Winds of Fate

by Andrey Vasilyev

  “Not far from the wall. Their job is to lure Fomor’s fleet away, so we’re clear to land.”

  “Are you coming with us?”

  “Nope.” The jarl stroked his beard. “I’ll drop you off and go help the rest.”

  “That’s a shame. You’re a good warrior,” I said with sincere regret.

  “My place is the deck of my ship, not the dry land.” Hrolf walked off in the direction of the helmsman.

  “It really is a shame,” I said to Wanderer. “I wish we had him, not to mention Gunnar. He’s a good jarl, too.”

  “At least they’ll live longer,” I heard him say from under the hood.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t read the forums?”

  To my shame, I hadn’t. I’d logged in the day after Zimin and I had had our chat to make sure everything was in place, but I’d gotten as far as a few players giving up on the whole thing and felt better.

  “What’s up?”

  “The game admin announced that the area around the palace and the palace itself is testing ground for a new event. You can kill and be killed around it, and the normal rules apply, but death is final inside.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean, ‘final’?”

  “If anyone gets taken out in the courtyard or by the entrance, they die, and their things stay there. You respawn and can come back to pick them up so long as nobody beats you do it. NPCs will respawn healthy and happy somewhere else, too, just with their memory erased. But if you die in the palace, you can forget about your things.”

  “And NPCs?” I asked.

  “NPCs are dematerialized. They get a one-way ticket to permanent storage in the archive, all except for Gedran, and maybe Fomor. There are lots of quests with the old hag, and Fomor’s got enough of them, too. Plus, it isn’t just an event—there’s something up,” explained Wanderer. “Even the könig can die, I imagine. They can say there’s a change in power up in the North, and then design an event around that.”

  Okay, they took that a little far. I get the players, but what’s the point of killing off NPCs? It was my idea, but it didn’t have to be quite so radical.

  “They probably did that to make sure the players wouldn’t go whine about discrimination in the game,” Wanderer said thoughtfully, as if reading my thoughts. “By the way, we’re the only ones going into the rocks. Most of the players are high-level, and they’re not going to risk what they have. There isn’t much to do there, either, since Fomor is an NPC and you can’t kill him. I doubt anyone will get in our way.”

  I was starting to feel bad. They may have been chunks of code, but it was still a shame. What are Valyaev and Zimin, some kind of NPC-phobes?

  The ship sailed on, the waves singing a sad, ponderous sound as they slapped against the hull. Wanderer slept, Gunther swept a whetstone along his blade as usual, and above it all, hung the light, elusive specter of impending battle.

  A couple hours later, we heard a cry. “Up oars!” The drakkar slid to a stop.

  Wanderer started. “Are we here?”

  “Waiting for a signal,” I replied. “Hear that?”

  The shore we could see was empty, and we even had a glimpse of the other side—a slender strip of land overhung by a cliff nearly reaching the sky. From the other side of that cliff, came the indistinct sound of what was obviously combat raging. Our pincers were closing in on each other.

  “We made it in time,” the könig nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. Put on your armor if you took it off. I can just smell the rivers of blood we’re about to let loose.”

  Hrolf scanned the horizon, confidently pointing at a few dark specks in the distance.

  “Way to go, Gunnar—what a commander. He teased Fomor’s ships into chasing him, so they won’t be bothering us.”

  “Is that the fine fellow my daughter’s been talking my ear off about?” the könig asked sharply.

  “How should I know whose praises she’s singing?” Hrolf scratched his beard. “Might be, might not be.”

  “Yes, that’s him,” I said, butting in. “Gunnar’s a fine warrior.”

  “What kind of person is he?” the könig asked, as if in passing. “Does he have anything to his name?”

  “A ship, a crew…” Hrolf blew his nose off the side of the ship. “And a nice odal on one of the fjords.”

  The könig went silent, clearly noting to himself that Gunnar was no beggar. Excellent. I wouldn’t mind having a friend in the könig’s family. And, given Ulfrida’s disposition, I assumed he had a good chance of becoming könig himself soon.

  Ten minutes later, a ball of fire shot into the air, showering sparks behind it.

  “Up, you lazy bones!” roared Hrolf. “It’s time!”

  “Gorrdy, Grim, stay close to me,” ordered Wanderer. “We won’t get involved in the battle until we find the old woman.”

  The hired swords nodded in unison.

  Gunther and Flosy took up positions behind my shoulders and watched the approaching wharf, the large area behind it already filling with fighting. The truly titanic proportions of the Ice Wall loomed in the distance.

  “Flosy, maybe you should stay here on the drakkar with Hrolf. What good will you be there?” I asked. “We’ll probably have to walk back anyway.”

  “How could you, Jarl?” Flosy added the smell of anger to his usual aroma. “No, I’m coming with you and Gunther. I can’t stay here.”

  I did what I could. There was no use trying to convince Gunther to do anything but surge ahead.

  “Okay, warriors!” we heard the könig bellow. “We’ll land, wait for the second drakkar, join forces with the troops there, and head directly to the palace. Don’t get distracted by the fighting on the way there—that’s not what we’re here for. Our target is behind the Ice Wall.”

  The shore came closer and closer, until the gangways bumped against the wharf.

  “Disembark!”

  We jumped up and ran down onto the shore.

  The warriors tramping across the enormous blocks of ice paving the area formed into a wedge bristling with swords. As soon as the könig came down from the drakkar, the wedge closed in behind us, leaving me feeling relatively safe next to him.

  Just like with the assault of the Wild Heart citadel, there was no overall strategy involved in the battle we saw going on; it was just an enormous compilation of many small clashes. Occasionally, an adversary would come running at us, but loners like that, no matter how brave, stood little chance against the swords brandished by the hardened warriors of the North.

  The din grew nearly unbearable, and we occasionally heard barked orders, cursing, and even a foreign language, something that surprised me.

  Just then, the second ship sailed up to reinforce our ranks with the rest of the assault group, and we swept toward the palace, mowing down everyone in our path. The könig had a double guard around him, and I sincerely hoped I wasn’t too visible behind their tall figures—that was one thing I, at least, didn’t need. Wanderer’s problems were his own.

  The ice palace drew closer and closer.

  You saw the Ice Palace.

  To complete Great Wonders of Fayroll, see the other five wonders of the Fayroll world.

  “Where are they going?”

  “That’s for the event. Screw that, I’m not going.”

  “Who even knows if there’s anything over there?”

  “Screw you, that’s what’s over there. If you leave your things in there, don’t come to the clan storehouse begging for more.”

  That was about the size of the commentary we could hear accompanying us on our way to the palace gates. The players followed us with their eyes, but none of them made a move to follow. Thank God.

  There was a welcoming committee by the gate. Fomor’s ice guards were impressive, hulking, with their faces and bodies cut from a single chunk of ice and their ice armor and two-handed swords glistening in the sunlight. They stood quietly and confidently, well apart from the bat
tle raging in front of them. It was clear what their orders were, nobody gets in.

  As soon as they saw the wedge moving toward them and realized that our bearded warriors intended to force their way in, six guardsmen readied their swords. They didn’t last all that long, but next to their shattered bodies also lay the remnants of eight of our warriors. Wanderer was right. If we keep trading bodies for bodies, there won’t be anyone left to fight Fomor. The könig had about 100 of his own swords to go along with fifty of the best Sea Kings and, of course, us. There was the mage, too, who ran up to the könig at the last moment, just as we entered the palace. He was breathing hard.

  “Where have you been?” barked the könig.

  “Over there.” The mage sucked air in with a whistle as he shook his head.

  “Hurry up!” Harald said, his gentler side showing through, as he plunged through the large gate.

  I could feel someone’s eyes on my back, and I turned to see Romuil looking at me from the middle of the courtyard. Our eyes met, he raised his sword, and I saw him jump back into a fight with some shaggy creature.”

  “That’s not good,” I muttered to myself.

  When the last of the warriors walked across the threshold, the mage waved his staff and muttered some gibberish I didn’t understand. A dull, shimmering film fell over the entrance.

  “Now, we can get out, but nobody can get in,” he explained.

  “What are we waiting for?” The könig was scowling and focused. “Your swords will rust if you go too long without using them, and it’s bitterly cold in here. Let’s kill Fomor and go home. If anyone’s left alive, drinks are on me.”

  The trip through the palace turned into a series of endless skirmishes and duels. The ice guards fought valiantly for each meter, and the palace was enormous. Our group thinned, but we killed ninety of Fomor’s best warriors (I counted). Still, we only had sixty of our own left when we got to the throne room. The mage had done an excellent job leading us through the web of corridors.

  “We’re here.” He jabbed his staff at a pair of large doors covered in a frosty pattern. “Fomor’s in there.”

  “Well?” The könig looked at him and turned to us. “Let’s go kill him!”

  The warriors pounded their swords on their shields and advanced.

  The hall the doors opened to reveal was enough to impress even the most experienced of travelers. It wasn’t just gorgeous; it was grandiose. The sunlight reflected off the polished, transparent—in stark contrast to the colorless boulders—blocks of ice that made up the floor, lighting the hall and creating a stunning play of light and shadow. At the other end, a good fifty steps from the entrance, was the Great Fomor sitting atop a dais on his ice throne.

  I don’t know about everyone else, but I suddenly had a timid feeling wash over me in the presence of such splendor. My insignificance and irrelevance to the world I was in hit me as I looked around.

  “He’s playing mind games, the bastard,” hissed Wanderer, and I shook my head in an attempt to clear it. The mage got busy as well; he waved his staff, a shower of sparks shot out, he barked something inarticulate, and I saw the bloodthirsty fire come back into the deadened eyes of our warriors.

  “What brought you to my palace? I don’t recall declaring war, könig.” The deep, powerful voice of Fomor boomed through the hall.

  But when I took a second to actually look at Fomor, I was disappointed. I’d assumed he would be something other-worldly, Sauron-esque. I thought he’d be huge, terrible, pulsing with evil. No such luck. Sure, his height was about what I’d expected. It was the rest of him that didn’t impress me. He was wearing the same ice armor as his guards, he had an ice crown, presumably the exact one I needed, on his head, and his completely white face was expressionless.

  “You don’t need to declare war in order to do damage. You’ve wreaked more havoc in my lands than a war would have, in fact. I’m here to make you pay for what you’ve done,” the könig announced imperiously.

  “I don’t quite understand you, könig. Your speech is dim and stupid, like that of other men. You want gold? Please, I’ll give you as much as you want, and you can leave my palace.”

  If that greedy könig even thinks—

  “You want to pay in gold for the lives of my people? That’s hardly a fair exchange.”

  “Why not?” asked Fomor implacably.

  “Your head is the only fair price for the death of my people,” Harald said, without any fake drama whatsoever. “That’s what I’m here for, and I’ll take your gold along with it when I’m done.”

  A dozen guards—all that were left alive—tramped out from behind Fomor’s throne, followed by Gedran. She supported herself with a cane, an unusually nasty look on her face.

  “It’s like we never even parted ways,” she said to us before stopping when she saw Wanderer. “And you’re here, too! It’s so nice to have you all here in one place.”

  “König, the old hag is ours,” Wanderer said quietly.

  “All you’ll get from me on that point is a thank you,” muttered Harald, waving his ax and flexing his muscles.

  Fomor stepped down from the throne, a large mace in his hand. “Well, lord of the North, you’ve made your choice. If you want to die, so be it. I would have offered you your life and a job ladling crap in your outhouses once the North is under my rule, but since you’d rather die…”

  “Hey, you!” Flosy’s indignant voice piped up. “That job is already held by Alex, a friend of mine. What kind of monster are you?”

  Fomor signaled to his guardsmen, who rushed forward. He charged down the steps of the dais behind them. Swords clashed, the familiar din of battle erupted, and the constant sound of blows being delivered was interrupted only by the moans of the dying.

  The remaining guardsmen were obviously bigger and stronger than the ones we’d already killed in the corridors—the elite of the elite. I had not the least desire to cross swords with any of them, preferring to stay in the rearguard with Wanderer. He and his friends had somehow managed to corner Gedran against a wall.

  She swore, ducked nimbly under a few bolts shot at her by Gorrdy, and swung an innocent-looking cane that must have been made from a metal tree, judging by the sound it made against Wanderer’s saber. There was no getting away from them, but they were having a hard time finishing her off, nonetheless.

  “Cut her off!” Wanderer yelled at Grim.

  “I’m trying, I can’t catch her!” he answered.

  “I’ll kill you all!” squealed Gedran, dodging the blur of swinging blades coming at her from all sides. “And then I’m going to eat you!”

  “Don’t stop! She can’t have time to focus!” roared Gorrdy. “We’re goners if she starts conjuring her magic up!”

  I was about to jump in and help them take out the dexterous witch when something flew over my head, crashed into the wall and landed right beside me.

  “Hey! That could have been my leg,” I yelled indignantly as I looked down.

  On the floor lay Gunther von Richter, a valiant knight, the glory and pride of the Tearful Goddess Order. His visor was badly dented from the force of the blow, and his armor wasn’t exactly pristine either. Not surprising after hitting the wall that hard.

  I’m ashamed to say that I was afraid. Had my friend reached the end of his line, his helmet bent inward as it was? Wait! His legs and arms twitched, and it looked like he was alive. Sorry, buddy, no time to take care of you now. I have to call in the cavalry.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The last one, in which we leave the hero lost in thought.

  I underestimated Fomor. He was a nasty bugger, it turned out. We were able to take out his guards, or, at least, two Sea Kings were chopping up the last of them not far from the throne. But the price we paid was heavy. Many of our men had left splotches of blood on the floor, fifteen or so corpses mingling with the ice carcasses.

  And, Fomor wasn’t about to give in. His mace oozed power, and each swing sent one or
another of our warriors flying off to the side. They lay there, limbs twitching if they were lucky, motionless if they weren’t. He maliciously laughed as he promised everyone in the room a foul death.

  It really was time to call the cavalry—it might have been too late if I’d waited any longer. I pulled out my horn, blew into it, and bellowed out instructions.

  “I need everyone, but no horses. They’ll be useless here.”

  Mounds appeared on the ice slabs, soon becoming familiar figures.

  “This looks fun!” Skeggy cried cheerfully.

  Swords slid out of sheaths, and bows creaked under the weight of drawn arrows.

  “Ah, an old friend,” Ragnar smiled, his lips parting in a bloodthirsty snarl. He nodded to me and glanced back at Fomor.

  “Can you handle him?” I asked.

  “Well, of course! A worthy foe, and a worthy time for a battle. It’s just a shame there isn’t much of that time—the sun’s too bright.”

  It was true. Morning was long since gone, and the rays of the afternoon sun lit up the hall brightly. We had ten minutes.

  The first arrows whistled through the air and thudded into Fomor’s icy flesh. He looked down at them in surprise, noticing the new arrivals when he glanced around the room.

  “Ah, the dead servants of a dead god. I can’t think of a quarrel we might have had, so there isn’t anything between us. If you leave right now so I can fight these mortals, I won’t take revenge on you.”

  “Our father thought little of you as a warrior, and spared you no honor as an opponent,” Ragnar answered, tightening with his teeth a strap tied around his sword’s guard to make sure it didn’t slip out of his hand in the heat of the battle. “We can but follow his example.”

  Fomor’s only answer was to leap forward.

  “I’ve got her, but I won’t be able to hold her for long!” I heard Grim shout suddenly.

  He’d been able to pin the witch to the wall with his fork around her neck, but she was twisting and squirming with all her might. Crooked fingers caught hold of his shoulder and sank in, tearing away at his flesh. The NPC’s health dropped quickly.