by Pirateaba
“A Named Adventurer just entered the city! You won’t believe who it is!”
Everyone turned. Moore dropped the massive mug he was using and Jelaqua cursed out loud. Halrac sat up, looking at his teammates with grim resignation.
“Who?”
“Regrika Blackpaw, the hero of the Gnoll tribes! She’s formed a two-person team with a Gold-rank adventurer and she’s here! In Liscor!”
The adventurer shouted the name and every Gnoll in the inn started howling. Mrsha sat up, looking confused, but Ikshr, Brunkr, and the other Gnolls in the inn immediately surged for the door, running towards the city. Caught up by the moment, everyone else did too.
—-
Regrika Blackpaw was a giant of a Gnoll, her fur black as coal, her body armored in splendid golden plate mail. She was a [Champion], a hero who’d sprung out of the earth a few years back and slain incredible monsters single-handedly. She was accompanied by a slight young [Drake], a [Mage] who radiated magical power and who had pale white scales. Both female adventurers were being greeted by a fanfare by all the Gnolls in the city despite the late hour.
This is how it ends. Ivolethe narrowed her eyes at Regrika and swooped down lower. Not to interfere, but watch. Regrika was speaking to Krshia Silverfang, and she’d just caught sight of the Gold-rank adventurers who’d come through the gates. She was striding towards them, paw raised in greeting when the last thread snapped into place.
Someone burst through the crowd, shouting. People were knocked aside and Hawk nearly ran over the Named Adventurer. People screamed and backed away, because the Rabbit [Courier] had a body in his arms.
A limp Drake with blood on his armor and the insignia of a Drake emblem on his shoulder guard bled crimson onto the frozen paving stones. He bled, but only a few drops. He had died a while back. Hawk shouted as people stepped back, calling up at the [Guardsmen] on the wall.
“Sound the alarm! This is a request from a Courier! Get me the Council and Watch Captain Zevara!”
The members of the Watch did not hesitate. A horn began to blow from the wall, a piercing wail that woke up the city. Hawk turned—he was panting and his fur was damp with sweat. Ivolethe had seen him run south, and then run back. She could grudgingly admit that he had run fast on the way back.
“Hawk!”
Zel Shivertail pushed his way through the crowd, staring at the insignia on the fallen Drake. Hawk turned to him, and the [General] stared down at the dead soldier.
“Where did you find him?”
“Not thirty miles down the road south of here. He was barely alive; my healing potions bought him only a few moments.”
Zel bowed his head over the Drake.
“What did he say?”
“The Goblin Lord. He crushed both armies sent against him. Crushed them—Garusa Weatherfur is dead, and Thrissiam Blackwing ordered both armies to buy time for word to be sent to the other cities! There’s something wrong with the Goblin Lord. He’s a powerful [Necromancer] as well as a leader!”
Hawk’s voice provoked gasps and screams in the crowd. Zel swore.
“To the Council. They need to hear of it at once! Go! I’ll follow!”
Hawk nodded. The Rabbit Beastkin ran through the streets, legs blurring, out of sight in a moment. Zel charged down the street after Hawk.
[Guardsmen] followed him, some shouting for people to keep calm and wait for word, others running to find Wall Lord Ilvriss and everyone of note. A Gnoll stopped and bowed before Regrika.
“Lady Blackpaw, we would deeply appreciate your—”
“Of course. Lead on. This is no time for dawdling, no?”
The Gnoll Named Adventurer strode after the [Guardsman]. After a moment’s deliberation, Ulrien and Jelaqua both followed, and they were quickly escorted in her wake. The shocked voices of the people echoed above and Ivolethe sighed.
Here it ended. She flew down and alighted on Ryoka’s shoulder. The young woman was holding Mrsha as Erin stood next to her. Everyone was afraid. They reeked of it. They could only see one future. Ivolethe could see many. They were right to be afraid, but they didn’t know all of it.
Nor could she tell them. Ryoka glanced at Ivolethe.
“Do you know anything about this, Ivolethe?”
“If I did, I would not tell ye.”
Ivolethe looked calmly at Ryoka, and saw the girl’s eyes roll impatiently.
“If we die—”
“Ye die. I cannot interfere.”
Ivolethe sighed. She felt old. Old and tired. In that moment, the wind blew. She felt the world change and realized one thing. Faeries could see the future. They could predict it. But they couldn’t see everything.
Time moved. She felt the call, heard the echo in her very soul. She felt the winter shiver, and then—
—-
Ryoka saw Ivolethe sigh. The Frost Faerie looked worn down, tired. And then something happened. Her form, her crystalized icy form slowly blurred. Just for a second, Ryoka thought she smelled damp earth, saw greenery and felt sunlight. For a moment. Then Ivolethe was back to normal.
Almost. Something ran down Ivolethe’s face. It gathered, running down her suddenly slick skin, beading, reaching her leg. It fell, a piece of crystal, a frozen bit of ice, onto the ground and shattered. Ivolethe looked around.
Ryoka stared. The Frost Faerie glanced at Ryoka, irritated.
“What? What?”
“Ivolethe. You’re…melting.”
Ivolethe froze. She looked at herself, and touched at her wet skin. She blinked at Ryoka, surprised, upset, and then—resigned.
“Huh. So I am.”
“What does it—does that mean—”
The Frost Faerie shrugged. She looked at Ryoka, and then at Erin, and finally Mrsha, smiling slightly.
“Winter is ending. And so I suppose we run out of time. Let us make the most of it, Ryoka Griffin.”
With that, she flew up, spiraling through the streets of Liscor as word spread of the Goblin Lord’s army and fear once again rode on the breeze. Fear of the future.
—-
One last thing. The news that struck Liscor and then the rest of the Drake cities like a bomb was almost instantaneous, thanks to the [Message] spells sent out by Zel Shivertail and Ilvriss. However, the Human cities would only hear the news in the morning, mainly thanks to every [Mage] in the Mage’s Guild being monopolized by Drakes.
Only a few individuals got word of what had happened at the same times as the Drakes. People who paid for private information, and paid quite well. Which was why Typhenous’ [Message] spell was immediately relayed to Lord Tyrion Veltras and to Lady Magnolia Reinhart’s presence within moments of casting it.
Magnolia Reinhart sat in a moving carriage and opened the [Message] scroll she’d just been handed by Ressa. The artifact recorded any [Messages] her people deemed important enough to send her directly. And this one was important, oh, yes. Important and very unwelcome indeed.
She stared down at the [Message] as Ressa read it over her shoulder. Her [Maid] uttered several words that made the driver of the carriage swerve erratically, but Magnolia said nothing. What was there to say? She looked out the window at the dark landscape, at the snow, at the night creeping in and said nothing at all.
Instead, she sighed. And fate, like the fading winter, like the wind and indeed, the Goblin Lord himself, took no notice at all.
4.25 N
“I’m going to quit.”
Niers Astoragon spoke to himself as he stood on his dressing table, inspecting himself in a foot-high mirror. He adjusted the cuffs of the fancy, somber black-and-silver doublet he’d been supplied and wondered if he could strangle himself on the lace.
“Lace. Who uses lace? The fashions of Terandria are not Balerosian fashions. Following those idiotic trendsetters is pointless, but why listen to me? Let’s all decide to hang ourselves with string. Lace on the frocks, collars, arms…leggings for some reason! In the time it takes to dress up like this I could be playing two g
ames of chess. Three.”
He glanced over to a small, wooden board sitting on the table a few feet away from him. It too occupied the dressing room table, which also held Niers’ bed, most of his possessions, and his entire wardrobe. The rest of Niers’ room was given over to a large amount of papers, most stacked with some degree of neatness, but giving the entire place a distinct impression that a tiny person had decided to camp out in the middle of a filing room.
It was, Niers thought to himself, entirely appropriate. Not that the clutter mattered outside of the table; for a Fraerling, the dressing table itself was a gigantic bedroom, complete with treacherous drops several times his height he could throw himself off if he got bored of life.
“Not that I’d die from the fall, even if I landed on my neck. And then I’d have to show up and teach those little leeches wearing a neck brace. Hah! And this week of all weeks? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
He glanced again at the magical chessboard and shook his head. The pieces hadn’t moved. Thus, there was no real reason for him to delay. Niers sighed.
“How many have I taught? A hundred? A thousand? And how many survive to become great [Strategists] and [Generals]? I don’t need to keep doing this. I could keep playing. I could—could find out—”
He trailed off for a second and looked for a third time at the chess board. Then he looked towards the glass windows in his room, saw the sun rising, and cursed.
“Late!”
He finished tying the lace together like a noose and hurried towards the door. Not the main door to the room though; oh no. The door handle was far too high up for Niers to bother climbing and ruin his wonderf—his perfectly serviceable—his mockery of fashion that was a doublet. No, instead, he took a small ramp upwards towards a door set near the ceiling. Niers opened it, and began to march down the small stone tunnels illuminated by tiny mage lights.
He was using the Fraer-ways. And in doing so, he passed through stone crossroads, walkways along the outside of the palace that had been converted into the academy he lived in. These walkways were naturally enclosed on all sides to protect Fraerlings from birds, rodents, and other dangers, but such was the wealth of Niers’ company, the Forgotten Wing, that the [Architects] had installed glass windows to allow Fraerlings an unparalleled view of the city the academy was based in.
Elvallian, one of the foremost trading hubs in Baleros. Once an obscure city marooned in the jungle, now, the headquarter of the Forgotten Wing Company, home to one of the Four Great Companies of Baleros when they were not on campaign. Also, and just as prominently, the place where aspiring [Strategists] might receive the chance to learn from the legendary Titan himself, the [Strategist] claimed by many to be the highest-level in the world, Niers Astoragon.
At the moment, said Titan, [Grandmaster Strategist], feared foe to his enemies and so on and so forth was cursing. He’d just stepped in rat droppings and it had gotten all over his dress boots, which of course, had lace.
—-
“So that’s why you’re late. Because of rat poo.”
Breakfast. Niers had it every day in an open part of the castle. Not open to the elements; no one wanted to sit in the hot, humid air, rather open in the sense of huge sheets of glass providing the illusion of openness while cooling spells made the room pleasant to sit in.
Niers at on a table with white cloth, eating from a tiny bowl and scowling at his companion sitting across from him. He was having a civilized breakfast of bananas, a filling porridge, and fruits, all seasoned with some fresh cinnamon.
His partner was having muffins. Not muffins with a side of eggs, or muffins and a glass of milk, or muffins with butter. Just muffins. There were three of them. As Niers watched, the eater of muffins picked one up in her furry paws and stared at it.
“Because of poo.”
“Would you stop calling it that? I stepped in rat droppings and needed to change my boots.”
“Why?”
“You know why. We’re supposed to be putting on a show!”
“Hm. So that’s why you have all the string.”
“Lace.”
Niers glared. The person sitting across from him blinked at him. She had odd eyes. Three-Color Stalker was her title. She was a Squirrel Tribe Beastkin. Also, she was the leader of the Forgotten Wing Company, Niers’ boss, oldest friend, and right now, ponderer of muffins.
“I didn’t choose to dress up like this. Apparently, this is the current fashion from Terandria and all of Baleros considers this the height of fashion.”
“Drab clothing and lots of lace.”
The tiny Fraerling gritted his teeth as the Squirrel-woman held her muffin up to the light, studying it.
“The point, as I understand it, is to emphasize muted colors. Note the silver lining?”
“Why have lace if it’s not colored?”
“That would be asking too much of fashion, I suppose.”
The Squirrel Beastkin glanced at Niers and smiled for a second. He wasn’t sure if that was because she felt like it, or because she’d gotten the joke. Her name was Foliana and he’d known her for decades, but she was still unpredictable to him. Both of Foliana’s eyes sparkled in the light as they met his.
Three colors made up her eyes. Bright red-pink, deep and dreamy yellow and clear green. They created an orb of three equal parts in the center of her eye. The brown sclera that surrounded the eyes was practically black compared to the brilliance of her pupils.
Her eyes were a wonder. The rest of the Squirrel Beastkin was practically unnoticeable. She faded into her chair, and when sitting seemed to grow transparent and inconspicuous. Niers cleared his throat.
“I note you aren’t wearing any lace.”
“Don’t want to. Lace is hard to sneak around in.”
“You’re not being called on to stab a [Commander] to death in a rainforest. You’re greeting dignitaries, prospective clients, allies. Guests.”
“Mm.”
“That means no stabbing.”
“I know.”
Silence. Niers chewed down his breakfast, hurrying because if he didn’t, he’d be late for class. He made sure not to get a spot on his clothing. Foliana slowly nibbled at her muffin, getting about half of it into her mouth and the rest on the tablecloth.
“I’m thinking about quitting.”
She stopped nibbling and looked at Niers. Not a trace of emotion crossed Foliana’s face.
“Okay.”
Niers stared at her. She stared at him.
“This is where you remind me of the good old days.”
“Mm. Right. What good old days?”
The Fraerling thought. Then he cursed.
“I’m feeling old, Foliana. You have grey in your fur—”
“I’m distinguished. You’re old and wrinkly. I’m not.”
“You have fur. That hides your wrinkles.”
“Mm. I’d like blueberries.”
Niers stared at Foliana. She stared back. Sometimes they did this for minutes over breakfast. She looked at her muffins first.
“Blueberries are called that because they look blue. What do you call orange berries?”
“…Oranges? Tiwali Magma Bloomers?”
“Mm. Nope. If you want to go, we’ll probably be attacked. Mm. Not good. Should probably rethink.”
“Our company is fine. So long as you don’t engage directly with one of the other three Great Companies—I have my reasons.”
“Going to find your mystery chess partner?”
Niers grimaced. Half of Baleros knew by now that he was playing an opponent. Most knew exactly how many games he’d won and lost. (Two wins this week, three losses. Four draws.)
“Don’t talk me out of it. I’m done with this pomp and teaching those idiots.”
“You have a class in five minutes.”
“Really? Damn. Big feet squash it all!”
Niers leapt up. He pointed at Foliana as he ran for the Fraer-ways.
“This isn’t ov
er!”
She waved at him with one furred paw as he left. The tiny door slammed shut behind him. Foliana nibbled at a muffin, and then glanced towards the main door to the dining room.
It opened suddenly. Foliana disappeared. One of her subordinates, Peclir Im, edged into the room. He was a [Chamberlain], since [Stewards] were rare and required royalty to appoint them. But he was experienced, high-level, and knew Foliana and Niers well enough to look closely at the table. He coughed.
“Miss Foliana, if you’re here, I would like to know rather than die of a heart attack like my predecessor.”
Grudgingly, she appeared, still sitting at her table. Peclir nodded and approached her.
“Lord Astoragon?”
“He’s teaching class.”
“Ah. I could have summoned a helper to carry him had I been aware.”
“No. He likes running. He feels old if he’s carried. And there’s rat poo in the Fraer-ways.”
“I do apologize. I shall have someone clean the area immediately and put down poison.”
“Mm.”
Foliana nibbled as Peclir tidied Niers’ tiny dishes and half-eaten breakfast from the table. She stared at him without blinking. Peclir for his part—the man was Human, not that it mattered—was used to the scrutiny and kept working undeterred. Cleaning was a job for a lesser class like [Maid] or [Manservant], but Foliana had a habit of disappearing around anyone she didn’t trust, which was nearly everyone. More than one servant had tried to clean a chair with her on it.
People still talked about the previous [Majordomo].
“When are the fancy people arriving?”
Peclir paused and glanced towards the rising sun.
“In an hour, I believe.”
“I have to greet them. They’ll watch Niers teach the first day.”