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Soul Masker [Progression Fantasy]
Chapter 97 - The Stone City

Chapter 97 - The Stone City

A faint mist hung in the air as the horse carrying the wagon and its passengers trundled up the stone path along the riverside. The smell of juniper filled the air, letting the faint scent of pine creep through in its gaps. It was almost midday, but the chilly air and the overcast sky made it feel much later than it was.

“Are we there yet?” asked Marina, her breath turning to steam and joining the mist. She was holding half of the available blankets around her while Friedrich sat on her lap as a fox.

“Just about,” said Pheston, relieved to not have to hear that question another time. “Once we round the next few bends and head up the hill, we will be there.”

“It was a pleasant journey,” said Teleri, prompting an aghast look from Marina.

“Pleasant? It was cold, wet, and uncomfortable.”

“You are difficult to please. Would you rather we travelled all this way on foot? It would have taken us twice as long and I am confident in saying that Friedrich would have gotten distracted along the way by a cave, an old fort, or something else.”

Friedrich hopped from Marina and transformed back to his human form. “Yes, I could see that happening. I love a good adventure. That said, meeting Pheston’s family will be an adventure in itself if they’re anything like their father.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” asked the smith.

“Compliment, I assure you.”

“Good, then I will take it as one.”

Around the next bend of the river, a large windmill came into view. A few yard later, another crept from over an outcropping in the cliff. As the path rose to meet the rockface, more windmills emerged along with their underlying fields of golden wheat that contrasted heavily with the damp brown soil and grey stone of the many cliffs and mountains spreading out.

At the far end of the path and atop the hill stood a staircase topped with a stone wall that joined the cliffs on either side of it. On either side of the large metal doors were hung two banners. One banner depicted a giant war hammer that Pheston had previously indicated to be the battle symbol of Corobath. The other banner showed a crowd encircling an axe.

“That’s the emblem of King Greyhair,” said the smith, noticing what Friedrich was looking at. “He’s one of the lesser kings of Corobath and the ruler of Lundstad.”

Creeping out from behind the walls were a number of small towers, some topped with domes and others with pointed spires. The architecture was reminiscent of the Corobathian tombs and crypts, using similar stone and carvings, but there was a grandiosity to this city that the resting place for the dead could not quite capture.

The bronze doors were a silvery-brown colour, having lost their shining lustre as they were patinated by the passing of ages. Regardless of their colour change, they looked heavy and study. Even if they weren’t, the soldiers standing guard at either side of the door and atop the walls would ensure that no outsider broke into Lundstad without the entire city being brought to high alert.

“Will they let us in?” asked Teleri, unable to read the expressions of the guards as well as her human companions.

“As long as you don’t give them reason not to,” said Pheston. “Cause any trouble, little elfie, and you’ll be thrown into the river.”

“Little elfie?” asked Teleri, scrunching up her nose as Friedrich and Marina stifled their laughter.

“Untense yourself,” said Pheston, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re not in a time of war, as best as I gathered, so things should be just fine. The people of Millstone and those we passed along the way assured my that everything is dandy here in beautiful Corobath, so you have nothing at all to worry about. The same could not have been said a decade or two ago, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Very well.”

“He knows what he’s talking about, little elfie,” said Friedrich with a smarmy grin.

Teleri leaned forward and thumped him on the arm. “Be quiet, imbecile. Turn back into a fox so I do not have to listen to your insults.”

“Careful now,” said Pheston. “Displaying soul magic won’t do us any favours. You’d have to turn into a spider and scale the wall to get in. At that, you’d probably be caught and squashed by a metal boot.”

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Pheston steered the horse towards the gate and hailed the guards, one of whom approached as the wagon came to a halt.

“Greetings, traveller,” said the guard upon reaching the bottom of the steps. “You harbouring fugitives?”

“No,” chuckled Pheston. “I’m here to visit my family and these are my travelling companions. You have my word they’ll not cause trouble. If they do, I’ll kick them out myself.”

“Good enough for me,” said the guard, signalling to the guards atop the wall.

With the pull of a lever, the doors slickly opened as though they were made of wood. Whatever magical was enchanting them to act so lightweight impressed Friedrich and he wondered if he could use something similar to carry the horse and wagon around because it certainly beat walking everywhere on foot. He already knew the answer, but he posed the question to Marina who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is there somewhere we can leave lovely Humfrid?” asked Pheston, slapping the horse on the side. He had grown rather fond of the group’s reliable carrier.

“Five kupons per night for food and board,” said the guard, holding up a hand and waving forward a young squire who had been loitering nearby. “Boy, see to it that this horse is taken to the stables.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man.

The party climbed from the wagon and the young man hopped onto the set at the front. He guided the horse away as the quartet ascended the staircase that led into the stone city.

“Are you nervous?” Marina asked Pheston.

“No, why would I be?” replied the smith.

“To meet your family again after so long.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine.”

Friedrich leaned close to Marina’s ear. “That means yes,” he said, at which Marina subtly nodded.

The humans and the elf walked between the bronze doors and stepped into the city which stretched out and towered before them. Having been confined by the tall cliffs and mighty mountain, the city had grown in height rather than having spread out. While dense, the king and those who came before him ensured that it was not a cramped place, but the endless staircases leading to the different sections and districts ensured that the population were lean and muscular, which was immediately evident upon walking through the entrance district.

“I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with these people,” said Friedrich.

“Half of them could give me a good fight,” said Pheston. “Even the women.”

“Those are women?” asked Teleri, looking to a tall lady with four children running rowdily around her. “Do your people have the blood of giants running through them?”

“Some of them probably do,” chuckled Pheston. “But I’m pure Corobathian going back thousands of years. As are my children.”

“Speaking of,” said Marina. “How do we go about finding Bjorn?”

“Well, if he became a smith like I expected him to, we need to head to the eastern part of the city.”

Teleri scanned the stone walls, towers, and staircases visible across the city. “And you are confident he became a blacksmith?”

“It’s the way of my people,” said Pheston. “The oldest son takes on the job of the father and remains in his hometown to ensure that it flourishes. Exceptions occur but considering Lundstad is still standing, I have no doubt that Bjorn is here. I cannot say the same for the rest of my children, but he may be able to tell us.”

Pheston led the way through the city, pausing every now and then to marvel at something he recognised. Sometimes it was an old building, other times it was a statue sitting in one of the many squares. The others were not sure if he was stalling from apprehension or if he had missed his home so dearly. Whatever the case was, they let him indulge, for Friedrich and Teleri knew what it was to miss home dearly. Marina, of course, continued to never speak of her own home, even when Pheston had pestered her about it on the journey to Lundstad.

What should have been a twenty-minute walk across the city took over an hour but eventually, they arrived at a small building with a sign hanging outside it that read ‘Phestonsen Smithy’ as it swung gently in the light breeze.

“Phestonsen,” said the old smith, breathing a sigh of relief. His voice was cracking, despite his attempt to hide it. “He renamed the shop after me…”

Friedrich put a hand on Pheston’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside and say hello, shall we?”

“Aye, lad. Aye…”

Pheston’s right hand was shaking as he reached out and he grabbed his wrist with his left hand to try and steady himself. He curled his fingers around the doorhandle and pulled it downwards before giving it a gentle shove forward. He stepped inside the smithy and his friends followed.

The front of the shop was small and dimly lit—as was the nature of the Lundstad interiors—with many pieces of armour and weapons littering the tables, shelves, and stands spread throughout the room. Leaning on the counter, looking bored, was a young man who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Upon seeing customers, he perked up and smiled a familiar smile.

“Welcome to Phestonsen’s,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

Pheston was lost for words and mouthed a whole load of nothing until Friedrich put his knuckles in the old man’s back and walked him forward.

“I…um…is Bjorn here?”

“My father?” asked the young man. He looked over his shoulder to an open door at the back. “Father, there are customers looking for you.”

“What…what’s your name, son?” asked Pheston, astounded to see his grandson for the first time.

“Alf,” said the young man before his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward and looked closer at Pheston. “You look an awful lot like my father. It’s uncanny. What did you say your name was?”

Pheston cleared his throat and grunted. “My, erm…my name is Pheston, young man.”

Alf’s jaw dropped and his eyes shot open wide as it dawned on him that the old man standing before him was his grandfather.

“What’s the matter, lad?” asked a grimy blonde man who walked through the backdoor while removing a pair of battered gloves; he was exactly how Friedrich had imagined a younger Pheston would look. “You need to be able to handle things here if you’re ever to take over from me one…day…”

Bjorn’s fed-up expression immediately switched to one of astonishment, matching that of his son’s. “It cannot be…father?”

Pheston squinted hard to rid himself of the tears welling up in his eyes. “Hello, son.”