped the vial in a clean linen-cloth and placed it carefully inside a round wicker-basket, amongst a wool blanket, some cheese and a slice of bread.

  This far north, there was only one season and that was winter. The snow remained throughout the year with the exception of a very brief thaw which lasted barely a month or two. Few were those that ever set foot upon these lands, be they human or beast. But, she did not mind the gelid air or the plainness and the stillness of the frozen trees. She did not mind that she was the only soul for many miles around; she had spent a few lifetimes of solitude. This place was by far her favourite place to shift and she never had to clear her traces as no one ever found the spot.

  With all ready at hand, she paced towards the river, aided by a crooked cane made of hazelnut wood. One might mistakenly think this was an accidental choice. She always feared, as well as disliked, slippery snakes and lizards, and never understood why they could only die after the sun had set, even if one smashed or cut their heads off. Only by chance had she learned, a long time ago, that the only way they could be killed without them hissing and bending endlessly before the last sun’s rays, was by slapping them with a hazelnut twig. It was nature’s magic she thought when she had first found out, and she never again parted herself from the magic tree. Since then, she had started to make all sorts of potions to cure skin sicknesses and various other maladies out of the plant’s leaves and bark and they had worked just as well. Of course, the snow sufficed to keep the cold-blooded creatures away, but she still felt more secure holding onto her special stick.

  She now stood by the river and stopped to lay the basket on the blanket. She might be a witch, but she could still feel the snow-covered ground’s sharp bites.

  The clouds, like many times before, were unwilling to reveal the light of the moon, though this had never been a problem for her and her skills. She sat beside the basket and closed her eyes. It was cold, a cold she did not mind for the moment, and measured that, with any luck, it will be all over soon. With one hand half-lifted in the air, she murmured something from her throat that made the buried, frozen grass quiver and the surface of the water ripple. A recite she had learned long ago from her mother and which she had mastered in the service of the mad wizard. A simple and effective spell, which made the clouds around the moon vanish and scatter in every direction as if wafted away by an invisible force. Even the meanest and darkest of fast-moving clouds stood no chance and faded before blackening the moon.

  She sneered at her fulfilment, weakened, dizzy and out of breath by its demanding strength; a full year had passed again and she needed to recover aplenty. She crawled towards the almost-frozen river and cupped her face with a handful of fresh water, splashing twice her pale skin. She did not feel its coolness and luckily the gesture provided some ease of mind.

  Magic always drained her of her strength, and of late a bit too much for her liking. Was it time to stop using it? Could this be the end of her road? She knew that magic wasn’t something one could give up easily, nor one could rid oneself of. It took as much energy into renouncing it as it did to learn it, so that was not the case.

  She walked back on her knees and lay on the blanket staring at the moonlit sky. The river bathed in the pure white light of the bright moon and she could see clearly now. Some free patches of grass not trapped under the snow glistened with a horde of sparkling flecks caused by the dew. Everything was calm, everything was silent. Only the soft whisper of the slow flowing water could be heard accompanied by a sporadic night owl’s calls and her reviving breaths.

  Satisfied with her work and a little restored, she unwrapped the vial from the cloth and placed it on her side, on the blanket facing the rays of the moon. She then decided to enjoy the slice of bread and cheese and lay her old body on the thick blanket in an attempt to fully recover from the magic’s strain.

  When she was sure the hour had passed, she opened the vial and drank it all. Knowing what would follow, she changed her position and dug her fingers deep inside the snow; one hand dug through the cold ground and one clutched around at a frozen tussock.

  She had to be fast, she had to be ready, and the long breathless moment that passed made sure she would be. When the coughing started, the pain came sharper than before. Little veins of blue, purple and red fractured the white of her eyes and tears gushed down her furrowed cheeks. The cough was unbearable. She gasped for air with raucous sounds, convulsing on her knees on the rumpled blanket while her hands still held her steady; she had learned to lock herself in one place as the long frenzy of coughs would often put her in harm’s ways.

  She struggled to breathe. Against her body’s fight to push the brew out, she forced herself not to regurgitate. It was never a pleasant business, yet she wouldn’t give up now. She freed a hand from the tussock and covered her mouth, aiding her sealed lips from losing any more of the precious bile. Her ears started to whistle and her forearms’ muscles started to pull with pain.

  When the coughing subsided, it was replaced by a dreadful sensation of nausea. Her eyes continued to wet her wrinkled face and inside her mouth was the bitterest of tastes; a harsh, sharp flavour that made her throat pulse up and down energetically in the attempt to free itself from the revolting ingestion. She breathed through her nose and gradually released the tension on her tight fingers around her lips. Another long moment was gone.

  The tearing stopped. The worst was over, her body had accepted it and she lifted her hand from the frozen ground a
nd relaxed. Slowly, she opened her mouth; once, twice and then with the third inhale she succeeded in breathing clearly. She kept still and lingered on the blanket clearing her eyes from the dazzling indistinctness her tears have caused. The whistling in her ears retreated and she started to hear water run again. She collected herself and glanced at her veiny hands. As her sight cleared, her wrinkles seemed to soften, retreating into the depth of her skin. She rushed towards the river and carefully inspected her reflection upon the stillness of the water. The potion started showing its effect; the face had mended, tempering those age marks that towards the end of the year always seemed to worsen and reveal her true age. The white hair slowly faded into a darker shade of grey and as she stood, her back was straighter. She now looked like a common old woman of around eighty.

  So young and strong. She smiled happily as she fell back on the soft blanket thinking it would be a full year before she had to endure the wretched feeling once more.

  “It worked again,” she shouted as she tossed the vial into the river, using a tiny spell to make the vial disperse before touching the surface of the water.

  She liked her surroundings clean, that’s only appropriate, she considered, her gladness ending with a hiccup.

  She had forgotten about those too, and they would last a while. Yet, she smiled nonetheless. Everything was welcomed now.

  From where she lay, she released the clouds from under her spell with a finger, bringing everything to darkness again. The clouds that faded just around the moon resumed about and over it like starved dogs over a piece of meat. The night was brought to a moonless sky again, just like a curtain upon a play’s end-scene and she felt revitalised.

  She woke up really late, not really recollecting how she had returned to her hut. The dry straw-bed was a welcomed sensation, thinking back at the alternative cold grass of the night.

  A reviving emotion traversed her body in its entirety. She cheered, feeling the vivacity of her own core. Lots had to be done and little time to do it. Now that she was strong again, she could continue her research and, if she was right, this was the year. All the signs had spoken of the same event as clear as day, and as it hadn’t been her end, she was determined to resolve her life’s conundrums.