The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

Chieftain’s Circle

The battle between Shargann and Murethal went from fast to dizzying in mere seconds. The entire circle turned into a sphere of chill fire, quite literally, as both combatants unleased flurries of combative magic against one another. Pieces of ice, rocks, snow, and the ground itself all became pieces of a deadly circle of whirling blades and shrieking metal. Shargann clearly had the upper hand, though; before the spectators could do more than blink, Murethal was bleeding from a dozen places, some of which looked serious. Shargann spun off one of the pillars of ice and hammered with a vertical cut on the edge of Murethal’s sword, which withstood the stroke in violation of several laws of physics. The next few blows proved similarly ineffective against the Vanahym’s blade; the weapon took each hit, shrieking painfully but enduring. That was when the Exile opened his counterattack, unleashing a flurry of thrusts at his opponent. Shargann caught his wrist on the last of these and snapped it, shoving Murethal backward with an expression of contemptuous rage on his face.

“Do you actually think you can beat me, Vanahym?” He snarled. “I have beaten armies of thousands and destroyed the greatest of kings. What do you have that could give you even the slightest hope of defeating me?”

Murethal switched hands with the sword, cradling his injured arm. Then, he did something that shocked the shadow king. “This.” He raised the blade and shouted in a language that Shargann had never heard, and the blade suddenly started glowing purple.

“You…” Shargann’s eyes narrowed. The shadow king instantly knew what he was seeing, and how it had arrived in Murethal’s hands. Or hand. “He played me false.”

“He did,” Murethal said, his killer’s smile widening. “And now you can take the fall.” With that, he swung the sword in a horizontal slash aimed at Shargann’s head. The shadow king ducked, but Murethal lashed out with his right knee, taking him in the gut. The flinch that followed lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Murethal to slash his right arm. The cut was not deep or serious, but the injury made Shargann drop his axe. As the Exile came on, the shadow king unleashed Blackthorns, a dark magic spell that ripped through the air in the Chieftain’s Circle and slammed Murethal up against one of the stone pillars. As he struggled to rise, the shadow king launched a Shadow Dragon spell, which picked him up and threw him to the ground with brutal force.

Murethal rose, his eyes narrowing. Raising the sword, he said the same words and levelled it at Shargann. The blade glowed brilliant violet again, and a bolt of pure energy lanced straight at and through the shadow king. Shargann grimaced in pain as his knees buckled; the energy had torn a fist-sized hole in his side, but the wound was by far not the worst thing to happen to him. Worse was the pain, which ripped through his body and ravaged his mind. As his vision swam, he saw the Exile standing above him, a haunting smile on his face.

“Now, Your Majesty,” he said mockingly, “let’s discuss a new power structure.”

Karkopolis

Two weeks later

Oriem looked at the faces around the table. The expressions ranged from uneasy to grimly determined, with a few oddities here and there. He knew each of these people, despite misgivings and pain and extremely slow negotiations, all agreed that the course of action they were about to take would prevent great loss of life. Sigurd especially had been reluctant to agree to this plan, as his people could ill afford to lose men. They had taken a hit six winters before from a plague, only to recover recently. But he had agreed.

“Stand we resolved?” Nods of assent. “Very well. Let it be known, here and now we recognize the raids on our land as an act of war and declare in solemnity that we intend to retaliate in kind. We, the Outlanders, declare a united war upon these scoundrels and pledge to force them into submission. I, Oriem, move that war be declared.”

“Agreed.” The Nagai general, Ketar, stood, or rather moved to be more erect. “Let this be a joint declaration of war. I second the move on the part of the king.” The other heads around the table nodded.

“Then we agree,” Oriem said grimly, his left hand clenching into a fist. “We declare war.”

“Where to begin, though?” Sigurd asked.

“With the dwarf village of Vadhyl,” Oriem answered. “It is nearby, and its people have suffered greatly. We know some to still be alive, and we would liberate them if we can.” It looked like all the leaders agreed. “Are we resolved on a place, then?”

General nods and cries of “Aye!”

“Good,” Oriem said, pounding his fist on the table. “Then we prepare for war.”

Vadhyl fortress

Olaf sat in the stone-walled room, his eyes closed as he whispered the words to the spell in front of him. The past few weeks had revealed much, not the least of which had been this spell. First, further examination of himself had revealed that the burning sensation the water had caused on his shoulder was more than a mere twinge. Careful feeling and work in a rough mirror had shown that he, in fact, had been unfortunately given a magical brand of some kind. Accessing a variety of lore manuals had revealed the mark was none other than the Seal of Perdition.

Several hours of weeping and wallowing in self-pity had proven insufficient to remove the mark, and thus he had set about coming up with a well-reasoned plan to deal with it. The spells that Arden had left in his journal now proved easily readable, and he had proceeded to use them to great effect. The book was in front of him now, despite the fact that his eyes were closed. Not that he needed to see it; Olaf had memorized the spell forward and backwards, but that was only because he knew that a mistake could be disastrous. This spell was a long distance astral projection spell, which would allow him to see and hear events taking place far beyond the view of his fleshly eyes. And he had to do so; he could not arbitrate this deal otherwise. With the Seal came power, and with that power came an opportunity to wage war he had previously lacked. But even the greatest of generals and leaders needed an army at his back, which Olaf needed. And, given his motivation and plan, he knew where to find one. Not that he had not already made overtures, but that had won him weapons, not men.

After the marking, she had reached out. How the ice witch had found him, Olaf still had no idea, but she had done so, with interesting results. She had told him many things he had not known, but others that he knew were false. Still, he had need of her help, which he had taken. But by his own admission, he needed more than just knowledge to properly wage a war. And that was what he was about to get. Maker willing, he added at the end. Although, as someone marked for damnation, or at least according to tradition, it seemed rather inappropriate.

“Bird of vision,” he began, “I command you, bear my eyes from this flesh to that which I wish to see.” Suddenly, he felt a searing pain at the front of his skull, followed by an explosion of light. Then, he was there, inside the Huntress capitol in the throne room, where Telara and her daughter were standing in front of the throne. Telara’s voice rose high above a comfortable volume, indicating this was no ordinary lecture.

“I care not for what you think wise, daughter. This war belongs to us no more than their land does.”

“For their land not belonging to us, you were trapesing through it just fine,” Edessa snapped.

“That was necessary to find you.” Telara’s eyes narrowed. “I would imagine that you can at least understand that.”

“I do, Mother. I understand that you were deathly afraid of losing the investment you made in me. I understand that you wanted Carsten dead. And I understand that you have absolutely no compassion for anyone other than those you deem worthy of it. Which, I find, rather defeats the purpose of compassion at all.”

Her mother scowled. “You fool. How can we fight these raiders when we have no idea who or what we would be waging war against? I can fight a war like no one else, my daughter, and I have reason enough to wage one. But first, I have to know: what am I expected to fight?” Suddenly, Telara’s eyes flicked upward. “We are not alone,” she whispered. “There is a wizard present.”

Olaf’s heart skipped a beat, and Telara continued. “Come out now. Don’t be shy.” He took a deep breath. Now came the hard part. Concentrating, he focused all his magical energy into projecting an image of himself into the room. Instantly, Telara’s eyes widened.

“Who are you?” She demanded. “And why are you here?”

“My name is Olaf Thorvaldsen,” he answered. “As to my purpose, tell your daughter to leave. I need to speak with you privately.” The Huntress shook her head.

“Not a chance. You are a wizard, boy. What assurance do I have that you will not strike me while she is gone?” Olaf held up his hands.

“Telara, this is an astral projection. Even if I wanted to hurt you, I don’t have a single spell that reaches this far. Besides, you have sixteen separate wardings tattooed all over you. All the spells that circumvent them would have to be delivered almost point-blank, and that by a far more experienced wizard. So no, Telara. If I wanted you dead, I would have come in person. Is that good enough evidence for you?” The Huntress narrowed her eyes.

“My answer is still no.” He sighed.

“Very well, then. Your daughter shall be party to this as well.” He folded his hands and began to pace. “I hear you’re divided on the subject of war with these raiders.”

Telara bristled. “Please. Bandits with delusions of grandeur. Hardly a reason for war.” Olaf shook his head.

“They’re actually far more than that. Have you ever heard of Vanahym?” Telara’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Where did you hear of them?” Her voice was low, husky, agitated. Indicating that she had. Good, he thought. At least it won’t be hard to convince her, then.

“They are the ones who are wiping us out,” he told her. “Their descriptions in lore match the raiders I destroyed when Vadhyl fell. Their magic wardings do as well.”

Telara nodded. “It would make sense. Orcs lack the organization, and men are not so treacherous. I wonder…” she remained lost in thought for several seconds, and then spoke again. “How many raiders are there in total, would you estimate?” She asked.

He shook his head. “How should I know. They’ve destroyed more villages than I can count, and we have no idea where they’re coming from. We can’t even send intelligence agents to find out where it is, and sweeping the area with astral projection could take months. That’s time my people don’t have.”

“So you want us to go to war just so save a few hundred dwarves?” Edessa asked. “What makes you think we would?”

“I don’t,” Olaf replied. “Even if you would accept that mission, you would need another reason to go to war to satisfy the other Lords of the Free. So here it is. The Vanahym aren’t leaderless, nor are they simply seeking anarchy. They are led by a half-breed called Murethal, known to the Vanahym as the Exile. He was cast out from among them for his crimes against his people, but someone or something brought him back.”

“How do you know this? You said you lack intelligence.” Edessa’s eyes narrowed. “Those are things you could only know if you had seen them with your own eyes.”

Olaf smiled wickedly. “It turns out that he has overstepped the limits of his power, Telara. He made an alliance with a sorceress who resides in the Waste named…”

“…Issavea,” Telara finished. Her face had suddenly gone deathly white, and the tone of her voice had gone from powerful to a mere fearful whisper. “What dealings have you had with her?”

“Enough,” Olaf replied. “She wants Murethal gone, and wants it badly enough that she was willing to strike a deal with me. And that deal was that she would provide me with what I wanted to know in exchange for Murethal’s head.”

“And how do you know you can trust her?” Telara said softly. “She has played many before you false.” Olaf grinned at that, a truly horrible expression.

“Here,” he said, baring his left shoulder to reveal a blackened set of runes burned there. “That’s how I know she wasn’t lying.” Telara put her hand to her mouth.

“Impossible,” she whispered. “You cannot be…”

“Marked?” Olaf asked. “Why not? After all, my ancestor was. Mayreck had Valor’s Favor, though, and I rather wish I had that one. Anyhow, yes, I have the Seal. Thanks to it, I know a liar when I see one, provided I can tap the energy behind the Seal on command. But yes, Issavea told me the truth, or at least part of it. She wants him dead, and she’ll work with us to see it done.”

“But you?” Edessa asked. “How do we know we can trust you? The last one marked nearly killed his close kinsman. And, though I mean no offense, I do not believe you to be trustworthy.” The dwarf smirked.

“Oh, please don’t trust me, child. Don’t ever trust a word out of someone’s mouth that you don’t know better than your brother. Or mother, in this case. But about the Seal, no, it hasn’t affected me yet. And I don’t want it to, either.” He stopped pacing and turned to face them. “I personally don’t believe the bit about immortality tied to the mark, and so I’m interested in a deal. I want the Seal gone as much as you do, but the only way it’s been removed in lore is…” he paused, waiting for her to finish the thought.

Telara nodded, understanding. “The death of the bearer. I see. And how would you accomplish this?”

He sighed. “That’s what we have to discuss. I know a spell that would give me the tools to counter Murethal himself, but it’s not that simple. See, one of the things that I learned despite Issavea trying to hide it was that Murethal has another weapon. But a living one.”

“A living weapon? I don’t follow.” Edessa looked confused.

“A dragon,” Telara guessed. “He has a dragon. That should prove only a momentary dilemma.”

“Not this one,” Olaf told her. “See, most dragons wouldn’t be a problem, given my family heritage.” Telara nodded at this. His ancestor, Mayreck, known among Huntresses as Mayreck the Butcher, had single-handedly destroyed many of the larger dragon species, and this without any large siege weapons. But his descendants had not continued his crusade, sadly enough, she thought. “But not this one. See, he’s big; in fact, his wingspan is measurable in miles. I don’t much fancy cracking skulls with a beast like that. Not without help.”

“What kind of help?” Telara asked.

“Military help,” Olaf replied.

“Out of the question,” the Huntress declared. “You Outlanders can handle this on your own.”

“I think not,” he countered. “Telara, whatever else can be said of you, you’re a strategist. Think. We will lose this war against them, and when we lose, who is next?”

“They might stop,” she pointed out.

“They might, but they might not. Can you afford to take that risk?”

The Huntress’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I would help you?” Olaf smirked at her.

“Let’s just say we have one thing in common, Huntress: an overdeveloped sense of self-preservation. You’ll help; I guarantee it.”

He felt the spell dissipate, and the painful jarring as his vision returned to his own skull. Olaf was in the room again, and his head hurt. Suddenly, he was aware of another presence. He knew it was another wizard; no one else would have that kind of a magical aura about them.

“I know you’re here,” he said. “And I know you…Enlin.” That was when the girl stepped out of the shadows. Her long brown hair, as per the usual, remained un-styled, a custom in fashion among witches rather than sorcerers. She wore an ankle-length, sleeveless dress made of violet fairy silk, and she wore her customary falcon necklace. It was silver, with white sapphires for eyes. Her eyes, by contrast, were blue-green, like ocean water.

“Hello, dearest,” she said, smoothing her dress and walking over to the table where the book lay open. “You did not wait for me to perfect Arden’s astral projection spell. Nor did you use it to see me first.” He shook his head.

“I had more important matters to attend to,” Olaf explained. “I’m sorry. I know I should have come to see you earlier, and probably ought to have told you from the first. That’s no way to treat my wife.”

“That is no way to treat your wife,” she agreed. “But I understand. We agreed that matters of grave importance should take precedence. And you told me that you had some to attend to.”

“Then why are you here?” He asked. “I told you not to come.”

Enlin sighed, folding her hands in front of her. “That would be my aunt,” she said, her eyes lowered. “She wanted me to check on you.”

Olaf’s eyes narrowed. He had married Enlin as part of his deal with Issavea, but marrying the ice sorceress’s niece had been a difficult decision to make. While Enlin and Olaf had mutually consented to the union, neither of them harbored delusions about it. Yes, they did their best to show affection and kindness to one another, but they knew that their marriage had been one of convenience alone from the first. “Why?”

“She is afraid you will not cooperate with her,” Enlin confessed. “She fears you might be plotting against her.”

“And you?” She smiled at that.

“I am your partner in noncooperation,” she said. “How could I not believe in it?” He nodded, slipping out of his armor.

“How goes our plan?” she asked. “Have you had any luck trying to remove the Seal?” Olaf shook his head miserably.

“I looked through every book of lore I have, and used astral projection to look at a few I probably shouldn’t have. Every cure I examined proved inadequate in power.” Enlin nodded.

“Have you tried vitality magic?” She asked. He shook his head.

“How could I? I told you, that kind of magic is forbidden to practice. Besides, I am extremely poor at it.”

“As was I at lightning magic,” she told him. “And yet I mastered it.”

“Elements are easier to master than an entirely different spellcasting type,” Olaf protested. “And the Seal does not affect life force until the moment of potential death, if the legends are true.” He took his boots off and sat on the bed beside him. Enlin joined him, slipping her arm around his shoulder.

“Why do you insist on fretting over this?” She asked. “You need not die to rid yourself of that mark. Besides, if the legends are to be believed, you cannot die with that mark anyway.” He sighed.

“Were we right?” He asked. “Was this agreement a wise choice?”

Enlin looked off into the distance, her eyes suddenly glowing azure. He knew that light; she was looking into the future, as her aunt did. The difference between Issavea and Enlin was that Enlin knew how to harness Farsight as an offensive weapon, not merely a tool for manipulation. She could use it to anticipate enemies’ attacks and counter them; plus, she had a keen strategic mind. That and she had mastered vitality magic, which allowed her to manipulate several different types of vitality magic, which allowed her to use, steal, or otherwise employ life force. After a long moment, she answered. “I think so. But the outcome is difficult to see. Near as I can figure, we win. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Do we live?” Olaf asked.

“Again, I know not,” Her eyes returned to their normal dark color. “The future remains unclear.”

Olaf leaned against her, closing his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. “But can’t we forget about this for at least one night?” She nodded.

“We can. But that cannot make our problems go away.” She slid beneath the covers, her eyes glowing yellow again. “And one more thing; be cautious with my aunt. She means to betray us somehow, but I have yet to understand just how. I think, though, it involves trading your life for another’s.”

Olaf nodded, leaning against his wife and closing his eyes. He was smaller than she was, but that did not drive her to contempt, as it did for some. Rather, it triggered a strange combination of surprise and compassion; despite his apparent strength, his small size reinforced the fact that he was vulnerable all the same. She felt a strange surge of warmth toward him of a sudden. Not that she disliked him, but the forced marriage had always felt wrong to her. Very wrong, she admitted now. But here she was, trying to save him, to protect him, to keep him from harm. And was not love keeping those for whom one felt it safe?

“I truly wish we had met under other circumstances,” he murmured. “Maybe then you wouldn’t dislike me so much.” She looked down into his eyes.

“Please, do not be a fool. I do not dislike you. It is my aunt I hold in contempt. She has forced both you and I to do this.” She leaned down and kissed him. How long she stayed there she neither knew nor cared. When she did finally pull away, she felt a strange reluctance about it. “Come now, darling. We only have a few hours left, and I would rather not spend them talking about Issavea.”

“Agreed. By the way, I wanted to speak with you about that. I was wondering…does your aunt stay at her castle all the time?”

Enlin shook her head. “No. Sometimes she…” Understanding dawned on her. “Sometimes she leaves for days on end, with much of her castle staff.”

Olaf nodded. “You said you wanted a honeymoon, did you not? What better place than Frostspire for one? Think of it: we would all but have the place to ourselves, and we could have a look at her spell books to our hearts’ content. I can leave Qural in charge for a few days.”

She smiled. “I could get used to a little privacy.”

“As could I. Do you…”

“Stop talking. We have time enough for that tomorrow,” Enlin told him. Then she kissed him; this time, she did it far longer than the last.

Haven

Carsten stood beside the gate of Haven, watching the refugees streaming in. He had taken up a position as a village elder beside Deyann upon his return from the Therian sanctuary, and had thus been given task as the councilors’ door-warden. Every person that came through Haven’s doors became his responsibility. He had been overseeing the induction of refugees into Haven for the past three days, and the process filled him with a mixture of pity and rage. Currently, he was helping a family of dark elves to the part of the city where the most of that people could be found.

“Follow Greentree Street down until it crosses Twoknot Way. You can’t miss it; the trees growing in the alleys will be your first clue that you’re there.” The father of the family nodded his thanks.

“We are grateful, Master Dwarf.” Carsten nodded and stepped closer to the dark elf, pressing a small bag of coins into his hand.

“You’ll need this,” he whispered. “Food is getting scarce around here, meaning it’s also getting more expensive. From the look of your clothes, you don’t have much in the way of money to spare.” The elf nodded his thanks, cracked the cart’s reins over the backs of the horses, and the wagon moved off. One of the children, a little boy, struggled to stand on the seat as he waved goodbye to Carsten. The dwarf smiled and returned the gesture.

“You seem to be doing well.” Carsten turned to see Thomas standing behind him, his hands folded across the haft of his walking axe. He wore a suit of cobbled-together armor, many of its plates rusted and pitted with age and use, and a pair of similarly weathered boots. Gifts of the Outlanders; not particularly comely to look at, but completely functional.

“I don’t know about that,” Carsten said, cranking the gate’s wood-and-iron portcullis shut behind the wagon. He had help, of course; the portcullis was large enough that it required several men and winches to move, though the rest of the mechanisms were higher up. That suited Carsten just fine; he hated heights. “At least I’m not doing badly.” He fell silent as he watched the group of ragged beggars that milled about the gate, a hungry and lost look in their eyes. Carsten wished he could have done more for them, but he had already split a week’s wages at the blacksmith’s between the five of them, and he needed the rest to survive.

“It must be hard to watch,” Thomas remarked, uncrossing his hands and slinging the axe on his back. “They are your people, and you want to help them. But because you can’t as only one man, you want others to do so. And seeing them refuse is hard.”

The red-haired dwarf lowered his eyes. “In their position, would we act differently?” He asked. “Would we help those we have spent our whole lives hating?”

Thomas shrugged. “You did not turn me away, knowing me as I was. And I did not do it to you, either. So no, I do not and cannot believe we would.”

“I suppose you’re right.” A shout came from the wall.

“We have more coming in,” came Thernal’s voice. The sentry, a dark elf, had sharp eyes and a tongue to match, though his jokes had no malice or cruelty behind them. “It looks like dwarves, Carsten.” The dwarf set his hand against the winch.

“Lift the gate,” he commanded. He heard the winches above his head start moving, which meant he had to wait several seconds before he started winching his own. After he had waited the prescribed amount of time, he heaved on the mechanism, lifting the gate high enough for the dwarves to pass through. There were about twenty of them, a beaten and sorry-looking group that made even Outlands dwarves look like royalty. Their frames were thin, starved-looking, and their clothes torn from many days of travel without shelter. Carsten found himself rendered speechless for several seconds, unsure just what to say. Then he regained his composure and began giving orders. He dispatched several bystanders to fetch the elders, who would see that these got immediate attention from what healers and artisans the village had. The care and supplies would be furnished at discounted rates, of course; much of the money for them would most likely be provided by the elders themselves. This came as no surprise to Carsten, who knew that not one of them could bear to watch anyone suffer.

“Come,” he said, taking the patriarch of the ragtag group by the hand. He recognized the old man; he was one of Olaf’s Shatterhands. Come all the way from Vadhyl, most likely fleeing its destruction. How they had escaped, though, was beyond him. “You must be weary.” The other dwarf nodded.

“We have journeyed far and through much adversity. A rest would indeed be welcome.” Carsten pointed to a nearby inn.

“Come with me,” he said, starting toward it. “You’ll find a night’s rest here.”

“I cannot pay,” the old dwarf protested. “We cannot stay there.”

Carsten closed his eyes, a silent moral battle raging inside him. He knew he needed the money, but…Then he remembered something his father had once told him. His mother, Helena, had been aghast to discover that her husband had shared part of their precious winter stores with a traveling family. She was not opposed to helping people, but she thought there had to come a point when one put others’ needs behind one’s own.

“You want to be noble,” she had said to Sigurd, “but caring for your family is your highest calling. How can we do that with no food? You cannot give it to every passerby without discrimination. There are far too many hungry people in the Outlands for that.”

“Sacrifices are most noble when you can least afford them,” Sigurd had answered. “Helena, I would never endanger us. You know that. But I cannot turn away the needy from our doors. The Maker will provide what we need, as he always has. What we have is not ours to keep. You know that.”

That decided him. Slowly, Carsten took the bag of coins from his belt.

“Money will be no problem,” he told the other dwarf. “Come, I’ll show you in. Best not wait for the rooms to fill up.”

Carsten exited the inn and looked at the horizon. The sunlight was rapidly fading, and that meant he should probably get home. Or what was home now, he though miserably. He had entire years to wait before he could actually go home.

“Thoughts elsewhere?” Thomas was beside him again. The other dwarf had kindly offered to split the cost of the refugees’ room and board with Carsten, but the red-haired dwarf knew full well that his friend was ill-prepared to do so.

“Yes,” Carsten admitted. “In truth…I very much miss home.”

“Because you would be closer to your family? Or because you would be closer to Arcaena?” Thomas asked.

“Both,” the other replied. “I want to see both them and her again. But I think it’s more than just seeing my family. I want to…I want to make sure they’re safe.”

Thomas nodded, falling into step beside Carsten. “I understand. So do I.” The red-haired dwarf stared at him. “Oh, don’t act obtuse. You’re not, even if you would like for others to think so. Once they finish with the Outlands, where do you think the raiders will turn? Let me tell you, they will not stop after claiming one region. The Waste is theirs, the Outlands are falling fast, and we are next.”

“So you want to help us to help you?” Carsten asked.

“It sounds a little more selfish when you put it like that,” Thomas replied, swinging the door to the hut they shared open. “And no, that is not what I meant. Helping you would help us, but that was not the primary motivator. I see a friend in need, and I would very much like to take a hand.” He let his axe and shoulder satchel fall in a corner and went into the kitchen area. While the hut had only one room, it was spacious enough to eat, sleep, and cook in. Or at least it was supposed to be. Carsten generally handled the cooking, having had a little more practice at it than Thomas. The other dwarf preferred to clean up and maintain the house’s structural integrity.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Thomas asked. “Please not bread again.”

Carsten went over to the fireplace and experimentally poked the embers. “All right, your Highness. What would you prefer to have?” The red-haired dwarf’s tone was neither one of disrespect nor anger, but rather one in good-natured jest. They both knew that Carsten could easily craft something better than the bread and cheese they had been eating for the past few days. However, with Carsten and Thomas both becoming occupied in their respective duties, cooking had fallen behind on their list of priorities.

Thomas shrugged, sliding his pack from his shoulders. “The butcher paid the baker in meat today, and so I’ve got some salted pork that’s to die for.”

Carsten smiled. “I like the sound of that. Give it here, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Frostspire Castle

Issavea stepped away from her meditation chamber, her blind eyes narrowing as she did so. She looked out her window into the perpetual snowstorm, leaning on the balcony and squeezing it with such force that her knuckles cracked.

“Can you not sleep?” The voice was Sadens’. He had been her faithful bodyguard for many years, and he waited dutifully outside the chamber until she had finished.

“I would rather not,” she murmured.

“Can I be of assistance in some way?” He asked.

The ice witch shook her head. “Not this time.”

“You saw something,” the guard surmised. “What?”

“Murethal has grown bolder,” she informed him. “He has begun to make Slayer Blades.”

Sadens did a double take. “How could he have learned such magic?”

“I know not,” she replied. “But the fact is, he does know, and he needs blood for the ritual to make them.”

“What kind of blood?” He asked.