1
The dryad assault died down at long last, but it provided no repose for the survivors of the bout. Yes, it was unfitting to speak of winners. The living had to be counted, the injured treated and the dead buried. The dryads' remains everywhere around the outpost also had to be gathered to avoid further injuries. They were piled up and burned in large pyres downhill, outside the walls. The night was full of smoke and ash, stinging the eyes, parching the throat, and making everyone cough. At least no one could complain about it being cold, if such a macabre search for pros could be forgiven.
Wherever one looked, only dirty, exhausted, blackened faces looked back. No light of hope burned in their dark eyes. The men moved like sleepwalkers, barely aware of what their hands were doing.
In the main building, slightly cleaner but no less glum faces were gathered around the long table in a late night—or more like, early morning—meeting.
“What now?” Colonel Miragrave admitted her lack of answers. “We've barely thirty combatants left. Twelve Varnamites. Twenty-odd are wounded and can barely hold a sword. Some never will, nor will they walk or ride. The rest are dead or dying. All are exhausted and at their limits. We don't know the dryads' numbers or how many survived the Firestorm, but I doubt Felorn will run out of spirits or wood any day soon. Should they come again tomorrow in equivalent numbers or greater, we are doomed.”
“We have to go back,” Yuliana said.
“Is running away even an option?” vizier Attiker retorted. “If we face such a horde on the road, we're done for. Not to mention the bridge remains unmended. However you look at it, we are trapped in here.”
A dejected silence hung heavily in the air.
Yuliana was too tired to think. She sat on the bench and stared at the table, finding herself nodding off.
“The shrine of Lord Matheus,” Yornwhal finally spoke, stepping away from the wall he'd been leaning his back on. “Up on the hill behind us. I shall go there, by myself. I will call the Divine. I shall beg for his forgiveness and ask him to let us leave here in peace. Whatever he demands in reparation, we must pay it. I see nothing else we can do.”
“Think he will listen?” Miragrave asked.
Stepping towards the door, the wizard said,
“For one day and one night, I will negotiate with him. Do not look for me. By sunrise tomorrow, I will return, or else never will. You will know the answer then.”
“Are you going there to die?” the colonel stopped him again. “I will not permit it.”
“I am sorry,” the old man said with a faint smile, “I may be a court wizard, but my allegiances lie with my conscience first, and his majesty a distant second. Always have. When you see your father again, tell him I took the bottle. Fare well.”
Whether they believed in his chances or not, no one tried to stop the old man. Not like anyone could offer better ideas. In silence, they saw him off.
“Well then,” the colonel finally said and got up from her chair. “Yuliana. You and your friends fought bravely tonight. We owe our survival to your plan. Try and get some rest.”
2
The trip to the top of the hill wasn't long, but Yornwhal took his time. As he climbed the beaten path with steady feet, he spent the time coming to terms with his life up to this very point.
As a young lad born in a small coastal village, on the shores of the northern sea, he never could've imagined he'd be a court wizard one day. He was fifty-two when the rank had been bestowed on him, a man who had seen much of the world. It was probably appropriate to call him an adventurer. Not many shared his thirst for knowledge and foreign sights. Though his days at the Imperial Palace were full of comfort and luxury, he never forgot his roots as an earnest man of the land, nor ceased to miss the thrill of traveling. Even as his old bones grew tired and reluctant to obey him, he enjoyed any opportunity to work them.
The pain of effort reminded Yornwhal of his past resolution, which had so nearly slipped off his mind over the long years. He had never wanted to die in his bed of old age; even if his end was to be a violent one, he preferred to meet it while still able to stand and be of use to others, serving a purpose beyond himself.
There was the reason the wizard had defended the Emperor's quest for the mythical spring, regardless of how high he evaluated the chances of finding any. Not for the opportunity to gain fame and recognition, to do his duty, but simply to go out and explore for one last time.
The expedition had provided him what he missed, which the imperial capital couldn't give. He'd been glad to go. And he also knew he wouldn't return. Because of that, the wizard felt no fear now, leaving the outpost behind his back. It was with a stoic calm that he ascended the hillside, higher and higher, his earthly binds severed one by one with each successive step.
The hill wasn't terribly high, but the little huts still looked small and distant from the bare, rocky summit.
Yornwhal paused and gazed around, the still spreading flames of the forest fire marking the extent of the damage he had caused. A court wizard? Wasn't he only a misbehaving boy now, going to apologize to his neighbors for deliberately stoning their windows?
Who would forgive such a thing?
When even now, his actions continued to wreak collateral damage?
But he had done it to save lives. It had to count for something.
Was the Divine not a son of the same father as mankind? Could he really detest his brethern so? No, whatever had incurred the Divine's wrath, he had to still have a modicum of pity left in his heart, and the will to forgive.
At the highest point of the hilltop stood a stone-made altar, a rectangular, crudely shaped monolith between two taller rocks. There were jars, plates, and withered flowers left there, remains of past offerings.
Setting down his staff, Yornwhal knelt before the altar and stabilized his breathing, agitated by the climb. He sat in silence for a long while, eyes closed, driving away all unnecessary thoughts. It was still too soon for words.
The day dawned, gray and clouded.
Down below, graves were dug for the fallen knights. Occasionally, heart-wrenching cries reached the wizard's ears, made either by the wounded in their torment, or those grieving their lost brothers-in-arms. He shut them away and emptied his mind once more.
A rising wind eventually blew away the smoke. Sometime in the afternoon, it started to rain, putting out most of the remaining fires. The company rested in their cabins and tents, sleeping away the fatigue and fear.
The forest appeared to be doing the same. Nothing moved in the ashen land. No presence of anything living could be felt. Everything was calm, quiet and still. Though the rain felt cold and Yornwhal's cloak had a hood, he wouldn't cover his head before the sacred altar, but sat and endured the discomfort, eyes closed in meditation.
Cold, hunger, thirst, all that he endured without a word.
He had to prove his resolve to the Divine, or else no one would listen to his plea.
Eventually, the gloomy skies began to darken again.
It was then that the wizard opened his eyes and spoke,
“My Lord, Matheus, Master of Streams, Ruler of Felorn. Wilt thou hear me? In the name of Hamaran, our maker, will thou hear me? Wilt thou grant me an audience with thee, reverend and holy? Wilt thou hear my repentance? I know words alone are not enough to apologize for the injury we have wrought upon thy kingdom. Yet, words are all we weak humans have. Please. I knoweth not what hast brought thy ire upon us and rendereth us foes, but it doth not have to be so. We meaneth no harm to thee or thy own. We fought to protect ourselves, but this we didst with a heavy heart. Please, spare the men and women sleeping below. Let them go in peace. That is my sole request to thee. Thou alone hast the power to end this needless carnage. We are in thy hands, body and soul. Wilt thou not pity us? I am the one who delivered the heaviest of blows against thee. Take my life. I give it willingly, without resistance. I knoweth all my blood is not nearly enough to pay back for what we have taken from thee, but it is all I have to give. Strike me down where I sit and I wilt not speak a word of accusation against thee. Only, spare my friends. Spare my fellow warriors. Spare our companions from another land. Do so, and they shalt leave, never to come back. Let the suffering and destruction end with me.”
The magician continued to pray like this.
For hours he spoke, until it got dark.
At times, he fell silent, waiting quietly for a response, only to then resume his pleading. If sincerity wasn't enough, he would convert the Divine to his side with persistence. No matter how time passed, he wouldn't give up. He couldn't afford to, with everyone's lives resting upon his success. Again and again, he spoke to the wind, even when his throat became parched, his voice coarse. He had waited for a day, now he would fight for a night.
Then, in the dead of the night, a miracle happened.
As he again waited in silence, Yornwhal thought he heard a voice speak in the distance. At first, he thought it was someone crying out at the camp below. It was not. A faint, inhuman voice was carried to his ears by the wind, from somewhere far away in the north.
—Yornwhal...Yornwhal…
The voice called his name. The wizard leaned forward, strained his ears to hear it just a little better.
“My lord, I hear thee! Tell me, what is thy will?”
—Beware...Beware...son of man…!
Shaking his head, the wizard bit his lip.
“Still thou hate us, my Lord? Still thou will not forgive us…?”
However, the words he heard next astonished him.
—Behind...Behind…! Turn...turn...!
The wizard looked over his shoulder in confusion. In the corner of his eye, he saw that there was someone standing behind him on the path, only a step or two away. How? How had they made it this close without him realizing? He hadn't sensed anyone. He'd heard no footsteps either.
Startled for being so easily surprised, the old man struggled up to his feet with effort, numbed and stiffened by the long hours of remaining seated.
Who had come at this crucial moment? Hadn't he told them not to disturb him!
However, when he turned around and faced the visitor, all his doubts, thoughts, and accusations became dispersed, like a flock of pigeons before a speeding cart.
“You...W...what are you doing?” Yornwhal gasped and frowned, staring at the face of that person, the one he had expected the least.
There were probably better, more appropriate things he could've said in such a situation. Smarter words, better suited for being preserved for posterity. But those were the words that spontaneously came to him in his bewildered state, and escaped his lips without further consideration or self-censorship.
Shame, the court wizard of Tratovia never had the chance to speak again.
3
It was hard to tell when the day dawned. The skies remained clouded by lingering smoke and vapor. The slope around the settlement was dyed pale gray by ash. Now and then, a charred tree fell somewhere with a loud crack and a bang, making the earth shudder. When the sun did finally rise, it remained like an angry red eye, peeking through the melancholic curtain veiling all land.
Yesterday, a few more survivors were found trampled in the mud, but the fact failed to lift the mood. To compensate, a number of injured had succumbed to their wounds overnight and more graves had to be dug.
Still, nothing dramatic had occurred during the day or the night and the soldiers had been able to get some rest, slightly improving morale.
However, things soon took one more turn for the worse.
“Commander, you had better see this.”
Captain came to wake up colonel Miragrave at sunrise. She never slept much, always lightly, but this time being stirred mid-rest felt particularly vexing.
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If it's the dryads again, I will kill them myself.
“I'll be there,” she contained her immature thoughts and responded.
She stood without delay, put on the coat she had used as a blanket, and followed the officer out. He walked fast across the yard past the well and down the slope, and she had to put in effort to keep up, with no chance to ask what it was about. She didn't feel like raising her voice. Her throat was dry, she was thirsty. Still, without detours, she followed after the knight through the settlement to the front gate.
The knight continued through the blackened rubble, outside.
Miragrave thought it was odd, but followed him anyhow.
There were also other knights standing outside on the slope, gathered to look at something. Glancing at the colonel, the men quickly made way, revealing the cause of the commotion.
“...”
Some fifty yards from the gate, a tall stick had been stuck into the ground, right in the middle of the road. Having seen it so many times before, she easily identified that straight oak stick as the court wizard's staff.
Instead of the characteristic twist at the head, the top end of the staff had been broken off, sporting a new head.
Quite literally. A head.
A decapitated human head.
A bloodied head was stuck at the end of the stick, which was like a hasty replacement of his missing natural body.
The colonel had seen plenty of similar road decorations over the course of her career, so the prop itself wasn't especially shocking to her. Nevertheless, not even someone as hardened as Miragrave Marafel could hide her reaction, as she identified the deceased.
There was poor Yornwhal, their savior, a perpetual expression of agony and terror frozen over his now bluish, lifeless face, drained of blood. Butchered and impaled by the remains of his own staff, as if in mockery of his paltry power.
Gritting her teeth, the colonel forced her eyes away from the deceased and looked around.
The damage was already done. Though it was early, the news had spread fast and most of the remaining company had already seen the head. Their strongest asset was slain and disgraced. No matter how they were elite, they were humans. Obviously, having a bona fide wizard in their company had given the knights a massive boost of confidence. What remained of their fighting spirit received yet another hideous blow. Who could endure such?
“I suppose the spirits weren't favorable.”
Vizier Attiker had woken up as well and now arrived to survey the scene.
“Take it down,” Miragrave ordered the knights. “Search the hill, look for the rest.”
The hill with the altar and its surroundings were investigated, but no sign of the rest of the wizard's corpse or his murderer were discovered. No tracks could be picked up on the rocky path either. They had no choice but to begrudgingly give up on extracting revenge and bury the fallen.
4
It was another bleak day, complete with rain. Thanks to all the smoke and tiny particles carried up in the atmosphere, the unscheduled rainy season was likely to continue for a while longer. The line of grave markers on the little glade west of the outpost was depressingly long to look at. All the grass, shrubs and small trees had burned away, ruining the earlier serene splendor of the place.
On that sad scene, the thirty-odd remaining knights and commanders had now gathered for the second round of funerals.
“I can't believe it...” Yuliana said, watching the wizard's covered remains be lowered into the grave. “Was it really him? Did you see?”
“Well, what was left of him, yeah,” Izumi standing next to the princess replied.
“We knew he could lose his life, but...not like this. Is there no mercy in the world? What could've done this? Was it Lord Matheus himself?”
“I wonder about that,” Izumi said with a contemplative look. “Are there any giants or big monkeys in these woods? Or other monsters with large hands?”
“What...?” the princess frowned at her words. “Large hands? Monkeys? What are you talking about?”
“There's no such thing!” A knight in the line behind the women yelled at them. “Quit your nonsense and be quiet!”
“Hmm...” Izumi was lost in thought and said nothing more.
As his majesty's representative, the vizier promised all the fallen a posthumous promotion, a medal of honor, and offered a few lukewarm words of gratitude.
“The Empire will not forget its patriots.”
And with that, it was time to return to the usual routine.
Following the sad ceremonies, while the knights were left to continue the work to tidy up the outpost and repair the defenses, the leaders once again gathered in the main building to decide how they should proceed.
Their situation had gone from one with little hope to one where no good options whatsoever were left. Or so it seemed.
“Our fighting strength has been reduced to less than a third of the original numbers,” Miragrave said. “We've reached the point where we have nearly as many wounded as we have combatants. There is no other choice but to evacuate. We will deploy the remaining woodcutters and a small advance guard to repair the bridge at Alams, while the rest pack up the wagons. Once it's done, we retreat to Varnam posthaste and from there back to Tratovia.”
The colonel glanced at the audience. No one opposed the plan.
None of the knights, that is.
“I disagree,” Attiker surprisingly vetoed and stood up. “We've suffered debilitating casualties, yes. But this was not to be a combat mission in the first place. There is no reason to preserve the company's numbers, or this outpost. We have suffered losses, yes—but that is all the more reason why we can't run with the tail between our legs now. Make those losses count! We were hit, but we hit the enemy back harder. They don't know our situation, only that we're a force to be reckoned with. We taught them a lesson and they're going to think twice before challenging us again. A day and two nights have passed since the dryads' attack and the forest remains quiet. Patrols have sighted nothing of value. We have time. We have supplies. We are rested. What is the problem? Make use of the peace we have and continue the search. Until we can say we've done absolutely everything we can, we cannot give up on it. His majesty will not forgive it.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Brian, who had followed Yuliana to the conference, asked him. “The spring doesn’t even exist! Is saving face more important to you than your own life?”
“Your highness,” the man answered to the princess instead, “if your escort cannot behave, then they must leave.”
“I apologize for my countryman,” Yuliana said. “But in this situation, I must share his feelings. Continuing to search for this well of wonders in our present situation can only be called madness.”
“They're not alone with their opinions,” Miragrave added.
“I will agree also,” the imperial captain added.
“Mutiny!” Attiker cried and spread his hands, silencing the others.
“The spring of life exists,” the vizier looked at them and stressed. “This is a fact. We know this. Eternal youth—do you understand? Do any of you understand this? One barrel of this water will more than make up for any losses that may occur along the way. And so long as a single man and a horse remain to haul that barrel out of these woods, to the Emperor, it will have been worth it. It is invaluable. We need it. Mankind needs it. You call yourselves knights, colonels, and princesses, but can't any of you look at the bigger picture, beyond yourselves? Why are you scared? You're going to die? Surprise; everyone dies! One day, sooner or later. Me, you, all of you, your parents, your children, their children, his majesty, and so forth. Death is our fate. Because we are human. But it doesn't have to be. Without the spring, no matter how we grow, we will forever remain that pesky, unwanted step-son in the shadow of the other species. But I say, to Hel with that. We deserve better. Or do you disagree? Would I die for this? So that no one else will ever have to? YES!”
The vizier slammed the table with his palm and returned to his seat.
His persuasive words left the audience in silence.
It would've taken an enlightened mind to not be tempted by the promise of everlasting life. It was easy to say no to such a grandiose prize when it was only a distant dream, improbable and unattainable. But what about now, when it dangled supposedly within arm's reach?
Everyone had suffered and lost so much, was the reward not hard-earned?
Not even Yuliana could profess full immunity to Rubeus Attiker's argument. How many times in her life had she felt bitter and helpless due to the fragility of her feminine form? Her quest to conquer the Trophaeum would also become a great deal easier if freed of the ailments brought by mortality. Even if she felt that she didn't deserve it as a person, she thought the greater goal justified it. So many times she had swallowed her pride and dignity for the good of the many, wasn't this another such case?
Everyone on the imperial side knew how desperate their situation was.
The work to unite all the races and defeat the daemons was bound to be long and tiresome. How to sustain the effort, when those who began the journey grew demented and died before ever seeing it bear fruit? Humans could try to pass on their purpose to their children, but those children were not simply an extension to their parents. They could choose to refuse their inheritance, or outright act against it. One foolish generation could take apart all that their forefathers had sacrificed everything for.
Not if they were immortal.
The wisdom of the past would not only be preserved in full—it would ever keep on increasing.
The might of men would grow without limit, until nothing could stop it.
It had to have been the underlying fear that humans would one day surpass the Gods themselves, which had left them cursed with predestined Death at creation. Here in Felorn was a way to overturn this unfair limit, and all of nature worked to keep them from it. But in this match, where the human side should have had no chance, hadn't they driven away the enemy? Their arrows had taught death to the immortal spirits. Hadn't the wizard alone surpassed the might of Felorn, in a bold testament of human potential. So frightened was the Divine Lord by petty little humans, that he had to take their ace alone in the dark of the night, by a cheap shot.
Looking at the road they had traveled to reach this day, it started to seem like nothing but a crime and cowardice to abandon the cause.
Well, for a brief instance anyway.
Besides the vizier, most people in the room had too much common sense to bet their everything on such a miracle. Mutiny or not, it was better to give up and head back...But before anyone could voice these plans, there suddenly came a timid knock from the door.
“What?” Miragrave irritably raised her voice.
Briefings were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency, this was a basic code of the army. And judging by the feeble manner of the interruption, it was not one. Discipline had grown too lax in the past few days, it was becoming unsightly.
Aware of his poor conduct, a knight hesitantly peeked in.
“Ma'am, Holms of the Varnamites wants to have a word.”
“We're in a meeting. It can't wait?”
“He insists it's important.”
Sighing, the colonel waved her hand.
“Fine, let the man in.”
Soon, the headman of the woodcutters stood in the room, before questioning eyes. Before a princess, a colonel, an imperial advisor, and a number of knight officers, the humble man of the country was nervous, pale, and failed to hide the trembling of his hands. Though he had escaped the dryad onslaught physically unscathed, his nerves were a wreck. But as frightened as he was, he had wanted to have a word with them.
Giving a glance to everyone around him, unsure of whom to address his words, the man finally spoke.
“I...I heard parts of the conversation from outside...Am I to understand that...you intend to continue the search for the spring?”
“And what of it?” Attiker asked.
“There is...no way I could...change your minds, is there?”
“What exactly are you trying to say?” the vizier urged him. “Speak your mind, man! Do not waste our time!”
The man called Holms swallowed.
“If I…!” he started. “If I tell you where to find it, will you let us go? Free us from our contract? Right on the spot?”
“...You know where the spring is?” the colonel asked him, while the others were wrinkling their brows.
“Ma'am...the word 'varnam', do you know what it means? Have you heard?” Holms asked. As the commander shook her head, he continued. “It comes from the words 'varea anaam', in the old tongue. So the town elder taught me.”
“'The gate of truth'?”
“Yes. Yes, you know it. But, Varnam was not always Varnam. I mean, where it stands. The town was once here, I'm told, deep in the woods. We didn't build the altar here because we wanted to, but because it's always been here. Already way before the settlement. Us coming here was the desire of our Lord.”
“What are you talking about?” the vizier impatiently asked. “Make sense!”
“Since ancient times, our people have had a pact with Lord Matheus. We keep the gate to Felorn, his kingdom, and in exchange he grants us his blessing and prosperity. But after meeting Aquialas, our people started to long for the company of others, so the town in the woods was abandoned, and a new one made closer to civilization, where it is now. Not many know this. Only a select few initiates, picked by the elder, are told the truth. It is our sacred duty to preserve our people's faith in our Lord and offer him sacrifice, whatever he wants. Mostly harmless things, our Lord is most benevolent...”
“The spring, man, the spring!” Attiker urged him on. “What does any of this have to do with it?”
“I—I'm getting to it. The spring is where the old Varnam is. It was our proof of loyalty, since ancient times. The initiates are shown where it is, but we are prohibited to drink from it. This way, we show we are faithful and worthy of our Lord's blessings. Of course, we are not allowed to tell anyone about it, but...I don't want to die! I feel it. I feel the presence of Death. If we stay here but one more day, it will take us all. We have already lost our Lord's favor. So what more harm can it do? Just free us from our contract. Let us return to our homes, today, with no demands afterwards, and I will tell you where it is. I have a wife, I have a son, they...they won't make it without me, I know this. The thought of never seeing them again...I can't bear it any longer...Please...”
The man fell silent, nervously wringing his hands.
Yuliana thought it was low of him to betray the Divine for his own good, but she had no heart to judge him. His fear was apparent on his face, and contagious. After a moment of thought, Attiker leaned forward on his chair and pointed at the table.
“Here is how we shall do. The Varnamians are freed from their contract. The Empire will demand no compensation from them. You have my word. But you, Holms, will stay. You are going to guide us to the fountain in person. After that, if it indeed exists, you may go. Understood?”
“Please, have mercy, sir! It's not far from here!”
“Not far? What do you mean?”
“I...I saw the maps. Lord Matheus's power has led your seers astray. You've been looking from the wrong place. The old Varnam is barely seven miles from the altar. There is a path behind the hill, up north a horse will run it in a quarter of an hour. I will mark the real location on your maps, just please, let me go. It is true, I swear on my life! You know where to find me, if you find that I've lied! I just want to go home!”
“...Mark the location and go. Fix the bridge at Alams on your way home, and I call us even.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much...!”
“Enough. Do it.”
As soon as Holms had marked the maps and left, vizier Attiker stood and smacked the table with a look of triumph.
“Ha! Call your men together, Marafel! We have it!”