For three more days, Pirin and Gray travelled as fast as they could. They flew due south, pausing each night to sleep, and taking a break every two hours during the day to rest. Once Pirin had churned through Essence from the first two manabulbs (at least, as far as he was aware—he couldn’t feel any icy energy left swirling around in his stomach), he used two more.
He doubted his cycling technique was efficient. No, scratch that. He knew it wasn’t, but without another wizard to teach him how to properly push Essence through his body, his slow breaths would have to do. He sucked air in for five seconds, then blew out for five seconds. The lungs were a pump, shifting the Essence around. At the moment, it seemed like it was shifting without purpose. He wasn’t in a fight, and he wasn’t trying to use a technique.
If he ever managed to push himself past the Kindling stage, he’d be able to harvest Essence from the world’s energy fields, pulling it into his body and purifying it. But right now, he had to rely on manabulbs and other natural sources of Essence.
On the third day after leaving Bent River, when he was about a quarter of the way through his newest Essence infusion, mountains arose on the horizon. According to the map, it was called the Varioch Range: a wall of spiky, snow-capped rocks, nearly impossible to traverse on foot. There was only one pass, miles away, and an enormous wall blocked it.
But they weren’t travelling on foot, thankfully, and Gray could fly over. It would be a long flight, though, and she would need a good break. Besides, once they passed over the mountains, they would be in Aerdia, land of the autumn elves—enemies to Sirdia. If she was tired, it would make it much harder to run from danger.
He guided Gray down to the forested peak of one of the foothills. She skittered to a halt on the ground, then jumped up and perched on a branch of a robust pine tree—with Pirin still in the saddle. The branch was thick enough to hold their weight for a little while.
He whispered, “Once we get over those first peaks, it’ll be the furthest I’ve been from Northvel in…in a good long while.”
Gray cooed softly.
“We’d better take a break here, or we’ll never stand a chance at crossing the mountains in one go,” he added.
He turned his gaze up to the sky. Judging by the height of the sun, it was just before noon, and if they flew for a few hours without pause, they could make it over the mountains. He didn’t want to think about how far it would be to Tallus-Brannul Lake or the library at its center.
But then he looked to the west. Another storm bloomed in the distance. Winter blizzards didn’t bubble or seethe, and they were deceiving like that. Even feathery, calm edges could hide a raging flurry. He pulled his sleeves down further over his hands—just the thought of the storm made him shiver.
Pirin clicked his tongue, and Gray hopped down from the tree. He swung off the saddle. They should wait out the storm, and there was no better place than here, sheltered by the trees.
Gray foraged for seeds and grubs, and Pirin kicked around in the snow, hunting for branches he could make a fire with. He wandered until he could only hear Gray nattering and chirping softly in the distance. She wouldn’t stray too far away, especially not without him.
After a few minutes, he found a boulder of sandstone clinging to the side of the hill and creating a ledge. He bent down and searched underneath, hoping to find some dry wood scraps away from the reach of the elements.
He snatched up a few dry twigs, but there wasn’t much left underneath. Only chips of perfectly-carved stone and a few wisps of snow.
With the sticks in hand, he took a few steps back, then brushed the snow off the sandstone boulder. It wasn’t a natural mound; sandstone didn’t naturally form mounds at the surface. Pirin brushed the snow off the ledges and crags, revealing the face of a large statue, now turned on its side and abandoned. The head itself was as tall as he was.
He exhaled, his breath turning to steam. The statue had pointed ears and a crown—it was of an ancient elven king. It had a carved diadem on its head, which had once been painted gold with Ichor. Now, only golden flecks remained.
Quickly, Pirin turned away, then crossed his arms. After a second, he turned back to the statue, then muttered, “I’ve got time. Time to practice.”
No one would carve statues of him if he turned his back and gave up.
He stepped closer to the statue, then looked into its glassy eyes. A thin layer of ice had formed on them, and it was reflective—enough that he could see his own eyes.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
He held out his hand and conjured a small gray orb. If nothing else, he could practice holding on to his techniques a little longer. Maybe he could resist them blowing up in his face. Once he had the Whisper Hitch’s grey orb hovering above the palm of his hand, he turned away, still holding it together without a direct line of sight on his eyes.
Three seconds later, the orb destabilized. Its own mass ripped it apart, sending fangs of pain scraping down his arm and Essence channels.
He tried again twice, to the same effect. The fourth try lasted longer, for about fifteen seconds. But in a fight, he couldn’t rely on luck.
He clenched his teeth and shook out his hands, then turned back to the statue and formed the orb again. No matter what, he had to force himself to hold it for longer. He reached out, and this time, as soon as the orb began to destabilize, he spread his stance and tensed his shoulders.
The orb started to rip apart. Discomfort lanced down his arm. He clenched his teeth. Blue sparks of Essence danced on his fingertips, threatening to blast outward.
He closed his fist, cutting off the technique. A few of the sparks that clung to his fingers detonated, popping at his fingertips with tiny blue blasts before disappearing into nothing.
Pirin snorted, then shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked the statue in the eye one last time. “Alright, fine. You win. This time. But I’m not giving up—you can count on that.”
He was about to turn away, but his eyes drifted up to the carved diadem on the statue’s head. It wouldn’t need the Ichor paint, especially now that it was in ruins. He drew his sword. It made a soft click as it slipped out of the sheath’s metal opening, then let off a metallic shhiinng as he drew it.
The blade was about three feet long, and it was all clean, polished steel. It was simple—probably too simple, for a king—but the crossguard had a few swooping ornaments attached to it.
Pirin set the blade against the statue’s diadem and scraped off what little Ichor was left on the crown, then wiped the golden flecks onto his finger. He shrugged, then licked them off his finger and swallowed. Maybe with the new Essence he had ingested…
He cycled his Essence faster. It only purified a little bit more of the manabulbs. The Ichor did nothing.
“Alright, alright, sorry for stealing the last bits of gold,” he muttered. He flourished his sword with an elegant twirl, then tucked it back into its sheath. “Woah. Where’d that come from?”
He shut his eyes, trying to recall any formal training, but he couldn’t. The only thing that came to mind was an Elvish word: Lahess-Âya. A…sword form? He brought his hand back to the hilt of the sword. His fingers wrapped around it naturally.
Shaking his head, he continued down the slope, kicking through the snow and looking for branches to start a fire with. For a few more minutes, he walked down the slope, searching. He passed by a gap in the trees, where, in the distance, the incoming blizzard still loomed. It’d be on top of them soon.
When he bent down to pick up an only-somewhat-wet branch, a crack sounded behind him. Pine needles rustled and snow crunched. He sprung to his full height and dropped his hand to his sword.
Slowly, he turned in a circle, searching for any sign of the disturbance. It could have just been Gray rummaging through the leaves nearby, and that was more likely than not. But, as he had found out this morning, caution had been branded into his mind. More often than not, it paid off.
He turned in a circle slowly. Nothing, nothing, nothing…there! A small shadow shifted behind a tree two rows back before slipping away into the woods. He ripped his sword out of its sheath again and pointed its tip where the shadow had been.
Before he could adjust his grip or call out, the tree behind him exploded. Pine needles showered him, and twigs flashed through the air. He tried to whirl around, but a bark-covered beast plowed into his back, throwing him to the ground.
Pirin drove his good elbow back into the creature. It shrieked and whooped, and it lost its balance. He rolled. It fell off him. He bashed at it with the hilt of his sword, and a shard of bark flew off. He gripped his sword tight, then thrust it through the creature. It didn’t matter where. The blade bit into flesh, and his assailant hollered.
Pirin jumped to his feet and faced the creature. It was a shrivelled, man-shaped thing, with armour made of blighted bark. Its skin was pale green, and its pointed ears poked straight out the sides of its head. A gobbart.
Like their goblin and boggart ancestors, they treasured gold and silver. Either this one was after his haversack, or someone had already paid to go hunting. Whichever way, it likely wasn’t alone.
As the defeated gobbart shrieked, Pirin leaned closer. He let go of his sword and held out his good hand. He stared into the gobbart’s sallow eyes, trying to form a bridge with its mind. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of how big the gobbart’s party was, or who sent them—if anyone had.
Before Pirin could even try to gather the gobbart’s thoughts, an ethereal knife shot through his hand. His Essence backfired. His arm recoiled, and he hissed, “Svague! Eane-forsake it!”
He shook the phantom pain away, then reached out, ready to try again. But, when he looked back at the gobbart’s eyes, they had glazed over. It was dead. Pirin ripped his sword free, spilling the creature’s cold, black blood onto the snow.
Pirin turned in a circle, panting. The rest of the trees shook. The bushes shattered and branches snapped, and a crowd of hiding gobbarts emerged.
“Gray!” he yelled, hoping his gnatsnapper could still hear his voice. “Gray, we need to leave! Now!”
They’d do better against a storm than a horde of hungary gobbarts.