Three months of civil war had aged him. His bright platinum hair was turning a craggy white, wispy and disheveled more so than other Nordruaut of three hundred and eighteen. His time was coming, but if the years didn’t finally put him to rest, this war would. He’d already lost many, but the west had lost more. He grunted in frustration that Jarle hadn’t just agreed to follow him into battle. A bigger war was coming to Ehrde; the Dark Vivek had told him so. They needed to band together, not fight each other. It was foolish, and exhausting, and he knew it showed on his face.
“Why do we wait, Rasaol?” Niihlu asked. “Their loss is three times ours. A final march, and this war would be done.”
Rasaol swung back to smash Niihlu across the nose. His hand hurt instantly; there was no doubt he’d done more damage to himself than his target. Once again, Niihlu had stopped using the words King or Majesty. The power of being Al’eyrn was going to the younger Nordruaut’s head. Losing respect meant he would eventually lose control, and the brash insolence was unacceptable. Rasaol wanted nothing more than to beat Niihlu into submission, but that would mean one of their deaths. He needed the champion to win the coming war. And if the beating went poorly, Niihlu would kill him. Rasaol didn’t fear death, but if Niihlu were to win, he would be in charge. The man couldn’t lead himself out of a box, and the east would be lost, even at this late stage of civil war. He stared Niihlu down with a stern gaze and a grimace.
“Your...Your Majesty,” Niihlu stuttered, wiping ice from his face where blood should have flowed.
“Don’t act the fool. The Dark Vivek has advised us to wait,” Rasaol said. “There is a war coming to Ehrde, a war like those in stories. We need our brothers and sisters to survive this.”
“If I challenge Jarle and kill him, won’t the rest follow?” Niihlu suggested, his voice still shaky.
“You would create a martyr,” Rasaol said with a sigh. “We would have to march over there and slaughter them all.”
“I should go and fight them all myself,” Niihlu said in frustration.
Niihlu obviously hadn’t thought past his bloodlust, and he spoke like a reactive child. Niihlu may have been a ‘fit’ for the foci, according to the strange old man, but he wasn’t that intelligent. He was also broken. His face was frozen still, locked in a grimace of pain that may well become a block of ice. The Dark Vivek had forced Ghorfjend to bond with Niihlu. The end result made the old king shudder inwardly. Bonding with the foci had left Niihlu in agony as frost continuously built up on his skin only to fall off in sheets or clumps. His skin was as blue as a frozen corpse. He’d given up on clothes that broke away, choosing to wear only a fur loincloth that needed frequent replacing. Armor of any sort seemed unnecessary. The rare wound Niihlu received quickly filled with ice that eventually fell away. How was the man even alive? Or maybe he wasn’t... This made him shiver visibly, something Nordruaut rarely did.
“Don’t welcome death so quickly. I give my bond that we will destroy them all if we must,” he replied. “But if we want those of the west to follow, they must see you as a champion and not a warlord or murderer.”
“How will waiting make me a champion?” Niihlu grunted, wiping more ice crystals from his face.
“They are bait,” Rasaol said. Vivek had said to wait with the news, but how else could he restrain the mad hound? “You will soon have to defeat their champion.”
Niihlu laughed raucously before spitting ice to the ground. “What champion?”
“Vivek has foretold that Angst is coming, and that he will champion the west,” he said. But that wasn’t all. Rasaol could sense that the Dark Vivek had held something back, or maybe it was the fact that he wanted Angst alive. Something he needed to understand before explaining the details to this idiot.
Niihlu’s eyes went wide, and for a moment, ice crackled across the Nordruaut’s body. “I...” Niihlu said, barely able to restrain his excitement. “I get to kill Angst?”
“Beating Angst is how you will prove yourself as champion of Nordruaut,” Rasaol said proudly, slapping the young man on the shoulder before jerking his hand back in pain from the cold. “That is the story I was told.”
“So we just wait?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“No. They are already downtrodden. Keep them that way,” Rasaol commanded. “Go and make your challenge. Shout threats. Spread fear to those who won’t join us. Tell them to present a champion.”
Niihlu nodded once before taking off through the white sea of corpses. When he arrived at the middle of the battlefield, he roared his challenges, his voice too loud for a mere mortal. Rasaol nodded, wishing this could’ve played out a different way, and trying very hard not to question every decision that had led him to this point.
Nordruaut was bleeding, and there was nothing Jarle could do about it. He looked down at the valley—a pristine white backdrop painted with splatters of red and brown. Bodies of Nordruaut giants from east and west were quickly being engulfed by the snowstorm. It was everything he’d wanted to avoid. He reached down to scratch at the ears of his companion, a fully grown black bear. It lifted a paw, brushing at the gash across its face. The injury had been earned on the battlefield. Jarle had feared the bear would be lost when the axe struck, but he’d endured.
King Rasaol had wanted to turn away from everything they’d worked for so long to change. Over two thousand years, they’d sought peace through the hunt. The hunt was a good way to live, but some still hungered for the march of war. Rasaol had warned of rumbling in the south, said that the only way to be safe was to go on the offensive. While Jarle had his fears, he had to wonder...could Rasaol be right?
Tribesman and dragons had overtaken Rohjek. Berfemmian and merpeople had been spotted battling in Unsel. The Fulk’han zealots were suddenly monsters able to fight off the great Nordruaut giants. Melkier had been silenced after the destruction of their capital city, and the Meldusians were all but washed away by the mysterious Vex’kvette. It was madness. But who could’ve foreseen this? Jarle feared that a Nordruaut attack on the south would be genocide for any other nation, as it was for the Mendahir. He’d walked away from Rasaol’s offer to wage war, and it had followed him. A civil war between his west and the powerful east.
A cry from deep in the valley made him grind his teeth and clench his fists.
“King Jarle,” a young Nordruaut said as he approached.
“I said don’t call me that, Gose,” Jarle grunted over his shoulder. “I am skaadi. No more, no less.”
“Their champion is shouting challenges,” Gose said.
He took a deep breath of the cold air, and his muscles tensed. Was it truly time? Was he prepared to fight their Al’eyrn? He’d watched the challenge with Guldrich. The Fulk’han monster was ferocious, and cunning. The gray man was covered in armor that seemed to grow from his body. But, even after scarring the champion, Guldrich had lost. Jarle didn’t fear death—his life was full from stories and the hunt. There was still strength in his muscles, and he would do what was needed to see his people safe.
“Niihlu,” Jarle grunted.
“I will meet his challenge,” Gose said. “It is said that their champion is no longer Nordruaut. He is death walking. I would prove them wrong.”
“Is that the story now being told?” Jarle said with a grimace. “That Niihlu is death? He is merely a Nordruaut with an axe of power. I have told the story, many times, of how a single Fulk’han almost beat him.” He shook his head in disbelief. “No, not death. He has weakness.”
“But he has killed so many,” Gose said. “He needs to be stopped.”
Jarle looked at the young man and nodded. His nephew was covered in furs much lighter than his own, only stained by blood instead of years on the hunt. Jarle was not weak, but Gose had thick layers of powerful muscle. In spite of the cold, he wore only a fur vest, his arms heated by youth and steaming at the touch of snow. His long, platinum hair was pulled out of the way, held together by a feather thong. His tanned face was stern,
but his blue eyes were caring. His bed was rarely empty. He was both a fine warrior and good adviser. Jarle’s only wish was that the young man’s life would yet be full of stories.
“Too many have died by his axe,” Jarle agreed, patting his nephew on the shoulder. “What challenge does the mad warrior call out today?”
“Niihlu does sound like a fool.” Gose chuckled. “He asked us to join them, like anyone would after that battle. He calls out that all will die by his hand but in the same breath says that he will wait to meet our champion,” Gose said. “Is he asking for you?”
“I’m no king, nor am I a champion,” Jarle said. “But there may be another.”
“I don’t understand,” Gose said. “What do we do?”
“We wait,” Jarle said. “Our brothers to the east have already forgotten how to hunt. Hunting often requires waiting.”
“Are we hunting, or are we waiting to die?” Gose asked.
Jarle stared into the young man’s eyes for a long time. “We hunt.”
“Have you learned anything?” Rose asked, pacing the small room.
“I believe...” Hector said, taking a deep breath and holding it. His face was pensive.
“What?” she asked, nodding for him to continue.
“I...I think...” he said.
“Hector,” she said, her hunger for information being fed by impatience.
“I sincerely believe,” he said, turning away from the window, “that we’re in Nordruaut.”
She slugged his shoulder several times until he held up his sinewy, muscular arms in mock defense. He let out a gravelly laugh, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye under those bushy gray eyebrows. It wasn’t really funny, but laughter was something they had in short supply, and she couldn’t help but smile. They’d become closer over the last three months, and while she didn’t always appreciate the older man, she liked him more. He could be callous, and demanding, and raucous, but he was also sharp as an ice pick and just as dangerous.
“You know that’s not what I meant!” she said with a last smack to his arm. “You’re as bad as Angst!”
A crunch resounded in the small room as Hector bit into a ripe apple. He peered out the window again, his brows furrowing over a gaze that saw far, far beyond her own.
“What?” Rose urged him. “What’s going on?”
“You just asked me that,” he said with a sigh.
“I can’t see what you can,” she said, exhausted by his taunting. Rose tugged at her fine red hair, which was far too long for her liking. One would think there’d be scissors in a city so large. She would shave it all off, given the chance.
“They aren’t doing anything. The battle has been done for days,” Hector replied impatiently. “There are three times as many Nordruaut on the east side of the ravine. This could be over in an hour, maybe two. I just don’t understand why they aren’t fighting. I only see a speck of a man, from this distance, in the middle of the valley. What could the fool be doing?”
Rose looked around warily, apparently uncertain if this tower had been a good find. It was obviously a lookout, the highest point in the center of the city, with windows circling the room. But, what had it gained them? The knowledge that the world continued outside while they remained locked in this city?
“Aren’t you supposed to be gathering dinner?” he asked, taking another sloppy bite of apple.
“How can you think of food at a time like this?” Rose replied.
“First order of business,” Hector replied. “Survival.”
“There’s food in this mage city. Enough to last a lifetime,” she said. “If necessary.”
“Good,” he said, shaking his head as he stared out the window.
“We can’t just sit here!” she demanded.
“Oh, yes we can,” he replied. After a final nibble of apple, he looked around the room for a place to drop it. “Look, even if we could get out of here, where would we go? How would we get home?” Hector rapped a knuckle against the glass. “And how would we get through that?”
He wasn’t referring to the window as much as the shield. They could only assume it was a dome, like the underwater mage city. The shield protected them against the harsh, ongoing winter of Nordruaut, assuming that was where they were. It also had no doors. They’d discovered the entrance, but no exit.
“So, what are you looking for?” she asked. “You come up here every day.”
“Lots of things... Anything,” he said. “I don’t know. After months of looking, we haven’t found a way out, and won’t be able to until Dallow can find a spell that lets us out. I believe he will, but we need an exit strategy, or at least we need the giants to go away. I’m trying to plan for whatever happens.”
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
“Nope,” Hector said, and his ears rose as he smiled. “How could I have a plan when I don’t know what will happen?”
“So, Dallow is torturing himself trying to learn a new language, I’m feeding us every...felking...day,” she grumbled. “And you’re up here making no plan?”
“What else am I going to do?” he asked. “You said we don’t need food. I can’t read the books here any better than Dallow. It’s a gilded cage—nicely gilded, but also boring. At least the mages could’ve left some alcohol behind, or steak, or...” Hector crossed his arms and looked at her with a frown. “How is Dallow doing? Any progress?”
“He mostly keeps to himself.” She grunted in frustration.
“Not the romantic getaway you were looking for?” Hector asked with a wink.
“No!” she said, crossing her arms. “He’s just... He’s obsessed. Dallow blames himself for Tarness’s death.”
“Tarness could still be alive,” he said, facing her with serious eyes. “Don’t give up.”
“No,” she replied. “And I’m not having this conversation again. You two need to let go.”
“Go on,” Hector said with a nod. “Dallow?”
“He was at the main library again, before I even woke up this morning,” she said. “But last night he mumbled that he might be closer, or something.”
“Let’s go check on the hermit,” he said with a contagious smile. “He probably needs a break. I certainly do.”
“What about your watching?” she asked sarcastically.
“If we hurry, I shouldn’t miss too much,” he said with a wink.
8
Unsel
It wasn’t easy estimating how high up they were when being flown around by his armpits. Angst guessed it had to be halfway between the tree line and the low-hanging clouds, whatever that meant. It was high enough to make his heart race, and low enough that he didn’t pee himself. Faeoris hadn’t spoken since they’d left the maiden’s courtyard, and he’d decided it best, while in her care, not to interrupt her stewing. Her grip under his arms pinched more than necessary, and he wasn’t looking forward to the ugly bruising. The young Berfemmian was holding something back, and Angst feared she was a geyser waiting to explode.
His eyes caught a change in the landscape. Treetops opened to a field that, from this distance, looked like a patch of enormous mushrooms. As they approached, he could better make out the stone-formed houses Jaden had created as a refuge for the wielders. Angst missed Jaden, despite the young man’s arrogance, and hoped he would wake safely once Victoria was freed. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else, and guilt was a constant reminder.
“Land us here first,” Angst asked, loudly enough so she wouldn’t ignore him. “Please.”
“You’re delaying your fate,” she said harshly.
“Always,” he agreed.
His stomach lurched as Faeoris dove toward the ground, her grip tensing. Angst swallowed a yelp and struggled to lift a hand, pointing to the center of town. They landed by the statue of Rook and Janda, amidst the city of stone houses. They’d agreed to name the city Rookshire in his honor, and Angst had created the statue to recognize their sacrifice. Rook and Jand
a looked proudly toward Unsel. Rook’s arm rested on her shoulder, and a small flame made of stone rose from her free hand. Angst swallowed hard. They should still be alive, married and making lots of beautiful babies.
Was Faeoris right? Was he avoiding Heather’s wrath? Her wrath? Angst shook his head at the thought. He had to see this, he had to strengthen his resolve, but guilt and grief were poor companions. Faeoris’s long, thin fingers rested on his shoulder. She turned him to face a nearby home and pointed.
A child, no more than five or six, sat near a freshly planted flowerbed.
“Flowers,” Angst said, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking at. “So, they’re planning to stay awhile. That’s good.”
The hand quickly left his shoulder to smack the back of his head. It hurt.
“Ow. What was that for?” He grunted, rubbing the back of his head. “Hitting me like that will make me lose hair.”
“More hair,” she corrected. “Pay attention to the child.”
Angst watched closely. The boy was maybe fifty feet away, so it was hard to make out what he was playing with. It looked like a rock—kind of a crappy toy. Were these people that destitute? Had he condemned them to poverty? Why hadn’t the wielders returned to Unsel during his three-month absence, at the very least for work? Maybe he could make the kids who lived here some better toys to... He gasped. The rock rose into the air to hover between both hands.
“Keep watching,” she whispered.
The stone hopped in an arc, appearing to jump from hand to hand. The child had a mischievous expression, and the rock shot forward to strike a mangy looking dog in its flank. The dog yelped.
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