29. Old Friends

“Magar has taken to visiting Zalak every few days, where they have hushed discussions that I am allowed close enough to witness but not close enough to hear.

Though I have observed that as Magar has grown older, though not much larger, he is often the one ordering and chastising Zalak. The King, his empire still failing, appears ever more sullen and regretful. I fear for the day when Zalak grows tired of being ordered around by disembodied voices and meek hatchlings and cuts all our throats.

I would heal, of course, but no doubt he could have me buried again.

Through their conversations, I often find Magar and Zalak both glancing towards the large steel box that the King keeps by his large stone throne. And I begin to grow ever more certain of what resides within.

‘Why do you keep Agrak in that box?” I asked Magar one day.

‘For our safety,’ he answered without pause.

‘He is my friend. He will not harm us.’

‘You must trust our master, Izzig. The time will come to free him. For now, we are not ready. I am not ready.’

‘What will happen when he is released?

Magar met the question with a sad smile. ‘I suspect that will be up to you.’”

“Ah, excellent,” remarked an enthusiastic man. “You’re still alive.”

Astrid blinked her eyes open, soon closing them again at the bright golden light of lanterns, reflected off highly polished walls and floorboards of a golden wood.

“Take a moment,” the man suggested. “But not too long. I’ve still got a lot to do. It’s a tiresome business, is this. The Voidwalker goes here, Avenpark goes there. Hurrying through time and space and undoing the requisite order. And never mind all the minor deities, spirits, and meta world entities trying to make their own mark on existence.”

Astrid’s ears began to ring, and her head throbbed, pain pulsing into her temples.

“Drink this,” the man suggested.

She opened her eyes to see a murky flask held out ahead of her. “No.”

“I’m afraid you must. This elixir will heal your wounds, so I can send you merrily on your way. Otherwise, we’ll have to wait days for you to eat, rest and hydrate and that’s not a pause that either of us can afford. Well… you can, of course. Since I’ll be inserting you back into the proper time and place, but I must swiftly be about my business.”

“Can you talk more quietly?” Astrid tiredly asked.

“Of course,” said the man happily. “But I won’t. Unless you drink this flask.”

“It could be poison.”

“You are weak and wounded on the floor,” countered the man. “I woke you from a stupor. If I had meant you any harm, then I could do so without the need for you to drink, or do, anything. This is a level of suspicion that you would—rightly—mock Hjorvarth for, is it not…?” He popped the stopper, and jutted it towards Astrid. “Here. I insist.”

Astrid stared feebly at the flask. The liquid inside was murky and grim, while the edges of the green glass gleamed with golden light. “Fine,” she said, suffering terrible thirst. “But—”

The man grabbed her hand, placing it around the flask, and then left her to drink. His cushioned footsteps sounded out as he strode away from her, and then back, pacing while he waited for her to decide.

Beyond tired, and with little other choice, Astrid began to drink. The liquid tasted grey, and heavy, and seemed to grow heavier still as it settled in her stomach. It neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but the strangeness caused her to pause.

“Finish it,” instructed the man, his friendly voice now edged with impatience. “If it is poison, better you take a full dose rather than linger on in agony and suffering.”

Unable to refute the logic, Astrid continued to drink. Her hand grew tired, and the empty flask slipped from grip, striking the floorboards below with a crystalline note. The strange weight began to lift, and all the deep aches and pains in her muscles and bones began to ease. And the overly bright room, difficult to see, settled into a more mundane glow, which allowed her to see the many cabinets and shelves, and a distant horseshoe counter, as if she were sat in the back of a traveling merchant’s cart.

“I appreciate your trust,” said the man, happy and enthusiastic once more. “A rare thing,” he added. He placed his hands on his hips. The man wore a green robe of many vivid shades, so that it appeared almost a thing living. His hair was deep black, his features squared, his beard close cropped. Astrid had never seen a man who appeared so clean and so neat before. “No doubt you will have questions. But there is no sense in answering them, as soon enough your memory will be fractured. Not by my hand,” he added, when Astrid recoiled, “but it approaches by inevitable design. Once our business is settled, I will return you from where you came. At which point I must insist that you continue on with your original quest. You must find what has been buried, and free it from imprisonment. Or else events will diverge too starkly and all will likely be lost.”

“Why should I help you…?” Astrid asked, pushing back against the wall and straightening. The strength had returned to his limbs, and her throbbing head had faded to a dull ache. “Or listen… or—” She paused. “Why should I do anything?” she snapped. “My family are dead. I’ve been dragged here and there. And all you care about is… ordering events. What does that matter to me?”

“It matters because without me, you would be dead,” he answered flatly. “Never mind the fact that you were already set upon this path before the Voidwalker interrupted. What else do you have to do, Astrid? Find the troll, carry on forward, and do as you always do. Like I have to. Forward, ever forward. For the sake of us all.”

“So bad things will happen if I don’t dig a box out of the ground?”

“Yes,” the robed man gravely agreed. “Ignore me, by all means. Even though I spared you from despair and starvation. But listen to Edda, at least. She—”

“How do you know her name? Or mine? Or Hjorvarth’s. You’re just like Chance. And all those other gods and wizards that you decry. All knowing and self important. You treat the world and those in it like they are puppets who must go along with your plays.”

The man’s dark brows fixed into an angry scowl. “I am not a thing like Lucius Chance. There is no one like me. I am The Alchemist. And I have achieved things the likes of which could not be achieved by anyone other than me. I—” He cut himself short.

“Never mind,” he added with a bright smile. “I am short of time. I had simply not anticipated this level of animosity. Let me elucidate matters in a more convincing manner. You do not know where we are, who I am, how you got here, how to leave here, and I can guess that you do not wish to stay here forever. In which case, your continued survival relies on my good will or else my good nature. So do as I say, and I will return to your own world where you can do as you please. But waste any more of my time, and I will send you back to the temple where you can wail and rot for a few more wretched days.” He stepped close, and bared his teeth in an cruel smirk. “Now, Astrid, do we understand one another…?”

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Astrid’s indignation and anger gave way to an undercurrent of fear. “Yes,” she eventually said. “But send a kobold stone or one of your lanterns to the temple.”

“To what end?”

“If you do so, I will help you,” she easily answered. “You said we were short of time.”

“Very well,” the robed man swiftly agreed, straightening and striding towards the counter. “Follow me,” he said. “First you will write yourself a letter, and then we will be on our way. And after all that is done, I need to see a man about a horse. Horses, even.”

***

Hjorvarth rested soundlessly in a shallow grave left open to the blue light of sparkling gemstones. The two kobolds did much the same beside him, shredded bodies buried under humped earth.

There was no movement in the place, little change to be seen other than the slow process of that dead man’s healing. Scarred flesh slowly crawled across the worst burns, splits, and fissures along cheeks, neck, and shoulders.

The subtle hiss of dirt grained then broke the silence.

They rolled down from the mounded earth of the kobold grave furthest away, until mangled claws jutted up into the blue gloom. They made a frantic effort, along with one shredded leg, of struggling free from burial.

The kobold that crawled out was missing most the flesh on its narrow skull. One eye missing, the other collapsed. A leg had been cut off at the hip, so it had no way to stand. Still, it clawed towards the resting man.

A malicious whisper answered the slow approach. The kobold paused, edged back, waited for a long moment before turning to the second mounded grave. Claws from above and below carved through the dirt, revealing a second kobold that had an almost untouched chest and face, despite the punctured head.

“What is it?”

The first kobold stared down, but had no throat to offer answer.

“Then cut the throat and be done with it.”

The first kobold’s ravaged gaze did not waiver.

“Spirited?” the other echoed. “Lift me. Let me see.” They linked hands, and the second kobold was dragged up in sight of the man’s grave. “Ah, yes.” A pause. “No… this ghost is beyond reasoning. We must call the master. There is alchemy and foreign magics at play. Wait. Hurry, put me back in the grave. The living approach.”

***

Sam ran through darkness, the candle he had stolen long burned low. Men and women followed behind him, restless, fearful, panicked, muttering among themselves.

Behind them, explosions rocked the tunnels.

A group of cloaked kobolds had passed by their prison, unleashing fire upon the armoured guards.

Sam had thought that a grand opportunity to escape, but now realised he had no idea where he was going. The lead kobold had known his name and pointed him this way, but he grew ever more afraid of any coming crossroads.

Exhausted and starving, he would have almost been happy to give up and die.

“Do you know which way we’re going?” a man asked for the third time.

“Should we go back?” asked another.

“Is it safe?”

“I’m so tired. Is anyone else tired. Is anyone else having trouble breathing?”

“The path runs straight!” Sam declared. “You’re breathing heavy because you’re running. We’re all safe. We’re all going to be safe,” he insisted. “Carry on forward. Keep going until you see the light of… day.” He stumbled his last words at the sight of blue light that bathed the tunnel ahead.

“That’s not daylight.”

“Should we turn back?”

“Stop asking that,” Sam snapped. “This is the right way. They told me to run to the blue cavern and beyond.”

“Really?”

“I’ve no reason to lie,” Sam lied. “I’m going to slow my pace.” He listened to the ripple of relief amid labored breaths. “When you can all see again, check that everyone near you is all right.” He sighed, tired of his own echoing voice.

Sam didn’t come here with hopes of leading yet another group of desperate people, and he certainly didn’t feel well suited to the task at hand.

He glanced at his hands now he crossed into the blue light. He looked filthy and withered. Blood and dirt stained his flesh and nails. Scratches and bruises mottled his skinny arms. He strode on at a quick enough pace, no longer worried by screeching and explosions that had faded behind them. Despite his relief, he paid no more mind to the questions asked of him, or to the conversations made between those in his company.

He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to talk.

Sam wasn’t really even sure what he wanted, but he had decided to try and lead these people to safety so he would do just that. And then he might go live in the wilderness, though he realised he would likely need to learn survival skills for that. He decided he would go back to Horvorr instead, or start searching for Dan again in Timilir, though that would likely end in him being sent back to the mines.

Sam sighed his frustration.

“Is something wrong?”

Sam glanced back at the gaunt miner. “I came here to find my son,” he explained. “I haven’t found him.”

“What’s his name?” the brawny woman behind the miner asked.

“Dan.”

“Dan?” The miner frowned. “Young and slim with brown hair?”

“Yes.” Sam’s eyes narrowed at his own stupidity. He had been ignoring these folk for weeks. “Have you seen him?”

“He’s with the other group of workers, ain’t he? Back at the camp. He came in not long before you did.” The miner’s smile was conflicted. “Then again, you would’ve seen him if he was there, surely?”

“Not likely,” the woman answered. “We got grabbed the day after he got there. He never went to the meal hall.”

“Are you really sure this is the way out?” the miner asked.

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to tell the truth.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“We’re moving up a slight climb, which is good enough for me,” the woman said. “And there’s no other way to go.”

Sam nodded as they drew close to a cavern where the blue light shone brighter. “If we keep running, then—”

He slowed to a stop, stumbling forward when the miner ran into him. He sidestepped in time to stop the whole column from coming to a stop. Crystals sparkled brightly overhead and in the cavern walls, shining light on three graves, two of which seemed newly disturbed and a third that lay wide open.

“What is it?”

“It’s not—” Sam frowned down at the scarred body of a huge man. “There’s no way.” He dropped to his knees, and knelt in silence for a long while. He looked up with wild eyes that spoke to disbelief. “Is there a body here?”

“What?”

“Is there a body, in the grave, beneath me?”

“Of course.” The miner’s brows knitted. “Yes, there is. And two more beside it, by my guess.” He glanced at the crowd of haggard men and women that had started to gather. “Do you know the man?”

“The kobold knew my name,” Sam murmured, struggling with a misery that had begun to smother him. “He didn’t speak a word, not a word. I thought he had disowned me.” He shook his head, remembering their last meeting on the Great Lake. “No… this is someone else, this is anyone else. He didn’t die out here searching for me.”

The brawny woman stepped forward, her hard face softened by concern. “Is this your son, Sam?”

Sam’s wordless shout rang through the blue cavern and shook them all. He could see the brass bands clasped along severed hair. The stony face shared the same stillness in life as it did in death. This was Hjorvarth, this was an unbreakable warrior lying broken beneath the earth, stopped short of finding the man he sought, of finding Sam.

Sam had brought about the end of Isleif and his son. He had destroyed his first family, broken them apart, and now Sam’s second lay dead because of his rash actions.

He scrambled onto the burnt body, trying to haul Hjorvarth up, but he was too weak.

Sam didn’t have the strength to lift him. He searched the troubled faces of the crowd but none came to help. He tried to pry away the metal shield, grabbing onto the edge, as hands grabbed onto him. They tried to pull him away from Hjorvarth.

He could hear a man shouting in defiance as he gripped tighter to the shield.

Sam only realised that it was welded to flesh when it tore away with a horrific rip. He retched, vision swimming, head lolling.

His only friend was dead.