Chapter 229: A Memory of Snow
9 years ago…
The winter snows had fallen down from the Rupture Mountains and had reached the ashen trees of Vulture Woods. Fowl and the other small creatures of the forest were scarce, hiding from the cold and the larger beasts lurking in the dark.
The hunters of the Blood Fang Tribe had been forced to go further out from the usual hunting grounds in the search of prey. Some of the younglings had tagged along on the hunting trip. The knowledge of a winter hunt was invaluable to any young aspiring hunter. Unfortunately, Stryg hadn’t been allowed to come along… as usual.
The hunters didn’t want anyone who couldn’t keep up with the rigorous cold and waist-high snow trails. It didn’t help that Stryg was smaller and weaker than the other younglings. Not even his teacher, the hunter Sigte, wanted Stryg along for the hunt. Instead, Sigte had ordered him to practice his sigil writing like always.
Stryg wanted to listen, he did… honest. But it was getting tiresome trying to write sigils in the corner while the other children practiced sparring with the Mothers or learned how to cook or craft spears and bows from the builders and cooks.
He rather be with Srixa, Bril, and the other children traveling with the hunters. In fact, he rather be anywhere else than the communal log house, listening to little Gathi debate which berry or nut was tastier.
So Stryg did the only reasonable thing his mind could come up with. He got up and left the warmth of the log house. He clambered up the tribe’s wooden walls and headed out to his favorite spot, a small clearing near the village.
The winter storms had made the usually short hike into what seemed an impossible trek. Stryg didn’t slow down. He trudged through the snow with puffed cheeks and the stubborn determination of a child. After what seemed an eternity, he found himself at the clearing, covered with snow and ice.
“Hah!” he threw his shivering small hands up in the air. “I knew I could do it! Can’t keep up my butt!”
He huffed and basked in his glorious triumph for a brief moment, before it finally dawned on him that he hadn’t brought a proper fur cloak. The sun was beginning to set and the cold breeze was only picking up.
Stryg looked around and quickly realized he’d freeze out here if he didn’t hurry back to the village. He turned around and hurried back to the tribe as fast as his little legs could carry him.
The blizzard struck before he was even half-way back. Stryg squinted through the pelting snow and tried to search for the path back home. The familiar signs of trees and bushes were gone, hidden by the blanket of snow.
The sun had dipped under the horizon, the darkness swept over the forest with frightening speed. Stryg felt heavy, he couldn’t feel his toes or fingers. He stumbled and fell face-down. He spat out wet snow and flipped himself over with what little energy he had left.
Some part of his mind was panicking, screaming at him to get up before the cold took him. But he was tired, so tired. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. His vision blurred and his breath slowed. He stared up past the crimson canopy at the faint silver moon hanging in the night sky.
A hazy silhouette blotted out the moon. Someone stood next to him, looking down with a smile. He couldn’t recognize their face, yet it seemed oddly familiar, their features seemed to almost blur and change.
Stryg tried to focus his vision, but he was exhausted, he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Why aren’t you practicing your writing?” an amused voice asked.
Stryg blinked slowly, “...Huh…?”
“And didn’t the Mothers tell you to stay inside the log house? It’s too cold outside.”
The voice had a feminine cadence, exotic yet hauntingly familiar.
“As I recall,” she said. “First Mother explicitly forbid you from going outside the village walls by yourself.”
Stryg tried to think of an excuse. His tongue felt dry and thick, “I… I’m… sor…”
The hazy silhouette crouched next to him and brushed his grey hair aside, “I know. But these woods can be dangerous, especially in a winter storm. This is no place for a baby. You should be home, practicing your writing, especially your loops and descender sigils, we both know they’re quite lacking.”
“B-but…the tribe…” Stryg mumbled softly.
“You don’t have to prove yourself to the tribe, not a single one of them.” She smiled, “You’re already enough.”
Stryg closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open.
“Let’s get you back home and next to a fire,” she said.
A pair of hands reached under his back and legs, and hoisted him up. She carried him in her arms and walked down the trail with ease, the snow barely reached her ankles.
“Get some rest, Stryg,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ll be home soon. And don’t worry, I won’t let First Mother punish you.”
Her words were comforting. Stryg felt warm in her embrace, his body began drifting into sleep. “Will you… come back?” he mumbled.
She chuckled, a whimsical sound, “Always.”
“...Promise?”
“With all my heart, little one.”
~~~
Marek ran through the Cairn’s encampment and headed for the private tent he had set up at the far edge of the camp. A scout had just given him the news. After several weeks the mysterious arch-mage had returned.
Marek pushed the tent flap aside and walked inside. Dawn sat cross-legged on top of a large wooden crate. She opened her eyes at the sound of his entrance.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“You’re back,” Marek said anxiously. “Did you…?”
She nodded, “It was difficult, but I managed to retrieve the object.”
Dawn hopped off the crate. She slipped her fingers under the crate’s lid and gently lifted off. An ebon black spear lay in a bundle of straw inside. The spear’s shaft and blade were made of the same material, there were no markings of where the pieces were joined. The weapon seemed to have been forged from a single lump of orichalcum.
The spear had a glossy finish to it under the torchlight, a well-known characteristic of orichalcum. A sole sigil was engraved on the spear’s head. Marek had never seen such a sigil before, it wasn’t the arcane nor ebon language.
He stared at the weapon with quiet awe, it almost seemed like a piece of art, a decoration, not a weapon forged for war.
“So, what do you think?” Dawn asked proudly.
“You didn’t tell me it was a spear…” he muttered.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
“I would have agreed more quickly.” He reached out for the spear.
“Careful. Remember, this is an ancient weapon from the Age of Titans. It was never meant to be wielded by human hands. Don’t underestimate its power nor the strain that comes with wielding such a weapon.”
“I understand,” Marek nodded solemnly. He carefully wrapped his fingers around the spear’s shaft and hoisted it up with a quiet groan. “It’s heavier than I thought,” he grimaced. “A lot heavier.”
“How do you feel?” Dawn asked attentively.
“It’s okay. I mean this thing has to weigh several hundred pounds, but I’m alright.” Marek grabbed the spear with both hands and tried a simple swing in the air.
“Nothing else? No pain?”
“Should there be?” he asked wearily.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We are dealing with a very ancient object. The bits of information I do know I learned from Crow.”
“And we can’t ask him about this,” Marek sighed. He jabbed the spear at imaginary enemies. “Well, I can probably swing this for a couple of minutes at best before my arms give out.”
“You’re a tri-manifold mage. Use vigor magic to strengthen your muscles.”
He nodded and channeled brown mana into his arms and back, a bronze sheen covered his skin. The spear felt lighter, but still heavy.
“It helps somewhat,” Marek spun the spear around and began to practice his spear stances. “It’s going to take some time getting used to the weight. I won’t really be throwing it much either.”
“With enough practice, I’m sure you’ll manage,” Dawn smiled. “This is going better than I expected. I could have sworn the spear would hav-”
“Agh!” Marek flinched. A surge of energy rippled from the spear as if it had just awoken from a long hibernation. His muscles’ spasmed and his arm cramped. The spear fell point-forward and sank half-way into the ground.
“What was that?” Marek grimaced.
Dawn ran up to him and grabbed his arm, “What happened? Tell me exactly.”
“I-I… I was swinging the spear and then it suddenly changed. It woke up…” He looked at her, confused. “Why do I feel like a weapon woke up?”
Dawn stared at the ebon spear, “Because it’s alive.”
Marek took a step back, “Wait? That thing is alive!? Like it has a soul!?”
“No, not exactly,” she shook her head. “It’s not like us, it doesn’t have emotions, it doesn’t have desires, but it is alive.”
“And you didn’t think to mention any of this until now?” Marek glared at her.
“There wasn’t a need until now.”
“Why do I feel like there is more you’re ‘conveniently’ not telling me?”
“There will always be things I don’t tell you and most of them have nothing to do with you,” she said curtly. “But right now, in this endeavor, we are allies. So I will help you as much as I can. Fair enough?”
Marek sighed, annoyed. “What now?”
She pointed at the weapon, “Call the spear to you.”
Marek cocked his head to the side, “...Huh?”
“You heard me. Call the spear to you.”
“And how exactly would I do that?”
“Call it by its name.”
Marek looked around and then back at her, “...What’s the spear’s name?”
“I thought you would know,” she muttered.
“How the hell would I know the creepy spear’s name?” he crossed his arms.
“I was afraid this would happen,” she sighed. “You felt the spear awaken, it connected with you, if only briefly. I had hoped it shared its name with you.”
“Can’t you just tell me its name?”
“I don’t know it,” she sighed. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t make a difference. The name must be given by the weapon to its wielder. Only then can you call it to you.”
Marek glanced at the ebon spear, “So that thing can move towards me just by calling its name? No need for channeling mana into it?”
“As you said before, you can’t channel mana into orichalcum,” Dawn shrugged. “How does it have magic of its own? I don’t know, but it can do more than just move towards you. You’ll be able to have it attack others with just a flick of the finger, no need to hold the spear.”
“Any other abilities I should know about?” he asked wryly.
“Probably, but I’m not aware of them. You’ll have to find that out on your own.”
He sighed, reached out, and picked up the spear, “Here we go then.” Pain ran through his arm, Marek gritted his teeth. It felt as if the spear was draining his essence itself.
“Are you alright?” Dawn asked.
“I’m hanging in there,” he said through panted breaths. “Is it always going to feel like this?”
“Probably. I told you, most people would be unable to use the spear, but being a dire will help you last longer than any of them. Still, try to avoid using the spear for consecutive long periods.”
“Trust me, I won’t,” he grimaced.
“Don’t worry, young lord. In time, you will learn the spear’s name. In time, you will have a weapon capable of cutting down any magic or beast.”
~~~
A knock rang on Maeve’s office door.
The young merchant lady glanced up from her work, “Come in.”
A maid gently opened the door and bowed, “Good evening, Lady Mora. You have a guest.”
“At this hour?” Maeve raised a blonde eyebrow.
Stryg stepped out from behind the doorway and walked into the office. “Hey, Maeve.”
“Stryg?” Maeve stood up. She glanced at her maid, “Close the door on your way out.”
“Yes, my lady,” the maid bowed low and closed the door behind her.
Maeve stepped out from behind her ornate desk and looked Stryg up and down. “You look like shit. And why do I smell ash and smoke on you?”
“I was… practicing a bit at my training courtyard,” he shrugged.
“I’ll order the maids to prepare a bath. I don't want you stinking up my office.”
“How generous of you,” he said dryly.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like your usual scent,” she smirked. “...But I’m not a fan of smoke, not after last year.” She walked over to her wine cabinet and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “Care for a drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” he nodded and sat down heavily in one of her chairs.
Maeve wrinkled her brow, “Did something happen?”
“You could say that,” he sighed. “I just recalled the strangest memory, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Is that all? And here I thought you were having marriage problems. I was prepared to open up my dad’s old cellar. Bummer, that cellar has some of the best vintages.”
Stryg slumped back in the chair, “About that, I was hoping I could stay here for a few days… I don’t want to go home, not right now.”
Maeve nodded knowingly, “Old cellar it is.”