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Laughing Monkey and Wrathful Elephant, Assassins of the 11th and 3rd Renown, Brokerage of Blades, causing trouble
Carina Goldstone and Vitt Secondson-Salvado, Logician of the 3rd Renown and Hunter of the 9th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, in good hands
Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, and Traveon Twiceblack, Skulker of the 2nd Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel and Soldier’s Rest, debating sonnets
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1 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Two of the Trial
Wrathful Elephant unhurriedly patted out the small curls of fire that still burned on his forearms. When he'd finished, the muscular assassin rolled down his sleeves and stepped backward. Beneath the branches of the sagging pine tree, in the thin northern moonlight, he became nearly invisible.
“That will have gotten their attention, don't you think, sister?”
Laughing Monkey did not immediately respond. Instead, she watched the flying platform spiral downward. With her [Vision+], she could see the four outlines still clinging to the raft as it broke apart in the sky. She tracked the platform until it disappeared behind the tree line, crashing some miles to the east. That was rough terrain out there. A rocky space that hadn’t been chiseled clean by the Fornon lumberjocks who thought they ran this mountain. Good. The candles and tomes would be slowed down greatly, a fair punishment for trying to cut the line.
Soon, the skies were still and the sparse woods around them silent. Laughing Monkey nodded once with satisfaction.
“Yes, I think they’ll feel our slap on the backs of their wrinkled hands,” she said.
“And we want that?” Wrathful Elephant asked. “We want their attention?”
Laughing Monkey breathed out through her nose, the sound muffled by her mask. She bent over to pick up the other two concussion arrows she had taken from her pack. She had been ready to fire three shots, but had only needed the one to bring down the mages. They were always so arrogant. It had been a simple thing, really. First, Wrathful Elephant had launched his [Fireball] into the air. They were sure the mages would see it coming, but they wanted a look at the raft’s defenses. Once revealed, an arcane barrier was a simple thing for an archer like Laughing Monkey to overcome.
“Are you worried we may have upset them, brother?”
“I’m sure we upset them.”
“Good exercise, though, wasn’t it?” she asked. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
She carefully stowed the concussion arrows in a compartment on her shoulder-slung quiver. Done with that, she returned her hand bow to the holster at her hip. The mages probably thought they were high enough to avoid archers—and even if they weren’t, they likely assumed none would dare. It should have been an impossible shot with a weapon the size of Laughing Monkey’s hand bow, but few targets were beyond her skill thanks to her many gifts. Taking stock of herself, Laughing Monkey realized that [Trajectory] and [Deadeye] had faded from the strain of the distance. Worth it.
“I'd been under the impression that we wished to evade notice up here,” Wrathful Elephant said.
“Is that a rebuke, brother?”
“Of course not.”
“There's only ever so much Ink at the top,” Laughing Monkey continued. “We couldn't just let them float up there and take it.”
“No, of course not,” he replied. “For a moment, though, it occurred to me that this could be a matter of an old grudge.”
Stiffly, Laughing Monkey turned to face him. She cocked her head. He stepped out of the shadows and mirrored the movement.
“It is always old grudges, isn't it?” she asked. “Between us and them.”
“Too true,” he replied. “I meant no offense, sister. I know we are not meant to pry.”
“No. But we are meant to be curious and we are meant to be just.” She paused. “Mages are not birds. They don’t belong in the sky. I was curious what would happen if we made them fall. Do you think the gods let them bounce up from the earth? I wish we could have seen.”
“You are as they said you would be, sister.”
“Mm? What do they say about me?”
“They say you are chaos given flesh.”
Laughing Monkey touched the wooden cheeks of her mask and twisted her ankle about. “You make me blush, brother.”
“Shall we continue on?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The two assassins slipped between trees and moved across rocks like whispers.
“Imagine if they landed on a ledge abutting a sheer cliff face with no viable way to climb to safety, and the only possible escape to jump a murderous distance to the ground below,” Wrathful Elephant mused. “Would the gods protect them in that jump? Would they soften the landing because it was our hand who put them in that deadly predicament?”
“An interesting thought,” Laughing Monkey said. “A good way to pass the time.”
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2 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Three of the Trial
“Kendrick, you set that freeloader down whenever you get tired of her, you hear?” Breck Bucksap said gruffly.
Soft fur shifted beneath Carina's cheek as Kendrick shrugged. “She hardly weighs a thing, boss man,” Kendrick replied. “Breath keeps my neck warm.”
Breck groaned. Loose stones crunched beneath his boots as he picked up his pace. “Gods, I think the boy's in love,” Carina heard him mutter.
“He should be cautious about that,” Vitt replied.
Carina kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. She had been asleep, actually, pressed piggyback against Kendrick. She hadn't been successful in her attempt to steal onto the archmage's floating raft—a good thing if the explosion of the other night was any indication—so she had hitched a ride on a lumberjock instead.
She and Vitt had caught up to the champions of Fornon on the second day. Bleary and exhausted by then, Carina had been staggering after Vitt, tripping over every second rock or root. She had been impressed by how easily Vitt tracked the lumberjocks, not realizing until later that Vitt had used [Hunter's Mark] to follow them, a trick he’d planned since their arrival. The lumberjocks knew the fastest ways up, even if some of them were dangerous ascents.
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They had already climbed one rock wall rather than spend extra hours navigating around it to use the switchback trail. Well, Carina hadn't really climbed it. She had been strapped to the back of Kendrick Branchbull, who pulled himself up the wall using shovel-shaped spikes that had been pounded into place by some previous climber. The handholds were painted a whitish-silver and would've looked like nothing more than chunks of ice to any of the other champions making the ascent. The lumberjocks had made secret shortcuts for themselves.
Of course, Carina had whispered husky thanks to Kendrick at the top. The boy had stammered his declaration of how easy it was.
Upon seeing Kendrick, Carina immediately knew that he could be her shortcut. She hadn't really taken notice of the big lad when first arriving at the Clear Sky, but she suspected that he noticed her. He had that dopey look on his broad face as if he were forever puzzling out some way to start a conversation. Kendrick was stout, keg-shaped, and Carina would've thought him too simple to be a champion if she hadn't soon seen the power in his arms and the strength in his hands. Like her, this would be his first Granting.
Carina had been genuinely exhausted by the time they caught up with the lumberjocks. She hadn't slept and had then been surprised at the blistering pace Vitt set when he'd at last been roused from the Clear Sky. And so, her collapsing in front of Kendrick hadn't been entirely an act. She'd given him an opportunity to catch her, and he did.
She had also used [Enthralled Defender]. Just a nudge to amplify the romantic lumberjock's protective instincts. None of the other champions were equipped to sense that Carina had tampered with the lad’s mind—or else, they thought it a harmless amusement.
“Not the most inspiring replacement for Ben, is she?” Breck asked as they walked.
The eldest of Fornon’s champions had a blunt way of speaking. When others might have lowered their voice to make a rude observation, Breck spoke his louder. At least, Carina thought, that made it easier to eavesdrop.
“She might surprise you,” Vitt said evenly. “She has gifts beyond the physical.”
Breck snorted. “I’m sure she does, hunter. I suspect my virginal Kendrick means to sample them.”
Vitt fell silent and Carina wondered how his face looked. “As I said, he should be careful with that,” the Secondson replied eventually.
“Let me tell you, Vitt, your people seem to be in fucking disarray,” Breck continued. “You seem to be in disarray.”
“What?” Vitt chuckled. “You don’t like the beard?”
“I was at the Open Gate, you know?” Breck said. “Couldn’t get a gods damn minute of your father’s time, but I did have the pleasure of seeing you carve up some nobody. I saw your healer piss himself in a corner. And Cortland? Promising his hammer to some Sulkie when you’ve failed two years running to abide by our agreement? What has become of you people?”
“Our agreement to aid you in killing the trolkin, you mean,” Vitt said. “Remind me. What does Infinzel gain from the arrangement?”
Vitt’s voice had gone cold. With her eyes closed, Carina could have imagined that was King Cizco himself speaking.
“Those savages wish for more winter every year,” Breck snapped. “The entire north will suffer if they aren’t eradicated.”
“Yes, but Fornon is more north than most, isn’t it?” Vitt replied. “When Infinzel’s enemies come for our blood—the Brokerage, Penchenne, Orvesis—does Fornon stand with us? I seem to remember you telling my father those were southern problems.”
“I told him those were pissy little political disputes while ours is existential,” Breck said. “The colder it gets, the more their trolkin rot spreads. I’ve lost cousins to the smoke. My own brother-in-law…”
“And you say we are in disarray? While your own family gives into such weakness?” Vitt chuckled dryly. “Gods, Bucksap, how difficult can it be to kill some trolkin, anyway?”
“Careful how you flick that tongue, boy,” Breck said. “And if you think that trolkin bitch is easy quarry, I’d suggest you give her a try.”
“You challenge me, then?” Vitt scoffed. “Do you have other chores I might accomplish for you, as well? Logs to chop and water to carry?”
Carina didn’t approve of the growing testiness between the two men. The champions of Fornon would be a help to them on the mountain, so long as Vitt could keep his ego in check. Let Breck Bucksap scold and grouse—it would mean nothing once they reached the top. She shifted against Kendrick’s back, preparing to intervene.
Perhaps luckily, at that moment, Carina’s [Alert] triggered.
This was not the muted sensation she had felt on the river north—a feeling she now understood was due to the presence of the assassins. Carina felt a full body tingling and a ringing in her ears, the sense of reaching toward a hot object. Her head snapped up and around.
“Hold!” shouted Geana Woodsmith. The lone female lumberjock, as muscled and hardy as her companions—she had felt it, too. Carina made a mental note that the woman shared [Alert].
They were passing through a ravine, heading uphill, their boots crunching across a weak stream that had mostly turned to ice. There were ledges and crevices in the walls on either side of them, and Carina tilted her head back to scan the rocks.
“What is it?” Breck snapped at his champion, his annoyance with Vitt carrying over to this delay.
“Felt danger,” Geana replied.
“There,” Carina spoke up, pointing to a ledge thirty feet above them.
At first, she had thought it was a child peering down at them, though she knew that made no sense. The creature was small, humanoid, with skin like alabaster that blended in with the stone. Its head was too big for its body, almost as wide as its shoulders, so that it looked vaguely like a worm on two legs. Squinting, Carina sensed an odd flatness to the thing, like a paper cutout.
As the others turned to follow Carina’s finger, the creature raised its skinny arms above its head and dropped into the stone. Carina blinked. The sense of danger from her [Alert] slowly faded.
“Fuck me,” Breck muttered. “The gods sent stone walkers.”
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3 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Four of the Trial
“...into the fading light, the horse galloped riderless,” Traveon concluded.
Cortland waited a moment, but the bartender had fallen silent. “That's it?”
“That's it,” Traveon said.
Cortland shook his head. “Dumbass poem.”
“You didn't like that one either, huh?”
Cortland shook his head. “You ever ride a horse?”
“I haven't, actually. Not much equestrian in the Rest.”
“Miserable gods damned experience,” Cortland said. “You can't blame the man for cutting the animal loose.”
Traveon sighed. “The horse is a metaphor for his aspirations.”
“Metaphor or fucking not, I'd rather walk.”
Traveon wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and flicked the sweat off his fingers. Despite the chill, the skulker had his coat open to let in the cold air. “You've made that abundantly clear.”
Cortland grunted. He had indeed set an exacting pacing for them over the last few days. There were multiple ways up the mountain, but Cortland preferred the trails, steep and slippery as they could be at times. They had expected to catch up to the others by now, but perhaps Henry had chosen a different way when the paths forked, or else Henry's magic and herbal aid had the rest of greater Infinzel's champions moving at an even swifter clip. Good for them, Cortland thought. It would be beneficial for Henry to spend some time as a leader. The role had never suited Cortland over this last year. Maybe Henry would take to it more readily.
Much like leadership, Cortland had also never taken to climbing. He did not like to have his feet dangling out in the open air. Cortland's chosen path was longer than some others, but he could make up for that by pressing. Last night, while Traveon made a show of gagging, Cortland had popped two blisters that swelled between his toes. The pain was good, the exhaustion was better. Cortland’s anger felt easier to let go of when he was tired. He needed to drain some of the fight from his own blood, for his own good. An aching body meant a clear mind.
To his credit, Traveon had not once complained about Cortland's brutal pace. He woke when Cortland did, clambered over icy rocks alongside him, and subsisted on the same dried meats and short sleeps. The bartender was made of sterner stuff than Cortland expected. No matter how hard Cortland pushed forward, Traveon never seemed to run out of wind, which meant he never stopped talking.
Cortland had found he didn’t mind that so much, either. Apparently, the bartender had memorized dozens of poems and had taken it upon himself to find one that Cortland liked. Everyone needed a favorite poem, the skulker had said. Cortland thought that was just about the dumbest thing he’d ever heard, but he didn’t mind the recitations.
“You know, I saw the axe man’s fire last night,” Traveon said. “He’s still trailing us.”
Cortland nodded. He had seen it, too. “And?”
“Well, it feels like he should come up and join us, or find his own way,” Traveon said. “Rude to dangle about on our coattails, isn’t it?”
“He’s afraid of me,” Cortland said.
“So what?” Traveon responded. “I’m afraid of you.”
Cortland glanced at the younger man. “Why?”
“Hundred days from now, your king might tell you to bash my head in.” Traveon smiled at him. “It’s why I show you so much of my humanity. To build rapport. At least I might make you feel guilty about it.”
Cortland opened his mouth to issue a denial, but then stopped himself. The skulker could be right, after all. He had no idea what orders King Cizco might issue going into the next Granting. Cortland felt his anger rising again, and so quickened his pace.
As Cortland and Traveon rounded a bend in their trail, they saw two champions coming down the mountain in the opposite direction. Both of the men were blonde, round-faced, and slump-shouldered. They could’ve been brothers, or cousins, or perhaps were just from some rural patch where everyone looked alike. Their Ink confirmed that suspicion—the bumblebee of Sweetwood—a village to the west of Infinzel, known for their honey and little else.
Cortland suspected there were more smalltime champions trying the Nortmost this year after what had happened to Ambergran. It wasn’t unusual to encounter men turning back once they realized they wouldn’t make the top, although it seemed early for such pessimism. However, the champions of Sweetwood appeared sadly underequipped. One of them didn’t carry a pack at all.
“My friends, you’re going in the wrong direction!” Traveon said, spreading his arms. “Glory waits up, not down!”
“It’s you two who are heading in the wrong direction,” said one of the dour-faced blondes.
The four of them stopped astride the trail. Cortland took his canteen from the side of his pack and handed it over. The champions of Sweetwood murmured thanks and drank greedily. They had no water of their own.
“What happened to you?” Cortland asked.
“There’s an archmage and her candles up there,” the less thirsty blonde replied. “Her supplies were destroyed, so she helped herself to ours.”
“She robbed you,” Cortland said. “An archmage.”
“You should find another way up or she’ll do the same to you.”
Cortland’s fingers found the head of his hammer, drumming eagerly. There were hot bubbles in his blood. Champions brutalizing their lessors, the powerful pulling the strings. Gods, but he was tired of these stories. He was tired of being part of them.
“Oh, my,” Traveon said. “Do you see that look, my friends? The hammer master seeks a nail.”
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