Gerard wasted no time on introductions.

“Algidon roams free in Æronthrall. There are hours—less than a day, I’ll wager—until he reaches Fsisbon. I need to know exactly what Algidon is and how to stop him.”

The sages looked at him in abject confusion, as though waiting for more. Gerard sighed.

“Is that not what you do here? Debate the intricacies of essentiæ? I need a pragmatic answer, quickly. Think me insane if you like. By this time tomorrow your towers and shops will be sinking like stones in Sickle Bay.”

An elder sage of obvious self import cleared his throat. Those around him straightened and nodded wisely to each other.

“We know from the records that ice covered this land five thousand years ago. We now name that mighty and lasting incursion of cold Algidon. Climate is cyclical. Are you suggesting that an ice age falls upon us now?”

A woman snorted and stood. Her eyes seemed vacant, as if focused on something between Gerard's left shoulder and the moon. Her midnight-blue robe had silver symbols woven into it. Those surrounding her whispered to each other and smiled smugly.

“Weather. You are debating weather during a crisis! Algidon soars above us in the skies. Is there a falling star on the way? We must flee and study the thing after it falls.”

Gerard waved his hand in dismissal. “No! It is tangible. This guardsman with me has seen it, and he is now mute. His home destroyed. The storm came upon us as well. It drove warped beasts in a frenzy before it.”

Gerard remembered the day Lhani and her parents had confronted the hissing geese. He searched the faces of the assembly, begging them for answers. An old man rose with the help of a gnarled staff. All those assembled quieted and hushed others until the square fell into silence, marred only by the pulsing hum of essentiae in the air.

“You speak of the Legend of the Trine Marauders.”

Gerard nodded with relief. “Yes! Yes. Though I have not heard the tale in forty years.”

The elder whispered to one of his attendants, who hurried off.

“That myth is out of favor these days. Science is all the rage. Stars, weather. That sort of thing.”

“What is Algidon?” Gerard asked.

“The legend describes the elements as siblings. Two brothers, Algidon and Phyr, and their sister Æolia. They destroyed Æronthrall until the Elderkin tossed them into the heavens with Æolia's sling.”

Get to the point, Gerard thought. “And what was Æolia? A bunny rabbit? A tornado? What?”

“None could see her. Her whispers drove men mad. Phyr and Algidon were giants.”

“A giant...” Gerard looked at Glim, whose hands shook. Lhani looked as though she might vomit.

The elder paused as three scrolls soared through the air on an invisible current of wind and settled into his outstretched palm.

“It is all here.”

The elder handed the scrolls to a trio who walked towards him from the first row: a woman in gray robes, one man in black robes, and one man in white. They carried themselves with a confidence that bordered on haughtiness. The eyes of the crowd followed them, expectant.

The three took the scrolls and huddled over them, speaking to each other in hushed tones. Gerard watched the chorus leader as led the others to the center of the square. She seemed young. Perhaps haughty in different circumstances, but pale with tension at the moment. Silver light from the totems strobed across her face, casting bizarre shadows that almost hid the anxiety etched there. Gerard wondered if she'd ever sung a scroll with more import, and with as many ears attuned as there were now. Thousands upon thousands of listeners had assembled in Freesquare since the alarm had gone out, and now crowded the streets leading to the square. Gerard had been so bent on getting answers that he hadn't realized the immensity of the crowd pressing around them.

The scrollsingers unfurled their scrolls and looked around at the gathered crowd. Given the size of the assembly, the absolute lack of noise surprised Gerard. Either the old mage had a reputation beyond any other, or the scrollsingers did not appear casually. The plyers in the crowd hung on every word while the robed singers chanted in unison. The gray singer’s high, clear voice rang out the loudest, supplemented by the deeper tones of the others. The off-kilter harmony of their chanting voices made Gerard’s arm hairs stand on end.

In tymes agone

when the world was one land engirdled in sea

The Trine roamed Æronthrall.

Algidon is Logic.

Pale, with quicksilver eyes.

His legs mountains.

His fists hills.

His mind unswayed.

His course can nae be wrested.

Gerard wondered how much of the description rang true for a tale thousands upon thousands of years old. The next verse confirmed his worst possible fears. Gerard recalled standing at the base of the black tower in Hammerfall and looking up to where its handle rose into the sky. His mind’s eye could still see the destruction of its transformation and the dead witch who’d conjured it.

Algidon wields a hammer akin to a spire.

Its true name has sith been forgotten.

We name it Clapping Hand.

Black iron enscribed with runes of strength ynd precision.

Its faces agleam

polished by æons of shattering rock.

Algidon's coming is foretold by crazed beasts,

tremors in the ground,

ynd a wall of gray that consumes the land in bitter winds.

Thay who spy his sorrow become mute ynd listless.

They succumb to apathy ynd perish.

Thay who hear the clap of his hammer

cleaving the world

become deaf,

thereafter attuned only to a world beyond mortal ears.

The scrollsingers dropped to the ground and lay still.

Gerard exhaled as his mind pondered how to deal with this threat. It maddened him that the scroll hadn't yielded any significant insight, but merely fleshed out what he already knew. Gerard's thoughts spun, but landed upon nothing. Despair wormed its way into his mind. He readied himself to gather his things and lead the rest away.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

But when the chanters rose, and the black-robed scrollsinger stepped forward to lead the next verse, Gerard felt panic well inside himself as the man's bass voice chanted deeply:

Phyr is consumption.

He is dark ynd his eyes burn fire.

Flame ynd pother writhe about him.

Phyr is mercurial.

He changes course at a whim.

His wit dwells in art, emotion, ynd laughter.

Phyr burns his way

through ideas ynd cities,

leaving naught but smolder in his wake.

Phyr wields a gleaming sickle.

Aught in its path will cleave before his will.

Its true name can nae be spoken.

Phyr's coming is foretold by a red sky

ynd the stench of slag ynd char.

Afore his tread rise waves of fire which morph all sight.

Thay who spy his remorse become blind ynd spastic,

They thrash about in throes of ecstasy.

Thay who hear his secret words

cleaving the air

speak thereafter in tongues,

crying out in a frenzy that ne’er ends.

The chanters fell to the ground once more, where they writhed and thrashed. Their voices became guttural and tinged with insanity, spouting nonsense, as though to mimic the effects of Phyr’s influence. The black-robed chanter stepped back to join the white, droning low beneath the chorus leader's sharp, clear voice. With her gray robes and the mad light in her eyes, she reminded Gerard of the witch from Hammerfall.

Their sister Æolia sees without seeing.

She hears without hearing.

Her wit dwells in all things.

Æolia wields a sling

which strikes from afar,

ynd draws the afar into her.

Not only things:

ideas,

minds,

hearts.

Naught foretells her coming.

None can spy her.

The three chanters covered their faces in their hoods and knelt. With a flick of her wrist, the gray-robed singer sent a wind whistling above the crowd’s head. When the gale passed, the singers stood once more.

Æolia knew her brother’s minds.

Algidon longed to quench Phyr.

Phyr longed to consume Algidon.

Unbeknownst to Algidon

Æolia suffered Phyr to come into her,

ynd birthed his sons ynd daughters.

Unbeknownst to Phyr

she seduced Algidon,

likewise bearing his scions.

War was born.

The descendants of her children's descendants

sought retribution.

The Elderkin banded together against the Trine

ynd provoked their wrath.

The Trine toppled cities

turned mountains into valleys

ynd lakes into ash.

The people of Æronthrall

could nae defeat the Three,

but could negate their power.

They baited Æolia

with an obsidian pyramid

with warriors hiding inside.

She ensnared the pyramid in her sling.

The warriors wrested the sling from her.

They used the sling to wrest the sickle from Rubis

ynd the hammer from Algidon

ynd flung them into the heavens.

The people of Æronthrall

flung Algidon to one corner of the world,

ynd Rubis to another.

Æolia they nae could throw

else join her with her sling.

They bound her in a prison

ynd hid the sling forever.

It is said

that the force of the falling weapons

begat the rending of the world.

It is said

that the fall of the brothers

warped the purity of essentiae.

It is said

that the wind is the whisper of Æolia,

ever in search of her sling.

At these words, Glim leapt to his feet in a terror even more pronounced than the general aura of fear he carried with him. His mouth opened and closed while he took gulping breaths. Gerard, for once, appreciated the silence that numbed the lad’s voice.

Glim’s distress drew the eyes of the crowd and the scrollsingers, who paused and frowned. Gerard tugged at Glim’s cloak and urged him to sit. He finally did so, and drew his arms close around him, as if in protection.

The chant continued.

It is never said

what became of the Elderkin

who walked Æronthrall in those times.

Their footprints are fallen towers

ynd broken machines.

Their enduring legacy

is silence.

The chants faced into silence.