1
The strangest things were happening outside the castle building. A while after Izumi and Millanueve’s group had left the throne room, the unearthly clamor began. A chorus of eerie, drawn-out voices, rising and descending, uncannily similar to the song of whales in the depths of the sea, carried through the windows and walls and could be attributed to no natural source. The infernal wailing came loud from every direction and where one voice left the choir, others immediately joined in elsewhere. The crew left in the hall listened to the haunting ululation at their wit’s end, and felt terribly small and alone.
“What is happening!?”
“They’re only taunting you,” Margitte scolded the panicking soldiers. “Be quiet and hold still!”
The noise began to gradually change note and grow more uniform, louder, transmuted into what sounded like the bellowing of enormous horns. As though celestial trumpets calling the host of Heaven to battle, that low and heartless booming made stone and bone tremble with a grinding resonance. Could it get any worse?
The horns quieted and shortly thereafter began strange rattling.
At first it seemed like the sound of sea waves hitting ashore, but listening closer, the knights thought to hear the clash of innumerable shields and swords struck together with a provocative tempo. A blood-chilling drumming such as invading armies played moments before attack. The enemy had the whole of the main building tightly surrounded. There had to have been hundreds of foes out there, if not thousands. Recognizing this, horror overwhelmed what little was left of the defenders’ courage. They made no move to reach for their swords or bows, but stood and stared, paralyzed. No magic power would hold back such a host. Their doom was at hand.
“We have to go!” one of the knights exclaimed, already inching towards the exit. “We have to go now!”
“I told you, not until they give us the permission!” Margitte angrily yelled back, her hands full with sustaining the barrier. “We’re not going anywhere until the ship is ready! Hold your ground!”
Getting everyone on board wouldn't be the end of the mission. It would take some time to bring the craft outside and away from the city. Carmelia could hold the enemy off for a time, but not even her extraordinary ability would keep a thousand daemons for long, burdened as she was. They had to buy as much time as possible.
Of course, Margitte’s strength was not limitless either. If not for the medicine, she would’ve collapsed long ago. Her head hurt unbearably on each heartbeat and her body felt like it was stuffed full of felt, disturbingly light and numb. But her mind remained lucid and mana flowed through her easily. The magical energy burned in the core of her bones, as if molten iron ran in place of marrow, but even that agony had turned weirdly pleasant; it kept her warm in the otherwise freezing cold castle. So long as she was able to keep the barrier up, she was thankful of every second. No matter what happened, she couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not until Carmelia would give her the sign.
Would there ever come a sign?
Perhaps not.
The risks involved were considerable. Maybe the others had left already. But questioning such things was not her role. She didn't have the time to speculate about future. As a magician, as a human weapon—as the fifth Court Wizard of Tratovia, Margitte would do her duty to the bitter end.
Yet, her companions had hearts less stout.
“We’re not going to make it if we don’t go now!” one of the troops called to her, shifting restlessly at the hideous racket.
“They’re leaving, ma’am!” another one cried. “They’re going to leave us to die! We have to go!”
“Come on!”
Knights were trained to harden their muscles, not their minds, and the unnatural horror that had challenged them this week exceeded their capacity by far. By too much. All of them were at the breaking point. A part of Margitte pitied the men and wanted to send them ahead. But the more prideful part of her spited them for their weakness, and her pride greatly outweighed mercy.
“You’re not going anywhere!” she told them again. “I am ordering you to stand your ground!”
She didn’t have the strength left to get all the way down to the ship on her own. She was going to need someone to carry her. For keeping them alive this far, it was the least they could do in exchange.
The rattling grew stronger. It seemed closer. The enemy had to have entered the building. Soon, they would rush into the throne room, smash through the thin layer of magic and kill them and everyone below. The crew stared at the back of the hall, faces white with horror, expecting to see their worst fears manifest at any given moment.
“We’re finished!”
One among the squad, a senior Sergeant, was not yet resigned to fate. He respected the young magician and feared her power, but he had started to dread the daemons more, and then a critical tipping point was reached in his head.
Despair can drive one to attempt the unthinkable. All he could see was survival at whatever cost.
“Hey,” he leaned over to another knight, and forced the words out under his breath. “I heard they’re drawn to source of magic...”
The others gave him disturbed looks but quickly thought it over. It was an abominable idea, but if someone else took responsibility, then what did they have to lose? Margitte heard the vague whispering and looked back. Without another word, the Sergeant came forward. Were they going to argue for leaving again? She didn’t have the attention to spare for pointless debates, they should’ve known better than that.
When he was five steps away, she realized talking wasn’t on his mind. She was in trouble. Casting two spells simultaneously was borderline impossible, but she had no choice but to try. Margitte turned partly back and raised her right hand at the troop. Then the knight on her left leapt suddenly forward and knocked the hand down. The Sergeant swung his gauntlet. Margitte felt no pain. She saw a bright flash of light in her eyes, and lost all sense of direction. The throne room revolved around her, around and around, and she closed her eyes in an effort to still it.
In what she felt was only a brief while, Margitte began to feel slightly better, and she opened her eyes with great effort. Her head still hurt and her body felt crushingly heavy, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her otherwise. The hall about her had steadied itself, though the floor felt weirdly flexible and unstable under her. She lay on the carpet in the middle of the enormous room, and she was alone. The knights were nowhere to be seen. She had to have lost consciousness. Her face hurt and her nose was clogged, blood had blocked it. The iron taste was thick in her mouth. Damn those knights. How could they?
The barrier field was down. Margitte couldn’t even think about casting it again. She knew she would never cast another spell in her life. Her talent as a magician was thoroughly burned out.
But there was no time to lie there pitying herself.
So long as she was alive, she had to act, move.
Margitte tried to get up but everything felt weird. Her head seemed unreasonably heavy, while the rest of the body seemed to weigh nothing at all. Legs were like stalks of reed, barely able to support any weight. She sat catching her breath for a moment and looked around, but it was difficult to recognize shapes and everything seemed to blend repulsively together. The after-effects of overusing magic, coupled with a concussion.
How was she still alive?
Where was the enemy?
Had they passed her, not even finding her worth killing? What about the others? What had happened to the ship? She had to go tell them to leave, if they hadn’t already. But the communication charm was dead. She could sense nothing at all. She would have to go all that way on foot, by herself.
The way was long, but there was no choice but to walk it.
Worry for the others in her heart, Margitte crawled slowly up to her feet. She started to wobble down the hall towards the mouth of the corridor ahead. The floor seemed to be turn a little at each step and it took her all not to tumble. Going in a straight line was unreasonably difficult, but she followed the edge of the carpet and somehow made it into the passage. She kept going towards the central hallway and the chapel, leaning on the wall for support, and then she started to cry. She couldn’t be sure why, it was an entirely unconscious reaction. She berated herself in thought. What use did tears have? She didn’t think she was particularly scared or hurt. Her mind seemed detached from everything. She had to have been just that tired and overwhelmed. Once this ordeal was over, she would sleep for a week. And she would do no favors for anyone again. She would tell all emperors and kings and queens and generals and archmages who came asking to eat shit. She was done.
Margitte reached to the other end of the corridor, but the scenery was not what she expected at all. Instead of the tall passage to the chapel door, she saw a wide, two-sided marble stairway. It took her a moment to realize she had gone the wrong way in her confusion, and come out to the entrance hall by accident. She sank to her knees, hope leaving her like embers from a dying fireplace, and sobbed without sound. Or was she laughing? She couldn’t be sure which.
Then she heard a familiar voice speak behind her.
“—Here you are, taking it easy while still on the clock!”
Margitte turned and glanced over her shoulder. Behind her at the threshold of the passage stood the summoned champion from Earth.
The woman looked at her with a gentle, cheerful smile on her face.
“Looks like I’ve kept you waiting,” Izumi said. “You ready to go home now?”
Margitte tried to speak, but got out no sensible words and gave up. Nearly blinded by the flood of tears pouring out of her eyes, she exerted the last of her strength to push up from the floor and ran to the champion. She fell against the woman and gripped her as tight as she could, and cried without restraint against the front of the surcoat.
But the being she clung to was not Izumi.
2
Far below in the cavern under the castle, General Martin Serif Monterey sized up the magical wall of red-glowing threads which covered the path to the stairwell.
The barrier produced a low, slowly pulsating hum that made air vibrate forbiddingly even at a distance. It didn’t take magitechnical expertise to tell that touching such an obstacle was not a healthy idea. The conjurer herself stood nearby, next to a large, copper-cased contraption of wheels and gears at the edge of the basin.
The General turned to her and went closer.
“Your grace,” he greeted the cirelo with a nod. “How does it look?”
“The crew has finished maintenance on the lift,” Carmelia responded. “The activation schema is deciphered and under my control. I can operate it from here at will.”
“And the remaining squads?”
“The last ones are soon here.”
The last ones. Since Arnwahl had returned but a moment ago and already boarded the ship, it had to be De Guillon’s team and the men from the checkpoint.
Young Master Beuhler’s team—was already considered lost.
As soon as Margitte would withdraw her barrier above, the enemy would follow along; evacuating them safely was technically impossible. Beyond a door stopper, they were meant as a lure. A tragic but unavoidable sacrifice for the future of the world.
The fledgling Court Wizard was sharp for her age; even though no one had told them the truth, she had to have figured it out on her own. Still, despite knowing her role, she had chosen to accept. Chosen death.
What a thing to ask, of a girl so young.
“What of the ship?” the General asked. “Can it truly fly as they say?”
“All systems are online,” Carmelia answered. “The reactor’s output is steady and growing. I have transferred my control privileges to her majesty and instructed her on the basics of navigation. The vessel is also equipped with an automated flight assistant. I have entered your travel route to the main computer. There is no need to worry. Let the ship take care of the rest.”
“I see. Can’t say I understood a word about that, but I shall put my faith in your assessment. What marvelous things the elves have made! How I wish I could’ve seen more of your wondrous land, when it was still at its finest.”
“...You should return on board and get ready. I will launch the lift as soon as possible.”
General Monterey made no reply. He stood still for a while, just staring at the magic wall up ahead. Then, the man abruptly broke into a bashful laughter, and ruffled through his hair.
“Ahaha, darn it all!” he exclaimed with forceful lightness. “This old head of mine isn’t what it used to be! I forgot to tell the young master to close the doors on her way down. I should go remind her. Would you mind opening up the path for me?”
“…”
Carmelia considered pointing out that she could relay any messages telepathically, and there was no need to go all the way in person. But she had dealt with humans for long enough by now to tell that it was not what he actually meant.
“Are you sure?” she asked instead.
“What, I shall be back in a whiff!” the General assured in good humor and turned to the pair of adjutants who waited for him a short distance behind. “You two, did you have any unfinished business left?”
“Sir,” the other one struck a salute and said, “I think I forgot a stove on in the royal kitchen. It would be bad manners to leave it unattended, with the risk of fire and all that.”
“Sir,” the other one likewise saluted and said, “it might be that I left the restroom door wide open after my last visit, I should go close it before we leave. That stench is nasty!”
“Well, that’s how it is,” the General remarked to the sorceress with a wry grin. “It wouldn’t do to run off like this and leave such a mess behind ourselves, after the hospitality the Langorians have shown us.”
“...Very well.”
Carmelia opened a gap in the barrier and allowed the three to pass. They went up the tunnel and met Izumi and Millanueve’s group, as they were on their way down the stairwell.
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“Well met, heroes!” the General stopped and greeted them. “Safety is right up ahead. Thank you for all your hard work! Go in peace now.”
“General? Where are you off to?” Millanueve asked him.
“Oh, nowhere far,” Monterey said with a dismissive wave. “I’m only going to see how Master Beuhler and her men are doing. I’ll bring them back with me, so you be good and wait for us at the ship.”
“I’ll come with you,” Izumi told him. “As soon as I drop these guys off at the boat.”
“You will now?” the General laughed heartily. “Hahaha! How dependable! We shall have nothing to worry about then, in the company of a champion. Thank you for your service! We’ll go ahead, so take your time catching up.”
The General’s crew proceeded to climb the stairs, while the evacuating knights continued on to the dry dock. But before they lost sight of one another in the tunnel, they heard Monterey call once more after them.
“De Guillon!”
“Hm? Yes?” Millanueve stopped and turned back. “What is it?”
She saw the General standing on the bottom stairs, a strange smile on his face.
“Take good care of her majesty,” he told her.
“Eh, I’ll try to,” she answered, unsure of why he would want to remind her of such an obvious thing now. Without further ado, the man continued to hike up the precarious steps of stone after his adjutants.
The trio came to the top of the dizzying pit, and continued up the narrow tunnels towards the shrine. In the second larger chamber along the ascent, they ran into a group of soldiers coming from above. A silent line of men, apprehensive and dark. The group sought to pass the three from below without a word, but the General stopped them short.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” he questioned the lot in the light of the torch on the wall. “Where’s the young master?”
The others were reluctant to speak, but the Sergeant stepped forward.
“Sir,” he said. “Master Beuhler ordered us to go ahead and stayed behind to hold the line.”
“Did she now?”
“...Yes, sir. Since there was nothing more we could do up there, as non-magicians.”
The General eyed each of them and the guilt and shame shading the men’s faces was plain to see. There could be no question that the story was more complicated than it sounded. But now was not the time for tribunals.
“Well, I am overturning that order now,” Monterey told the knights. “You’re coming with us and we’re going to pick her up. Follow me.”
The General turned to resume the hike, but nobody else moved. It was one order they couldn’t possibly obey, no matter the consequences. From their distressed gazes, he began to make out the extent of their treason and swore in his mind.
The standstill lasted for about three seconds.
The Sergeant reached for his dagger. Monterey was faster. He tackled the man against the chamber wall, drew his own service knife from the belt and stuck it in the man's neck. The last three in the line grabbed Lieutenant Coles and punctured his torso with their knives. Lieutenant Dan Morsin tried to go to Coles’s aid but had Corporal Vincenz to contend with, who fell upon him from the side, and they went rolling on the bumpy floor amid the shadows.
The Sergeant tried in vain to pull the knife from his jugular while mouthfuls of blood gushed through his teeth. Monterey took his sword, drew it, and turned to Corporal Ileans who came to confront him. Ileans had opted for a dagger instead of his sword and lost badly in range. Monterey rammed the sword through the Corporal's belly and headbutted him to knock him out of the way. He pulled the sword off and rushed to Dan Morsin’s aid, but was too late. The others had already ganged up on him while he lay pinned under Vincenz and they were frantically stabbing his eyes. The General stepped up to the dark pile, roaring in rage, and cleaved another Sergeant’s head, splintering his helmet. He couldn’t remember the man’s name nor did he care. He stepped on the back of the dead knight and stabbed at the closest rogue’s head as he tried to get back. The knight didn’t have a helmet and the sword went through his cheeks, scraping against teeth, and he fell back while yowling and grasping his face. General turned to Vincenz, who didn’t dare to raise his head amid the chaotic brawl, probably praying he’d be ignored in the dark. Monterey lifted his boot and stomped the man's head a few times to make sure he didn’t move, and went then back to cut the neck of the soldier who moaned over his lacerated face.
The last of the traitors recognized his disadvantage. He abandoned the fight and dashed down the tunnel towards the stairwell. Monterey chased after him along the steep, precarious steps, and threw the borrowed sword at the rogue’s feet. Distracted, the knight slipped near the bottom and rolled the remaining steps to the top of the stairwell. He got up just in time for the General to catch him. Not slowing down, Monterey kicked the knight over the ledge. Too surprised to even cry, the man was cast down head first.
Silence ensued and the General found himself alone.
The thought of going back didn't occur to him. On the contrary, the dread in his heart had multiplied manifold and transformed into bleached white horror. He ran up through the tunnel, past the corpses, and through the desolate temple, where another scene of carnage awaited him. He ran on without looking twice at the bloodied corpses, up more stairs, and through the royal sepulcher, to the chapel, and on. The heavy silence filling the regal residence forced him to slow his pace, and he strode through the castle hallways in wordless wonder and dismay.
He came at last to the abandoned throne room, and gazed around.
There was a small spot of red on the carpet in the middle. Darker red on royal crimson. Blood, still damp. A loose trail of red dots departed from the throne room to the north side passage. He followed after it and arrived eventually in the entrance hall.
On top of the grand stairway lay the fifth Court Wizard of Tratovia.
Monterey went over to Margitte and felt for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find. Her face was deathly pale, but she looked at peace, eyes closed, almost like she was merely sleeping. Her nose was broken and blood covered her chin and shirt front. He picked her up in his arms and cried, and wiped her face clean with the sleeve of his uniform.
Once the height of grief had passed, the General put the young magician back down to rest, set her arms across the chest, and stood. He went down the stairway and marched across the hall to the front door of the castle, pushed it wide open with both hands, and came out to the courtyard.
On the wide, cobbled stretch between the castle and the gate stood gathered the Royal regiments of Walhollem in their full glory. Ranks upon ranks of stout pikemen with their towering shields, upon the silvery faces of which the royal emblem had been engraved; archers in white-plumed helmets, powerful longbows in hand, shafts of the toughest birch nocked and ready; between their platoons the pride of the southern Kingdom; the indomitable cavalry of Langoria, a line of plated dragoons which stretched from the courtyard all the way across the bridge and onto the city beyond the gorge, ten riders abreast. Their armors and bardings shone spotless and bright under the early morning sun, well-polished and dazzling to gaze upon, and the beasts under the men were the greatest of horses ever bred by man, white like the snow on the tallest peaks of Skaelje and fearless.
Hundreds of solemn gazes greeted the Imperial general under the fluttering banners of the Royal House. Upon the edge of the battlement, next to the fully manned gatehouse, Sir Brian Mallory raised his fist to signal his men. Ready to attack.
Monterey drew his sword and went down to meet them.
“Why!?” he questioned the silent army before him, all his wrath and sorrow erupting from him at once. “Why do you take only the good and leave the wicked!? Why!? WHY!? WHY, WHY, WHY, AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”
He raised his weapon high, and charged into those spear-crested waves of silver.
3
Izumi surveyed the bridge of the Solveig one last time and performed a quick headcount. The engine was on and powerful spotlights bathed the fantastic craft from stem to stern. Most of the people were huddled in the spacious cargo bay, or a chamber that looked like such, leaving only the lead staff and a rudimentary guard to follow the proceedings.
“Looks like that’s all the recurring cast,” she uneasily concluded, having ascertained the whereabouts of her friends. “Now for the new faces.”
She returned out to the deck and headed for the flimsy wooden bridge that yet connected the floating ship to the quay, and nodded to Millanueve who saw her off.
“I’ll be right back. If not, you guys go without me. Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t say such things!” the girl retorted. “Be sure you’re back in time, or I’ll never let you hear the end of it!”
Izumi felt along the girl’s cheek with her fingertips.
“Keep a foot on the gas,” she said, and went to cross to land. She jogged through the silent cavern to the entrance, where she paused before the veil of curses, and called out to the sorceress standing next to the lift mechanism.
“Okay, Lia, just a few more piglets left before we’re a full farm. Open up.”
Izumi flexed her shoulders, psyched herself up, and waited.
And waited.
But the red hot wall of sorcery before her showed no sign of dissipating. The restless feeling she’d had for some time now was getting worse.
“Uhh, Lia?” She turned back to the cirelo. “Please? Pretty please?”
Carmelia continued to stand without lifting a finger.
“There is not a soul left alive above us,” she said.
Izumi paused for a beat.
“But...that’s not right?” she then uttered with disbelief. “Can’t be right. So-chan’s still up there, and so is the General, and all those guys who were with them, and…”
The sorceress shook her head.
Izumi looked back at the dark tunnel and the field of simmering vectors, as though to seek outside confirmation. But all she received from that side was total silence.
“No way.”
“The enemy will soon be here,” Carmelia told the woman. “You should return to the ship. The reactor nears full capacity. You will be flight-ready in a moment.”
“Aah, geez…!”
Izumi shook her head in frustration, a cold wave of helpless sadness washing over her. But there was nothing she could do. No time to lament. They weren’t safe yet. She pushed the grief off her mind and turned reluctantly back to the ship.
“…Let’s go.”
But Carmelia made no move to follow her. Izumi had to stop and turn back again. For some reason, she began to find it really difficult to breathe.
“Lia...? Is everything alright? You’re being even more unresponsive than usual. Coming on kinda strong on the kuudere. We’re in a hurry, aren’t we? So come on!”
“I cannot go with you.”
“Ha?” It took a moment to register the words. Izumi stood back and looked incredulous. “I—I’m sorry, what was that? Almost like...no, I was hearing things, right? Because, boy, I thought I heard something stupid.”
The sorceress avoided her eyes and explained,
“Someone needs to remain here to operate the lift controls and hold the dock, until the ship reaches to a safe distance from land. I am the only one left capable of both tasks simultaneously. It is the most effective course of action, necessitating the least number of sacrifices.”
“Can you not do the Vulcan crap now!?” Izumi stared at the sorceress, experiencing great trouble digesting the reasoning. “...You’ll catch up with us later, right?”
“Unlikely. In a moment, I will be dead.”
Despite the grim message, Carmelia spoke lightly, unemotionally. The same as always. As though describing something perfectly mundane and obvious. As if she had made her peace already a long, long time ago. And it frustrated Izumi more than anything.
“But, there’s no way—you can’t just give up like that!” she shouted. “You—you know the tricks. There’s always a way! You can warp back to us, right? You’ll get out of here and find us again, won’t you? Promise me, you’ll...you’ll think of something. Right?”
“The Gate is a static phenomenon,” Carmelia explained. “It cannot be conjured onto a moving target. Moreover, we cannot allow even a one-in-a-billion chance that the enemy gets onto that ship along with me. Our hope, the hope of all life on this planet, will be riding on it. There is no more safety to be found anywhere on the ground. You mustn’t, under any circumstances, bring the ship to land until your destination.”
Izumi had to take a timeout. She felt dizzy and leaned on her knees. She looked at the ship in the back. She heard the noise of the lift machinery coming to life after centuries of neglect. It echoed hollow and foreboding across the cavern. She looked back at the cirelo. And made up her mind.
“Fine,” she said, drew her sword, and turned to face the entrance.
“What are you doing?” Carmelia asked her with a slight frown.
“What does it look like? Since it’s come to this, I’m staying here with you.”
“…In case you didn’t realize this, you are the hope I spoke of. You must be aboard that ship when it departs.”
“And I’m not leaving without you. So it looks like there never was any hope. Too bad, but what can you do? Not even heavenly prophecies can get everything right, it seems.”
The sorceress stepped over to the woman, looking unusually irritated.
“Could you, for this once, do as you are told without being difficult?”
“Sorry,” Izumi argued, “but I’m not really cut out for the underling act. It doesn’t suit me at all! I’m too old for girl scouts! I don’t move on orders, or oaths, or bold principles. I make my own fate, based on how I happen to feel about it, or not at all. I’m not leaving you, and that’s the last of it! So unless you’ve got a better—”
She couldn't finish the sentence. Carmelia caught the woman’s face between her palms, leaned over, and kissed her lips. It was a kiss that tasted like vanilla, and for a moment, Izumi thought she saw lilies bloom in a mountain valley where the cool first wind of spring blew through. And then it was over.
“Goodbye, Izumi,” Carmelia told her and shoved the woman away, through the portal behind her.
Izumi tumbled backwards onto the bridge of the Solveig, and as soon as she was through, the cavity of spacetime closed. A beat later, the ship nudged forward. The lift was activated and began to take the craft up through the diagonal shaft dug into bedrock.
The others on the deck watched the woman’s unorthodox entry with astonishment. “Izumi!?”
“Wait!” Izumi cried as she bounced back up to her feet. “Stop this thing! I have to go back!”
She took a step for the exit, but both Yuliana and Millanueve grabbed her and held her back.
“You can’t go out now!” Yuliana shouted at the woman, holding around her waist with all her might. “The ship is leaving! You’ll be left behind!”
“I don’t care!” Izumi shouted, trying to get their hands off. “I can’t just leave like this! Let go!”
“Have you lost your mind!?” Millanueve yelled, restraining the champion’s shoulders. “You’ll die if you stay!”
“Then I’ll die! So what! It’s a lot better than—”
Gang.
Hit hard in the back of the head, Izumi fell quiet and dropped on the floor limp, and was soon buried under the two crying girls on her. A step back, Miragrave sheathed her sword, the pommel of which she had used to knock out the champion.
“Caalan gave her all to save us,” the Marshal spoke, her voice hard as steel, and looked towards the windows. “To save you. Don’t you dare waste her sacrifice. Nor her love.”
Rock drew apart and a gap appeared in the vast cliff face. The elven ship glided out of the underground shadows and caught the morning light, white and graceful as a swan ready for her maiden flight. It passed without a sound over the foam-crested rapids that coursed on the coarse bed of rocks below in the ravine that divided the Kingdom from the mountains. The sky arced clear azure and somber over the country where all the sounds and motion of living was missing, and upon the ridge surrounded by evergreen plains towards the west lay the bone-pale city of the dead.
Outside the grasp of darkness, the ship rose higher, aligned with the wintry ranges and crossed over the primeval fjords on its course due south. It flew, flew easy, as though carried by invisible hands, the prayers of all who had lived and died with hope in their hearts. In a while, no buildings could be seen anymore past the undressed stern. Stoic mountain peaks greeted the vessel in every direction in the reach of sight, enveloped in frost and an elusive, cold mist upon which sunlight broke. They rode along the haze through the dreamy landscape, past rock and ice, past height, past time, past regret, ever unerringly southward. A steely winter gale blew from the west, biting cold, achingly remindful of living, and would’ve turned any earthly craft from its course, but they sailed on south unshaken. Leaden with purpose. Pregnant with meaning. Unable to forget even in the terminus of oblivion.
Far into gray afternoon, the ship cleared the mountains and then they had the waves of the great Southern Sea before them. The water was dark, restless, and unfathomably deep, unquestionably deadly, but there was no place for evil anywhere in it. It wallowed in its deposit as it had since creation, entirely free, entirely boundless, forever incorruptible. There was not one sail or a raft to blemish its majesty. They crossed those unmarked latitudes which lay unfamiliar to the sorrows of land. At peace even in a storm. Righteous even in calamity. There, high above the waves, without a separate signal or a command, the Solveig turned its gleaming bowsprit westward against the gale and curved towards the unseen Numénn. Maintaining the south coast still in view, a desolate strip through the starboard windows, the craft gently increased its speed, as dictated by the arts and science of minds unknown to man, from there to begin her long pursuit of the horizon curve, over the cerulean expanses on the way, past the last of the mortal realms, past ruins of cities drowned an eon ago the names of which no memory retained, past the few scattered islands, past the shores where mortals were forbidden to set anchor, and beyond the dominion of the undead, and beyond and beyond and on to the world’s edge.
Pale Throne | End