It took Tarn, Narsol, Urthin, and Bog all shoving to get the cabin’s door closed against the relentless push of the wind. The snow-filled gale cried its protests as it shook against the old inn, rattling the glass and sending tremors throughout the structure.
With an effort, Bog and Narsol then leaned against the door while Tarn and Urthin forced the series of metal latches designed to keep it closed against the harshest wind. Tarn had no idea why the building was constructed this way – it would make more sense to build the inn on either side of the bridge, not up on stilts in the middle. Yet here it was, and they needed it.
His shaking hands grasped the thin wooden railway as he stumbled forward. His brain fogged with cold, he had just enough energy to activate the [full camp] in his interface, as he looked around the space with bleary, ice-encrusted eyes.
The inn was basically a single massive room, a square wheel with a double-sided cobblestone fireplace as its spoke. There were cushions and bedrolls strewn across the hardwood floor like rugs, while a few tables and a single bar took up the far wall.
Lash was over by the hearth, getting a spark going while Aryo worked a bellows with the experience of a farm boy from the Cairn plains. There were more details to the room, but in this moment Tarn’s eyes saw little but the fireplace. Like a man returning from the desert getting his first glass of water, his brain could process nothing but the need to be as close to its warmth as possible.
As his chest heaved with exertion Tarn worked at his clothes, desperate to get the frozen gear off. He could hear the faint crackle of a fire lit within, smell the wonderful scent of freshly burning wood. He needed to strip himself of the damp, crusted cloak and let the warmth reach his skin.
The two orcs managed to extricate themselves from their gear more quickly. Narsol was down to his nightclothes in a flash, nearly tripping down the small landing the pair stood upon in his urge to get close to the fire.
Bog paused on the small wooden platform, then knelt down and gave the ice around Isca’s boots a firm chop with her hands, breaking the footwear free. Shivering, Isca favored the Orc with a thankful smile.
“Go g-get warm, Bog.” Tarn said, his voice quaking. “We’ll be r-right there.”
Bog waited for a moment, then nodded and headed down to the fire. Urthin had broken down a few of the chairs and was tossing the reclaimed wood into the fire. The room had begin to glow with the orange of the flame, the shadows of the exhausted team shimmering back and forth.
“T-that was a … b-bold t-t-tactic.” A tremor ran through Isca as she shivered. Now down to his undershirt and leather pants, Tarn pulled her closer and began to rub her arms vigorously.
Isca’s shivering slowed, and Tarn slowly turned her around and began guiding her down the stairs. She’d never mentioned her world being any warmer than the Realm, but the zero-temperature seemed to have affected her even more than him. Her translucent wings lay flat against her back, bent and merged to her form as if they’d been painted on. He hoped the heat would restore her.
Aryo came running forward with hot drinks. Tarn brought one to his lips, feeling the soothing warmth of the liquid run down his throat and fill his chest. He could barely taste what beverage he had consumed, his nose was so congested he doubted he could taste a chili pepper right now. But it felt good, whatever it was.
The room around him began to spin a bit. He wobbled to the left, then felt an arm come around his shoulder, as Urthin quickly steadied him. Still feeling lightheaded, he allowed himself to be brought before the fire and laid upon a bedroll placed there.
Looking into the flames, Tarn felt his mind begin to wander. Exhaustion was chasing after him, encouraging him to close his eyes, to let his thoughts and worries intermingle.
No. Snap out of it.
The voice inside him was his own, but sounded a lot like old Rykin. There would be a time for sleep, and it would be soon. But not yet, not for him. He needed to see to his people.
Groaning with effort, he pushed himself up to a seated position and turned to face the group. Isca, Jental, Bog, and Narsol all lay upon the bedrolls that had been set up in a ring around the fire. Lash was up on the table, padding back and forth as he poked into the team’s packs that had been placed there. Aryo stood next to the table, still working with a metal can he had filled hot water into. Urthin stood with his back to the opposite wall, the firelight dancing on his unreadable expression.
Exhaustion relentlessly pulled at him, but he still resented its call. He would sleep, he told his tired body. But only when all his team had been seen to. If he let his eyes close now he knew he wouldn’t wake for hours, and what lay on the other side of those hours was uncertain.
Blearily, he looked again around the room. It was essentially a wooden cabin that had been converted, yet if it was an inn he saw no sign of other rooms, or even a doorway or staircase that might lead to them. The only thing really that suggested this had been a lodging at all was the wall décor.
A massive painting of an alabaster dire wolf had been hung over the table Lash now paced back and forth upon. Tarn recognized it as the Pack Leader he and Isca had faced down, right down to the small axe pendant on its collar.
Above the fireplace was a smaller painting, but the subject matter seemed even more fierce. The scene depicted an enormous brown bear with huge tusks charging toward the painter, sending snow flying in its wake. Small human-looking figures ran from it, though if they were human then the bear was the size of an elephant. Its body was riddled with wounds, and several arrows poked out of its fur, but if the bear had been affected by these injuries its expression sure didn’t show it.
‘Icegore’ had been carved into the wood frame of the painting, as if the creature could have been named anything else.
I guess we will be seeing that before we get off this bridge. Tarn had noticed now a tendency for the dungeons to place particularly hard challenges at choke points and in front of key locations. He had hoped the dire wolf Pack Leader had been the end of the combat on the bridge, but now he was sure they were not done yet.
“Our next adversary, no doubt.” Urthin said, stepping closer and following his gaze to the painting. “To face a beast like that, we will all have to be at our best.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking Smiley. I was hoping that we could – hey, wait a minute! Is that you trying to get me to sleep? I don’t need a nursemaid, you know.”
“That is debatable.” Urthin gave no laugh, but Tarn knew he was joking. “But I am sure you will not rest until the rest of the team is settled.”
Tarn was about to remind Urthin that even though he was right, he didn’t always know everything – when a growing debate between Aryo and Lash got his attention.
“Farmer boy,” Lash hissed from his spot on the table. “You put water kettle on fire too long. Does Farm Boy want to boil water away?”
“I’m trying to get it warm but still drinkable, you … gremlin.” Aryo held the can at the end of a long set of tongs and was trying to bring it from the fireplace to the table without spilling. “No one here wants to drink lava.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“No. No. No.” Lash stood on the table, shaking his head so much his ears wobbled. “Lava not hot water, cow-kid. Lava from fire mountain softer and slower, like thick water. Can’t drink lava, Lash has tried.”
“I didn’t-“ Aryo began to blush, while Tarn chuckled at the gremlin’s admonishment. “I’ve never been to a volcano after all.”
“Lash been to many!” the gremlin boasted. “Worked on Lurim’s Spire and ships. Seen fire mountains near frowny Urthin’s place. Saw the two fire mountains on ocean, seen them go boom. Big fire – big in the sky!”
“Wait, Lash.” Urthin’s eyebrows raised. “’Two fire mountains. Do you mean the Twin Sisters, off the south coast of the Realm.”
Twin Sisters? Tarn recalled hearing something about the pair of oceanic mountains during his required classes at the orphanage. They were volcanos, he remembered. Supposedly on a very clear day they could be seen from the top of the Spire in the Capitol.
“Yes, yes, frowny man. Twin Sisters, that was mages called them. Big and tall and wet from ocean. Lash was on boat when Lurim made them explode. Big bang, very fun to see.”
Lurim? Yes! Tarn remembered now. Not from the class itself, he had skipped the rest of it. But Sinah had told him about it after he had snuck back in through the window that night. Her story of the Arch Mage causing two dormant volcanos to erupt in order to beat an adversary had seemed so awesome he was sorry to have missed hearing it.
But the teacher had said it was a historical event, lost to time. Like many of Lurim’s boasts, a legend passed down by generations.
“Wait, you were there?” Tarn looked over at the gremlin, his voice sharing Urthin’s incredulous expression. “You saw the Old Bastard take down the Twin Sisters? Lash, you couldn’t have been.”
“I-I don’t understand,” Isca said. “What is the significance of-“
“A historical event.” Urthin steepled his fingers as he looked at the gremlin, brows furrowing. “The Twin Sisters were a pair of volcanos located about a hundred miles off the southern coast of the realm. They were the refuge of Esta Neros the Second. A demi-mage, the last true threat to Arch Mage Lurim’s supremacy over the realm. To remove that threat, the ArchMage succeeded in magically detonating the pair of mountains. Killing thousands along with his adversary.”
“That sounds like the Lurim we have been taught to fear,” Narsol said.
“But did you say Lash worked with mages.” Aryo shrugged his shoulders. “Why is it surprising that he would be present for that moment?”
Tarn’s mind was still processing the information, coming to the same realization that Urthin had. The rest of them either hadn’t lived in the Realm, or hadn’t had the education to learn the full history of Lurim’s reign.
He thought back to that moment when he had first found Lash. Escaped from the Mage’s Incinerator where they disposed of ‘defective’ gremlins, he had assumed that Lash was a newer creation. His child-like world view and manner of speaking only reinforced that view.
“Because Lurim destroyed the Two Sisters more than nine hundred years ago!” Tarn stood, facing the wide eyed gremlin. “Lash – how old are you?”
Collectively all eyes were upon the tiny figure, waiting for his response to Tarn’s question. Lash’s eyes narrowed a bit in confusion, as if the very words Tarn had spoken made no sense.
“Lash not know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Why would he care? One day Lash is awake. Then he start doing things. Things mages want. Clean flasks, mop floors, carry wood. Gremlin things.”
“Yes but, how long have you been alive?”
“Lash been alive all his life!” Lash smiled. “Why Boss asking weird questions? Should be telling stories, making jokes. Getting happy so sleeping is good. Then morning for food. Maybe fighting. More cold probably.”
“Intriguing,” Urthin said quietly. “I am surprised we never pursued this line of questions with Lash before. I assumed he was young, a new construction of the mages.”
“Me too,” Tarn whispered.
“Lash can hear you, you know.” He pulled at his large ears comically. “Boss ask questions if Boss have them. Lash answer, even if questions so boring.”
Tarn stretched his legs out, propping them on the heavy wooden table. The fire danced back and forth inside the hearth, sending a pleasing sleepy smoke into the room.
His bedroll called to him, but he was intrigued. This puzzle with Lash was just the right thing to take his mind off bigger concerns. Help sleep better, as the gremlin had said.
“Lash.” Tarn felt his knees pop as he stretched them again. “Do you remember leaving the Sword Dungeon?”
“Sure,” Lash began to pace. “Big fight with Lurim and Heart. Bugs take Lurim, Heart goes crazy making monsters. Tarn sister be dumb, try to keep staff. We get out, because Lash so smart, he know how to port with mage staff.”
“A complete and accurate recounting.” Urthin said. “No questions about your memory.”
“Yes,” Tarn leaned in. “But how long ago was that?”
“Hmmm.” Lash stopped, looking upwards as if he were pulling the information from a trunk in his head. “Not yesterday. More than that, but Lash not sure. A few days?”
“No perception of time, perhaps?” Urthin steepled his fingers. “Interesting. I suppose the Mages would need their assistants to have enough memory that they would not have to be re-instructed how to do tasks. But the value of understanding the passage of time…”
“Big words!” Lash looked up at the ceiling. “Ugh - Frowny so boring. Let Boss and Frowny talk if they want. Lash off to have fun. Maybe put crickets in sharp girls pack.”
With that, Lash leapt off the table with a flourish and padded quietly over to the area where Jental was sleeping. Tarn thought about advising the gremlin not to bother her, and decided against it. Jental could use a bit of good-natured hazing.
“I had never thought to ask this.” Urthin’s voice had the tiniest edge of fatigue to it. “It speaks to how little we actually know of him.”
“Yeah, but there’s more than that, Smiley. He said he saw Lurim attack the Two Sisters. Is that possible? How old is Lash really? Does he age? Can he … live forever?”
“Gremlins are not immortal. We have seen many dead gremlins, Tarn. In the very refuse bin where we found Lash.”
“Yeah, because they’d been incinerated. Not because they grew old. And Lash isn’t like other gremlins – he’s immune to fire.”
Urthin steepled his fingers as he stared across the cabin at Lash, who had moved on from Jental and was now attempting to tie an unaware Isca’s bootlaces together. He let out a long sigh, one of the few Tarn had ever heard the Monk utter.
“We have been a team for a long time, Tarn. Friends even. You, Bog, Lash, and I. Yet I suspect there are aspects to each of use the others do not know. Secrets, maybe even so deep we do not know them ourselves.”
Tarn let his gaze wander across the cabin floor, where a half-dozen weary bodies slept in the dancing light of the fire. While Lash was now curling up near Aryo, Jental was draped across the cabin’s lone couch. Isca had moved to her bedroll and lay on her back with her goggles on, wings compressed onto the wooden floor, with only a thin cot between them. Narsol was asleep in a chair by the door, while the largest of their team dominated the woven rug in the center, snoring loudly.
They could each have secrets, but some of those secrets were more obvious than others.
“I’m worried about Bog. Based on Narsol’s reaction to her on the pier, she’s clearly not just any orc. He called her a Kai Vae-Ryiah, but he wouldn’t tell me what it meant. And I don’t know if I should tell her. Should she know the truth? Doesn’t she deserve to?”
“An intriguing title.” Urthin nodded. “I cannot advise you on that, Tarn. As we approach her homeland, it would seem a confrontation with her past seems likely. Is it better to prewarn her of it? Or respect her desire to remain ignorant of her history?”
Urthin turned away, facing the fire. In the low light, he was rendered nearly a shadow as he was silhouetted by the hearth.
“I suspect you will choose the later. Indeed, I suspect you have already chosen. What Bog ‘deserves’ is to have her wishes respected, and I know you will do so. It is part of who you are, what separates you from someone like Yarex. You would not weaponize history, as he has done.”
Tarn nodded, feeling the truth in Urthin’s words. But he could also hear the bitterness at the mention of the renegade monk, outcast of his order.
“He offends you, doesn’t he?” Tarn looked up at Urthin’s unmoving back. “Yarex is the opposite of you.”
For a moment, Urthin said nothing but turned away. He took a few steps towards an empty bedroll, then stopped again. His shoulders then slumped almost imperceptibly, as a slight pain came to his voice.
“I wish that were true, Tarn.”
Without waiting for Tarn’s reply, Urthin stepped onto the sleeping blankets and laid down. In the shadows it was impossible to determine if the Monk kept his eyes open, but his silence spread outwards from him like a shroud. In moments there was little sound left in the room except the crackling fire and Bog’s snoring.
Tarn’s mind continued to fixate on Yarex. He wasn’t the catalyst of all this, that was the Progenitors. But he was interwoven into much of it, and not knowing what he was truly after felt like a vulnerability. He was out there, possibly on his own bridge.
Was it worth considering the renegade Monk might be right about him? Tarn had no intentions other than going to the Axe as a means to reach Ak-Thanon and shutting down the Progenitors. If that was successful, they’d try to take the fight to Isca’s world.
Tarn wasn’t naïve enough to think his good intentions might lead to outcomes he didn’t intend. That had happened before. But what was the alternative? Just stay in the Realm and wait to be conquered? He’d played enough games of King’s Squares with Rykin to know what happened when you laid back and let your enemy gain strength.
He felt his eyes grow weary, fluttering shut despite his mind wanting to keep focusing on the problem at hand. The warmth of the fire began to dance across his tired muscles, soothing and relaxing them. Sleep crept in from the margins, and slowly washed over him.
His last thoughts were of Yarex, and the Monk’s strange confidence that he knew Tarn would end up causing harm.