Rolo grunted as he pushed his arms through the narrow gap, feeling with a small metal hook for the mechanism. Something clicked and whirred behind the stone wall, and the northman held his breath. He sensed a whisper of movement behind him and fell flat on the floor as a great spiked ball swung down from a hidden space in the ceiling and scythed down the narrow corridor.
"Fluffing snow elves," he muttered, sweat beading from his head as the mechanism slowly cranked the trap back into place.
The young Northman had been exploring these hidden tunnels for weeks now. Since Konrad and the others had left the coldest mountain, he had been willing to try anything to avoid the monotonous work that comes with running a mining operation. Some of the tunnels ended in fallen rock, and he spent hours in the near darkness chipping away. Once the tunnel had opened out on to the side of the mountain, he had nearly frozen to death looking for the next section. Mostly all he had found was dirt and lethal traps, but he knew there was something here. He had noticed a section of the carved-out mountain that he had not been able to access. In his mind, there was a hidden trove of treasure here, and he was determined to find it.
He continued to move down the corridor slowly, the narrow slots along the wall allowing him to gaze unseen into the chambers of the coldest mountain. One of these viewing holes glowed orange, and far below, he watched the forge workers sweating freely as they handled the great crucibles of molten Linium, smelting them into hundreds of bars for the upcoming visit of the arcanists.
The tunnel ended in a solid wall of rock, and Rolo approached carefully, his flickering torch held ahead of him.
A skeleton lay on the floor. It had clearly been here for some time; the yellowing bones collapsed into a pile. A hole in the wall held the skeleton's arm, which had been trapped and detached from the body as it decayed. The unfortunate soul had clearly tried to take the treasures for themselves and learned a fatal lesson.
Around the hole, a carved circular design was divided into four sections, each containing an image of a hammer, chisel, anvil, and tongs, the signs of a master smith. The symbol was upside down, with no way to turn it as it was carved directly into the rock.
Rolo pulled the arm bones out, and a bright key clattered to the floor. It was made of a strange metal he had never seen before, an alloy of some kind, and on the flat part of the key, the same symbol on the door had been etched, a circle divided into four with the same images in each section.
Rolo pushed the handle of his axe into the hole, and it hit something solid about two feet in. There was no sound of any hidden mechanism, and when he pulled it out, the hard wood of the shaft was unharmed. Examining the hole in the flickering torchlight, he thought he could see a small depression at the back—a key hole.
The previous adventurer must have seen the same thing, but why were they not able to turn the key in the lock? Perhaps it was the wrong key? He stared at the symbols again and a grin spread across his face as he tunred the key around. The key must go in upside down; the foolish adventurer hadn't realized.
Rolo took a deep breath and unslung his pack, making careful preparations by wrapping his arm in several layers of thick leather strips. When this was done, even someone with all of his strength would struggle to cut through with a blow from an axe.
"Lyran of the small gods, Konrad tells me that you have helped him in the past. If you are listening, I’d be grateful for a blessing," he muttered.
In reply, he heard nothing save the howling of the wind outside and the deep, rhythmic thumping of the giant forge hammers.
Rolo’s gaze flickered from the hole to the key, to the unfortunate bones of the adventurer before him. He wanted whatever treasure was hidden inside; the thrill of exploration was a physical force inside of him. It eviscerated the boredom of the mountain and reminded him of his adventures with Konrad.
The northman took several steadying breaths, then plunged his arm into the hole. The end of the key clinked against the rock, and he scraped around, searching desperately for the key hole.
Something powerful clamped around his bicep, and the butterflies in his stomach dropped dead. He tried to pull his arm back, but it was held fast, and a mechanical whirring in the wall grew quickly to a high pitched whine. Something sharp started hacking into the protective strips wrapped around his arm, and smoke carrying the acrid scent of burning leather stung his eyes. Rolo redoubled his efforts with the key, praying to any of the gods that there was a keyhole.
"This is a pickle isn't it?" A voice whispered in his ear.
"Who's there!" Rolo shouted.
"You called for help, and here I am."
"Lyran?"
"No, you may call me. The Prior."
Rolo's first thoughts were that he must be speaking to some demon. This is how they came to you when you were desperate, offering a way out at a terrible price.
The blade hacked through the last layer of leather and sliced into Rolo's arm and all hesitation was washed away by a flood of pure dread. "Help me, I'll do anything!"
"No need for that just yet, I will consider this an IOU, the key is upside-down."
Rolo desperately turned the key around, and it slipped into the hole. It turned with a neat click, and the whirring mechanism stopped with a snap.
Sweat poured down Rolo’s forehead into his eyes as the trap released his arm. With a low grinding sound, the wall swung inward to reveal a large chamber.
"Thank you, Prior," Rolo panted, but there was no reply on the still air.
In the hidden room, small windows looked out onto the ocean far below, and the light showed dusty workbenches and fine tools in racks on the walls. Intricate mechanisms were scattered all around among piles of dust, which he supposed had been paper schematics and plans long claimed by the passage of time. His attention was drawn to the back of the room, where a fine coat of chain-linked mail hung on a wooden frame. The chain links were made of the same strange metal as the key: light and smooth, but hard and strong. It was some kind of alloy, but the secrets to its construction were lost forever.
Whatever it was, it was a fine reward for his exploits, and he gathered the heavy chain-linked armor and descended back down through the hidden tunnels. The final unexplored section was cold and damp, and he hesitated before shaking his head and turning away. It would have to wait; he was already late.
The throne room at the top of the mountain had undergone a significant transformation. The open sides of the great dome had been filled in with solid brick to keep out the howling winds, and a fire pit blazed in the center. On the far side, nothing remained of the statue of Casovan; the great stone head had been cast down the mountain into the ocean, and the rest of the statue had been reduced to rubble.
"You didn’t think to clean yourself up to greet our guests?" Balthazar Dauska stood tall and immaculately dressed as always. The discovery of the Linium on the coldest mountain had invigorated him, and his intelligent gaze was sharper than ever as he studied his oldest son. "You won’t have to worry about finding petty distractions any more; Luther has capitulated, we can go back to Montdun."
Rolo laughed and clapped his father on the back, but he knew that the victory was a hollow one. Trading the coldest mountain for Montdun would do little to quench the need he had inside to be out on the open roads of Parthanea.
The door at the far end of the dome opened, and a runner entered, covered in a layer of snow and ice. "They’re here," he announced.
Despite his general feelings of distrust towards the arcanists, Rolo knew no one could fail to be impressed by the scale of their flying citadel. Seven glorious white towers soared from the summit, and below them was a maze of winding stone roads and elegantly crafted buildings. The citadel sat suspended in the air close to the summit of the mountain, unmoved by the buffeting winds.
A group of shuffling figures wrapped in thick fur coats entered the hall, and Quentin Boreman, Master Arcanist, stepped forward, lowering his hood.
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"Welcome to the coldest mountain," Balthazar boomed, shaking the old arcanist's hand.
Boreman himself had a long, delicate white beard that hung almost to his knees, and the other arcanists had tried to copy him to varying degrees of success. Some sprouted bushy, unruly gray whiskers, while the youngest of them had carefully nurtured patches of fuzz on their cheeks and chins.
Two figures lingered at the back of the group, and Rolo nudged his father and nodded to them. One of them looked like an arcanist, but he wore the symbol of the temple of the Father around his neck. There was no mistaking the stern face of the second. Rolo had never met a champion of the Father, but he could immediately see why folk avoided them. It was fearsome to see the face of a god in the flesh, always wondering if it was the real thing. The figure seemed to exude malice, seemingly at ease but at the same time coiled for action like a bound spring. A long black sword hung at his waist.
Boreman glanced around at the dome and pulled his furs closer. "We could have done this on the citadel, you know."
Balthazar maintained his diplomatic grace and gave a short bow. "We are but custodians of this historical monument; forgive us for wanting to share this with our friends."
Balthazar led the arcanists to a long table and quickly fell into negotiation with Boreman while the priest of the Father approached Rolo, the stern faced champion trailing behind.
"You must be the first son of the north; we have something in common. I am Lavious Flean, first priest of the Father." Flean had a slight curve to his spine and stood slightly too close for comfort. It seemed innocuous enough, but his stance encroached on Rolo’s personal space just enough to make him take an involuntary step back, and Flean nodded as if satisfied.
"Does the temple have some interest in Linium?" Rolo asked.
Flean laughed, the sound like dry paper rubbing together.
"No, I used to be an arcanist before I found my true calling," Flean said, gripping his pendant. "Now my old brothers are kind enough to save an old man an uncomfortable journey. I am here to see this remarkable monument."
"Tell me how you secured it." The champion's voice caused a chill to run up Rolo’s spine. Bards sang that the voice of the Father was refined and intelligent, but in reality, there was a threat in the words that the champion barely bothered to conceal.
Flean looked at Rolo expectantly.
"I was shipwrecked here; we fought our way through and found an evil that we destroyed."
"Come now!" Flean chuckled. "We have heard such fanatical stories, champions, witches, and brave sea captains. Don’t tell me they are all made up."
"There was a witch on board," Rolo admitted.
"To consort with witches is blasphemous," the champion intoned.
"It is true, child of the north. You would do better to steer clear of their ilk," Flean agreed.
Rolo had a deep sense of respect for the temple of the Father and the Mother, but he would not accept a slight on his companions. "There was no spell; the witch was a courageous and faithful companion."
Rolo met the champion's glare with a level stare of his own and had to fight to stop his hand from moving to the haft of his axe.
"I think we can overlook this transgression, you were clearly under some kind of spell. Perhaps you would tell us about the god that called you here and the champion that led you." Flean’s voice was even, but Rolo saw a fanatical hunger in his eyes. He had seen that hunger before, in the eyes of starving wolves.
"I do not know anything about the gods or champions; I came for my family and the north," Rolo replied.
"Indeed," Flean said, his voice carrying a deadly edge.
The tension was broken by the sound of the meeting between Balthazar and the arcanists breaking up.
"We are going back to the citadel, Master Flean," Boreman announced.
Flean gave Rolo a smile that displayed his crooked teeth. "I think we will remain here until the end of your transaction. I feel that we have only just scratched the surface of this mysterious place. I hear that there is even a sunken city below the waters; that would be something to see."
"There are plenty of heavy rocks around here; I’d be glad to help you with that," Rolo said.
"Rolo!" Balthazar exclaimed.
Flean’s smile did not falter, but he raised a hand just slightly to block the advance of the champion of the Father. "As I said, some things can be overlooked, for now."
-
Rolo hurried through the tunnels, stopping at each of the slotted spy holes to peer out at his quarry. After the meeting, he had lost sight of the priest and the champion. They had rapidly descended through the mountain towards the cavernous harbor, and the only hidden section that led that way was the area Rolo had not yet explored. Despite the risk, they had made their interest in Konrad clear, he had to know what they were planning.
This area was thinner than the others, and its walls were damp and coated with slime. It led down through the mountain until it was blocked by a thick layer of ice that told Rolo he had reached the water level of the ocean.
Rolo wasn’t much of a swimmer, and the water was freezing, but he shrugged off his furs and cracked the ice with two blows of his axe.
"If you saw me now, Konrad, you would know almost the limits of my friendship," he said, slipping into the water.
The tunnel was longer than he imagined and pitch black. He had to feel his way forward and was forced to turn back half a dozen times for fresh air. Finally, he reached a place where he could swim upward, and he saw a faint light above him. He hit hard ice with his hands, and panic set in. He hadn't thought that the exit would also be frozen. The cold was now deep in his muscles, and he could feel them start to tremble uncontrollably. He struck the ice with his fists, but it didn’t move an inch so he pulled a long knife from his waistband and plunged it into the ice, beating upon the hilt with all of his might.
A crack appeared, and then another, and with one last blow, he broke through, gasping and spluttering.
This tunnel was much like the other, except the slots in the wall here allowed him to see through into the harbor. Looking out, shivering, he saw the first priest of the Father and the champion deep in conversation.
"The arcanists insist on investigating this anomaly in the west," the first priest was saying.
"Do you think it is linked to the champion who was working with the northerners?"
"Forget about this so-called champion of small gods. I will follow his trail. You are to go to Portia immediately."
"Is this an instruction from the Father or from you?" The champion asked.
"I am the Fist of the Father; they are one and the same to you, champion," Flean hissed, pointing to the small sailboat. "You are to go and investigate this Prior those fools are worshiping in the Lost Coast."
At the mention of the word "Prior" Rolo leaned closer, wondering what link was there between the mysterious entity that had helped him and the Father's priests.
"The mountain, the ley lines activating in the west, and now this Prior. You think they are all related somehow?"
"That is what we need to find out. The first son of the north knows much more. I will take him onto the citadel with us and question him further."
The champion looked like he were going to argue but instead simply gave a smart bow, his fist touching his chest. "Your will, Fist of the Father."
A small boat carried the champion of the father out onto the ocean, and Lavious Flean, the first priest of the Father hobbled back inside. The champion had also called Flean the Fist of the Father, Rolo didn’t know what that was, but it was clear that the old arcanist was no mere holy man.
After another torturous journey back through the icy water, Rolo made his way quietly through the mountain and burst into his father's office.
"Rolo, where have you been?" Balthazar asked.
Rolo wrenched open a chest and started to pull on heavy furs and boots and thrust them into a pack while he explained to his father what he had seen and heard.
"They would take you from here by force?" Balthazar asked.
"I’m not waiting to find out, I have a duty to find Konrad and warn him. I planned to travel to Tajar anyway so this will not look out of the ordinary."
Balthazar clasped his son on the shoulder. "When I met that champion, I felt that I was being pulled into something much larger than securing the future of the north. Wherever this road takes you, Rolo, be careful. I’ll go and keep the arcanists distracted for you."
The two northmen embraced, and Rolo was left alone. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out the heavy mail and examined the links. He had never worn mail before, preferring to trust in stout leather, but he had powerful new enemies now, and he decided that a little extra protection from a master smith would not hurt. When he was prepared, he stole back down to the harbor, finding a small sailing boat and untangling the lines.
Soft footsteps splashed in the puddles behind him, and Rolo turned as the Fist of the Father stepped out from the darkness of the cavern. "You were not honest with me, Rolo, and the Father so hates dishonesty."
The Fist of the Father held out his hand, and a shockwave rippled through the air and struck Rolo, causing him to stagger backwards on the dock. He looked down and was relieved to see no real damage.
Flean growled something and took a deep breath, firing rapid pulses through the air, but as each one struck Rolo, he felt no effect.
Rolo didn’t try to question why the old man's magic had failed him; he pulled out his axe and stepped forward.
Flean cursed and reached into his robes, producing a small Hedron that rested on his open palm. The burst of light that emanated from the small glass sections threw his rictus grin into sharp relief. "You have resistance to magic, which is impressive. But I can tell by your face that you know what this is; resistance or not, it will end you. I would have liked to have your other secrets, first son of the north, but I fear it is better to be done with you. The Father will discover them eventually; he always does."
Rolo halted his advance looking around desperately, but he had nowhere to go except the small sailing boat that wobbled behind him as he stood at the edge of the docks.
The light from the Hedron was blinding now, and a shrill buzzing filled the air as it pulsed. Flean was panting and taking deep breaths, a small rivulet of blood dripping from his nose, stark red against the light from the Hedron. With a growl of triumph he closed his fist, sending a white bolt of light tinged with blue directly at Rolo's chest.
Rolo didn’t know if the bolt was supposed to kill him or stun him, but he certainly didn’t expect it to be pulled into his chest and disappear. The links of the chainmail vibrated and grew hot, burning though his undershirt and searing his flesh before the built-up magic was thrown out in a wide arc around him.
The priest screamed with rage, and dropped the dull Hedron to the floor, where it sat, gently smoking. Rolo closed the gap in two strides and punched the priest in the face, hearing his nose snap and sending him flopping down onto the dock, then he siezed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the water's edge.
"The sunken city is down there," he said, and pushed the Fist of the Father into the water.