To the Snowline
It had been hard for Felicity to make out where everything was on the map. The Rogue’s drawing ability certainly lacked anything like clarity. One of the key landmarks appeared to be a large cat. But she had seen the peaks and trails badly depicted here before. She knew which way to go. She simply had to convince the others to keep moving on without the Rogue and the Ranger. Fortunately, the Troll’s attack, which had been entirely unexpected, had done the job. The party was upset, nervous and entirely untrusting of each other, this despite the fact that they had to some degree worked together to defeat the creature. Unfortunately, this mistrust extended to her, especially her.
But she was the one with the prophecy, and now she was the one with a map. With Donalt and Dorian out of the way, two men who were far too prepared to consider anything other than themselves, she only had to convince Daisy that her way was the right way.
‘She’s an excellent fighter but she is no snooping Rogue or a pathfinder like Dorian, and she has to trust to my insistence that the choice of path is correct, and that they were headed the same way as the scouts.’ Felicity mused.
‘The Wizard was easy to persuade, he’s so self-absorbed he barely acknowledges there are other people around him. The Cleric has difficulty remembering where they were, let alone where they were going.’
This was an astute observation by the Sorceress. Valeran was constantly uttering whispered prayers to Findus, God of Geography. In fact, it was possible that only Valeran and tourists were keeping the obscure deity in business.
‘And Andreton doesn’t really care one way or the other. Whichever way they are going was ‘ze right vey to somezing’ apparently.
When she had heard this statement from the Warrior at first it seemed quite stupid, but since then she had begun to think
people might have underestimated the wisdom of the colossal Warrior.
She led them forward. Pressing on as best she could and at her most able speed, but they could only move as fast as their slowest member.
‘Corbett! Could you please keep up!’ She shouted down the line to the Wizard.
He ignored her. Decades of walking had taught him to pick a pace and stick to it, and his pace was slow. People walking slowly didn’t trip over things, or into things and could avoid things coming towards them.
‘You know dear, you could pick it up a bit.’ Valeran said, he walked ahead of Corbett now. Andreton had taken up the middle position of the line while Daisy and Felicity walked ahead.
‘Piss off.’ Corbett replied.
‘Charming.’ Valeran said and increased his pace. He would leave the miserable sod to his own devices.
Corbett maintained his slow and steady pace and waited for the Cleric to move out of earshot.
‘Carl.’ He said quietly. ‘Carl, you useless wretch. What are you doing? Where are you?’
There was no reply and he couldn’t feel the presence of either demon in his mind. It was like calling into an empty room.
‘Kezra!’
Still no reply came, and also no shimmer or quiver in the insubstantial curtain that separated his thoughts from wherever the demons went.
‘Bloody hell.’ Corbett muttered. ‘I may as well have cats in there.’
He was beginning to feel anxious. More than usual. Releasing power upon the Troll hadn’t eased the stress upon his being, it had exacerbated it. Now he could feel the surging tide of magical energy stored inside him and he couldn’t use it. Not unless they were attacked again and even then he would need to be careful. His warping of the Essence would have been noticed by Gods and Demons alike. Should he perform any
further spellcraft he could well get a visit of a most unpleasant kind.
He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell.’
‘It’s no use pushing him.’ Daisy said to Felicity as they trudged ahead of the line. ‘He’s a Wizard. You know what they’re like.’
‘What?’ Felicity asked without turning to face the Fighter, ‘They arrive precisely when they mean too?’ That crap?’
‘Yes actually. That and if they get anxious or very angry, they tend to vaporise the air you are breathing.’
‘Corbett? Are you serious?’ Felicity gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘Come off it. He’s just lazy. That whole arrive when they mean too nonsense has been floating around for years. It’s just an excuse to drag their feet.’
‘You know they can’t own transport?’ Daisy said, feeling that Felicity’s dismissal of her reasoning was unfair.
‘Of course I know.’ The Sorceress snapped. ‘They can’t ask for a ride either. Have you ever heard anything so stupid? They have all these rules and laws and all they ever do is try to twist and bend them.’
‘Instead of just breaking them?’ Daisy said, keeping her responses cool, but directed.
‘Rules are made to be broken Daisy. Like bones. And hearts.’
‘I suspect it’s that attitude that has given Sorcery such a heart-warming reputation.’ Daisy said, then followed this up quickly, ‘That also makes me wonder where your boyfriend is. We’ve been walking for hours.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ Felicity growled. Then realised she was being teased. ‘Donalt and Dorian will get back to us. Just not yet. It’s not time.’
‘Not time?’ What does that mean?’
‘It means the Prophecy is playing out as I saw it, despite that Troll.’ Felicity looked back to the line of adventurers and they marched towards them.
‘You didn’t see the Troll? What else didn’t you see I wonder.’
‘I can’t tell you what I didn’t see Daisy, but what I did see makes me want to make sure everyone is safe, and that the Rogue and the Ranger find us. Trust me.’
Daisy didn’t reply. Letting her silence do the talking. Walking with only the sound of the constant wind in her ears she observed the way snow crept down the sides of the mountains ahead and onto the land below, and it appeared to be close. She knew this was only an illusion, those peaks were just beyond the horizon. There would be miles of frozen, snow-filled land to cross and she still had no idea how deep they had to travel into it to find the gate. The Sorceress claimed to have obtained the information from the Rogue although hadn’t said when this had happened or what the information was. But she was the group leader, so this was all perfectly legitimate. It was annoying, but that’s how it was.
She looked back at the line of adventurers. The Wizard was talking to himself, Andreton was humming to himself, she thought, and Valeran uttered prayers with his eyes half closed as he walked. They were all lost inside their own worlds, but she had decided not to let Felicity have a moment to herself. This girl was far too devious to be left to her own devices and she had become very pensive since the first signs of thick snow had appeared. She had to have seen something in this alleged prophecy of hers that was directly related to where they were headed, beyond that of entering a Gate. Something bad.
‘I’m watching you little miss perfect smile.’ Daisy thought as she walked.
Andreton was indeed humming as he strolled along with Francis at his side. His tune was that of an old Voridian lament concerning the fate of a farmer who cultivated Chosh, a succulent root crop that grew surprisingly well on the harsh steppes. Farmers were revered above warriors and adventurers. They were in fact second only to mothers in terms of esteem in any clan as both in their own way produced life, whereas Warriors were only dealers of death.
The Farmer had lost a son who had gone to war and he had vowed revenge, believing his boy to have been killed in a dishonourable way. He set out to find the killer and deliver justice. Which he ultimately did. However, when the farmer returned to his clan, he discovered that they had not fared well. He had left without any notice to his people and his sudden absence had meant his crops had not been cared for. It had been a particularly harsh year for the clan and the lack of the farmer’s harvest had caused great hardship. Unable to feed themselves the clan had been for
ced to leave their land and seek out a new home.
When the farmer returned and saw he had lost his people he realised that in seeking revenge, to fill the hole inside him which his loss had created, he had only succeeded in making it deeper.
Andreton didn’t really know what it all meant but he really liked Chosh and the story reminded him of the pies his mum used to make.
He had enjoyed the fight with the Troll. Because of it he had discovered that the Fighter was very brave and very smart and that the Wizard was very fiery and explodey and could do neat stuff with soil. The Cleric could run very fast for an old man, and the scary pretty lady was good at cutting stuff up. This was a good party. He wished Donalt was them though and wondered where he might be. He understood he had gone off with the Ranger and his little dog, but Andreton wasn’t sure why because the direction they had gone to scout wasn’t the direction the dark lady was taking them.
He had learned this skill from Donalt, how to know where he was, where he was going and where he had been. It was called Special Awareness, or something. It was handy because Andreton was well aware that he had trouble with thinking, so if he at least knew where he was, where he was going and where he had been, he would always have somewhere to start from.
Donalt frequently told him, ‘No matter where you are Andy, you are always right there,’ and it gave him a sense of solidity and of being.
Donalt was his brother. Not the son of his Steppe-land mother, Bahnhilda, or Hildie as she was more affectionately known. But one who he treated as such. His mother would have liked Donalt. She liked most people.
Hildie had been a Steppe-maiden, choosing the life of mother to lots of children as many warriors were lost in battle leaving their kids without a mother or father. As her own flesh and blood child she expected Andreton to be an example to his siblings. There were no orphans in Voridia, there was not even a term for it. If a child lost a parent, or worse, both, then mothers and fathers were at once ready to step up and become that which was only temporarily missing.
He stood out from the others though. Even among the Voridian clans Andreton was large. They were a very muscular people and it was rare to find any under six feet tall. Hildie was seven foot three inches, his father, Maxiton was seven feet five inches. Andreton was seven feet tall at age twelve.
He had been happy to ensure the health of their ponies by carrying the cart to market himself rather than have them pulling its weight of weapons forged by his father. His strength was something else that was exceptional among a race of already exceptional people. But he wasn’t smart. Not like his mother. Not like Donalt. Sometimes he got confused, and he was uncomfortable around crowds of noisy people.
At these times he would try to retreat to a quieter place. Here he could contemplate nature and allow his mind to wander. People often thought that as Andreton strolled around, occasionally muttering to himself or smiling for no apparent reason that he was lost in his own mind. In fact, it was the opposite. When something stuck in his thoughts it could become his sole focus, and he would think long and hard about it. He would dwell on this matter and this could make him appear moody or sullen. But this wasn’t the case. His mind was just very busy, not very slow.
The snowline was ahead. He knew that something bad was beyond it. He knew this because unknown to anyone, even Donalt, he prayed to a God. Only occasionally, but there it was.
The Steppe Gods were a fierce lot and they had been rejected by almost all of the inhabitants of Voridia a long time ago.
They were impulsive, and violent and greedy. Their demands were harsh, repressive and led only to an escalation of war among the clans. And so, despite the threats from soothsayers and their auguries, the Voridians had denied all of their Gods, withstood their wrath, and ultimately emerged whole, possibly more whole, because they had not only saved their skins but also, it was believed, their souls.
But there was a God who had survived this rejection. It was Beriatrix, a Small God who concerned himself with matters of honour, and politeness and of respect. Beriatrix, unlike the other Gods, had learned from his mistakes, he had realised that a belief could be carried to an extreme and become the very antithesis of what it was supposed to engender. Honour might become stubborn refusal to listen to the other side, politeness could lead to dismissal of other ideas, respect could result in unwarranted worship. And so, the God had backed away from the others and had left his clerics to their own devices. If they were true to his tenets, they would preach moderation, consideration and understanding, but they would never lose their passion.
Andreton prayed to Beriatrix after every fight. He had never had insight or a word of encouragement from the God. But that was how the Steppe Gods were. You called and called but they never got back to you until they wanted something. But, Andreton liked Beriatrix’s humility. It made him want to be more kind, more understanding. The problem was that when you were an eight-foot tall Steppe-land warrior, raised to fight for your lands as your ancestors had, when you were built as though carved from pure muscle, and really really enjoyed a scrap it was hard to maintain a good temper around people who wanted to see you fall. The bad feeling… could that be Beriatrix?
The snowline was ahead, yes. And there was no Donalt. The little Rogue had fought at his side, or most of the time behind their enemies back for over a decade. He admired Donalt’s cunning and fast tongue, the Rogue was eloquent when required
and also spoke the language of the street. He was persuasive and able to drive a hard bargain. Andreton had no skill with any of this. Although he spoke the Common Tongue, as all did, his own Voridian language was always jostling to be used instead, and so his words were slow and stunted and his heavy accent caused amusement or derision in those that had to listen to him. This was perhaps part of the reason his axe did much of the talking. The snowline was ahead and getting closer. He offered a quick prayer to Beriatrix to help Donalt. Wherever he was, Andreton knew that he would be right there, but if Beriatrix could just watch over his friend, because sometimes Donalt couldn’t help himself and would take things that did not belong to him, and although he said he was only borrowing the thing or redistributing wealth Andreton was sure there was a problem with it. In Voridia Donalt would have to eat his own hands and feet if he stole another person’s things. Their laws were still on the harsh side he thought, so he also quietly prayed for Donalt to stop doing that. He wished his friend was here though. They fought well
together. There was fighting ahead. He knew it. Whether it was Beriatrix giving him a little of his knowledge or just his Voridian belief, that behind every rock was something waiting to throw it at you, he didn’t know. So, he continued to hum his tune and occasionally patted Francis’s side, to reassure her.
***
Donalt stood at the top of a rise of earth waiting for Dorian to catch up. The hillock gave him a good view of the area ahead and he wanted the Rangers keen eye to take a look before he continued. Dorian’s determination and endurance were impressive, and while he not moving anywhere near the speed of himself Donalt couldn’t help but appreciate how the man handled the slippery rocks, sheer walls and loose stones with only a splinted leg and a few drafts of narcotics to keep him going.
He was as tight-arsed as they came but his grit was unquestionable.
‘Come on dickhead.’ He called down to Dorian, who looked up to him with a black expression.
The Ranger said nothing until he reached the top of the hillock and stood at the Rogues side.
‘I know you think you’re just engaging in a bit of banter but be mindful that you are shouting in an area where there are clear signs of things other than us having moved about it.’
‘There are?’ Donalt replied.
He looked about. The light was failing quickly but besides that he hadn’t noticed anything other than a few rabbit droppings. He had seen Spyra sniffing at the air as it sat on Dorian’s shoulder but nothing else.
Dorian nodded. ‘There are things that cros
s this way frequently and in number. They have bare feet and are probably well used to the rocks and snow.’
‘Feet?’ Donalt said. ‘Like, not paws.’
Dorian looked about him and then replied coldly. ‘Feet, and occasionally paws. Big paws actually.’
‘Fuck me.’ Donalt now peered into the twilight. ‘That’s Orcs. Orcs with wolves.’
‘Possibly.’ Dorian reached for his flask, took a swig, and then breathed heavily. ‘It could be Kobolds, but if it is, they are most likely from the beyond the snowline. They tend to favour deep channels in the sides of mountains as their home and just come to these places to hunt.’
‘If there’s one thing I hate its numbers.’ Donalt said. ‘Give me a one on one scrap anytime.’
‘Preferably one that isn’t looking eh?’ Dorian said.
‘Bit harsh mate.’ Donalt replied, although it was a fair comment. He looked at Dorian’s splinted leg. ‘You going to be able to keep this up?’
‘No.’ The Ranger replied plainly. ‘I’ll need to sleep soon, and when I do, I’ll be completely out of it for at least six hours. And I mean out. You won’t be able to rouse me.’
‘Do you think we can still catch up?’
‘Yes, I think so. They will have to camp too, and they will be moving without urgency. If we are right about them fighting that Troll, then they will be cautious.’
‘Francis will need milking too.’ Donalt added. ‘No way Andreton’s going to let that slide.’
‘Good. That guarantees us some time then. We should find a spot to make a camp and get this done with. I’ve enough of the draft remaining to get me through tomorrow. So long as we don’t encounter any problems, and so long as we have the right direction, we should be able to meet them just before they reach where your Gate is indicated.’
‘Yeah, fair enough.’ Donalt said. ‘I’ll go on ahead and look for somewhere. If you lose sight of me, I’ll break a branch twice so you know it’s me and not some other twat. I don’t think that either one of us surprising the other would end well.’
Rocks Fall Everyone Dies Page 22