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76. [Nortmost] Twenty Days Up, Part Three
🕑 Added 2024-11-22 20:57:38 +0000 UTCCortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, and Traveon Twiceblack, Skulker of the 2nd Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel and Soldier’s Rest, taking chances
Yasmin Hel, Archmage of the 5th Renown, and her two candle champions, Magelab, taking donations
Henry Blacksalve, Healer of the 8th Renown, and Rivian Stonespirit, Sword Master of the 4th Renown, Soldier’s Rest, early risers
Carina Goldstone, Logician of the 3rd Renown, and Vitt Secondson-Salvado, Hunter of the 9th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, in the company of the champions of Fornon, keeping their heads up
***
3 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Four of the Trial
Cortland continued up the path, leaning forward slightly into the wind. Behind him, Traveon kept pace. They had left the two champions of Sweetwood behind. Although Cortland had offered to recover their supplies from the archmage who robbed them, the two bumblebees had been unenthusiastic about further confrontations. They’d head back home with nothing to show for the journey but bitterness toward the Magelab. Cortland figured that was a fair result for them. Sweetwood’s champions didn’t have the mettle to make it to the top. They were more likely to die on the way than acquire any Ink.
And yet, Cortland still found himself angry on their behalf.
Traveon cleared his throat. “Listen, I get putting on a show for the little people,” he said. “But are you really going to pick a fight with an archmage?”
Cortland grunted. “I'm going to stick my chin out and see what happens,” he said.
“Can you win a fight with an archmage?”
“Depends on the archmage.”
Sighing, Traveon pulled his hand-bow from beneath his coat and checked the firing mechanism. “You know, on the way up here, you warned us again and again about precisely this kind of unnecessary diversion.” He dropped his voice an octave in an effort to mimic Cortland. “Focus, Traveon. Stop fucking around, Traveon.”
“We aren’t going out of our way,” Cortland said. “So it’s not a diversion.”
“Oh, well, in that case…”
Cortland said nothing further. He wanted a fight. Here was a feeling from his younger days restored to him. Back then, directionless anger had been a near constant and he’d found no shortage of outlets within the pyramidal city. Men who bumped him at the bar, men who looked at him wrong, men who scoffed at his height, friends of men who he’d beaten on nights prior. How many mornings had Cortland woken up with blood on his knuckles and bruises under his eyes?
Ben Tuarez pulled him out of all that. He’d found Cortland in the cells, serving hours for a brawl the night before—a brawl that had continued in the caged space on Infinzel’s lower level. Cortland remembered catching sight of the stately champion in his Garrison uniform and fighting harder. He’d wanted to impress Ben.
By then, Cortland’s dues were piling up. Fines from the damages and the injuries both caused and sustained. Shifts missed on his father’s boat. The Garrison didn’t offer every brawler in arrears an opportunity to wear the uniform. Ben had seen something in Cortland. Dogged violence. A young man who saw breaking faces not as an unenviable last resort but as an unavoidable fact of life.
Ben had stuck Cortland in the training pits with Garrison soldiers who had trained combat their entire lives. He went from brawling with drunks to battling champions and those aspiring to become them. Cortland sometimes said that Ben had saved him from a life of thuggish brutality and exile, but Ben hadn’t exactly rescued him, had he? Ben just pointed Cortland toward bigger and uglier fights. First in the training pits, where there were weapons and magic instead of fists and headbutts and then, once Cortland had proven himself, onto the island.
It was Ben who had chosen the hammer for him. “A working man’s weapon,” Ben had said. “You don’t have the upbringing to learn the sword.”
“My mother wielded a hammer,” Cortland had said.
“Of course, in the forges.” Ben had pinched Cortland’s cheek. “I bet she never made a weapon more beautiful than you, boy.”
Cortland scowled. Why did that memory come to him now? Why did it send a chill through him?
They heard the champions from Magelab before they could see them. The three of them had set themselves up on a ledge where the path cut back and narrowed. A choke point. Cortland glanced back at Traveon and motioned for the skulker to stay behind him, although this was completely unnecessary. Traveon had no intention of leading the way.
“These are still only enough rations for a week or so,” a man was saying, his voice tired. Cortland and Traveon slowed slightly to listen to what sounded like an argument.
“You let them keep too much,” a woman responded bitterly.
“Only enough to get back down,” the man said.
“Yes,” said the woman. “Too much.”
“It is folly to continue on, archmage,” said the man. “Master Beet had the right of it when he teleported away. There are easier ways to attain your Ink.”
“Beet’s a coward,” the woman said. “Someone dares strike at Magelab and you think we should turn tail like chastened dogs? You think—?”
Cortland’s boot crunched over a rock and a second man spoke up, cutting off the others. “Someone comes.”
No avoiding them now, even if Cortland had been the sort to change his mind. He picked up his pace, turning the corner on the trail and ascending to the Magelab’s ledge.
Archmages were typically fastidious in their upkeep and their candles followed suit. These three, though, looked exactly like they had crashed from the sky on a flaming raft. Their clothes were torn, muddied, and singed. Their faces were pale despite the cold, dark circles under their eyes, lips chapped—hard travel with little sustenance.
One of the candles stood astride the trail while the other knelt over a pair of backpacks. Cortland took the kneeling man for the argumentative one—he was older than his colleague, spots of gray in his beard, which perhaps gave him some leeway to backtalk an archmage. Except for the inquisitor Samus Bind, the Magelab’s candles were interchangeable to Cortland. They melted quickly and were easily replaced. He never remembered their faces from one Granting to the next.
Cortland paid more attention to the severe woman who leaned against a boulder, sizing him up. He didn’t recognize her, which meant she was the replacement for the dead archmage. Cortland used his [Assess].
That looked like the Ink of someone preparing for a fight, Cortland thought. Nothing he hadn’t encountered before. But then, the Ink only told a partial story with the archmages. [Arcana+] let them practice their spellcraft at a discount—the gods offered them a better arcane bargain than someone like the burnt out elementalist Arris Stonetender could have ever hoped for. This Yasmin Hel had been a mage much longer than she’d been a champion, which meant she likely had some tricks up her sleeve that the Ink didn’t account for.
The candle standing in Cortland’s way put a hand out as if to stop him. “Hold, fellow champion,” he said. “We must make a request of—”
“Not him.” The older candle spoke up quickly. He had glanced over from his spot by the backpacks and recognized Cortland with a start. “Let him pass.”
The candle blocking the way raised an eyebrow, but started to step aside. He would have, if Cortland hadn’t taken him by the arm.
“No, go on,” Cortland said. “I want you to shake me down, like you did those others.”
For a moment, Cortland felt tension in the candle’s arm, but an inclination to resist quickly went out of the man. There wasn’t any malice in this one—just exhaustion and duty. Cortland could sympathize.
It was the archmage who spoke next. “The champions of the Magelab suffered an unprovoked assault on this mountain.”
“Above the mountain, I thought,” Traveon murmured, lingering behind Cortland.
“Our supplies were lost, our means to ascend stymied,” Yasmin Hel continued. “Therefore, we are requesting our fellow champions provide recompense for this violation—gear and rations—so that we might continue on.”
Cortland let the candle’s arm drop so he could focus fully on the archmage. “The men we met heading back down made it sound more like a demand than a request.”
Yasmin shrugged. “Their packs are lighter, but they have the gratitude of the Magelab. A much more valuable commodity.”
“Someone didn’t like you floating above the rest of us, cheating the trial,” Cortland said. “And you think that entitles you to what others carried up?”
Yasmin ran a hand through her white-blonde hair and pushed off from the boulder she’d been leaning against. “You’ve been making my ears ring since you came up here, Cortland Finiron,” she said. “If you intend to do something more than moralize, get on with it.”
Gritting his teeth, Cortland dropped a hand to his hammer. Resigned as they were, the two candles had still taken up positions between him and Yasmin, prepared to flank, hands on their swords. He could take the three of them—Cortland was sure of that—but it would be an ugly thing even with the gods’ protection hanging between them. There was risk his own supplies could be damaged in a fight.
“Ah,” Traveon said. “Look at that.”
The boulder Yasmin had been leaning against teetered and shifted, as if her weight had upset its balance. Ice and loose rocks cracked beneath it and the path began to collapse. Yasmin spun, yelped, and then used [Feather Step] to dance above the shifting ground. Both the candles stumbled and slid, the damage stopping just short of Cortland’s own position.
The older candle had left their supplies on the ground. All of it was swept downward in the small landslide.
“Idiot!” Yasmin barked. “You’ve lost it all again!”
Stumbling and tripping, the candles charged downhill in the slurry, grasping at whatever they could. Yasmin made a point to glare once more at Cortland before following them. The path ahead—narrower and broken now—was clear.
Cortland’s shoulders slowly relaxed. “That was…”
“Improbable?” Traveon smirked. “I stood here thinking how badly I wanted to see those Magelab pricks punished, but without us breaking a sweat.”
The skulker idly opened his shirt, peeking at his chest. The symbol for [Improbable Occurrence] had faded.
“Nice to see the Ink at work,” Traveon said. “I’d only used it for catching flush draws.”
Cortland patted the other man’s shoulder, though he felt a pang of disappointment that his knuckles were unbloodied. “Good lad,” he said. “Come on. We continue.”
***
7 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Eight of the Trial
Henry Blacksalve wondered if being used to hangovers was working to his advantage.
He blinked his eyes open in the purple morning, when the first light of day was still stuck on the other side of the mountain. His body felt stiff from the cold, his muscles ached, and his fingers and toes tingled—not really new sensations for Henry. He was used to feeling like dog shit.
They had spent seven days trudging up the mountain. Seven days of drinking in the warmth and power of Henry’s [Empowering Beacon] and then shuddering as it faded. Seven days of using [Summon Garden] to grow stimulants from the mountain’s cold rock. The comedowns were brutal.
And yet, laying there in those moments before another day began, Henry felt a rare sense of pride. It was working. He was getting his three charges up the mountain. They had already passed by a few groups who had set out before them. Cortland and Traveon hadn’t caught up yet—a matter of some concern, especially for Orryn es-Salvado who felt abandoned by the hammer master—but there was nothing to be done about that.
Last night, they had taken shelter inside a crevice in the rock wall barely large enough to be considered a cave. It provided a reprieve from the wind, at least. Even so, their small fire had guttered out while they slept.
As Henry slowly sat up, he realized he wasn’t the first to awaken. Rivian Stonespirit was up already, fully dressed in her archaic cavalry uniform, her dark hair looking freshly brushed. Oddly, she crouched in the space between where Orryn and Watts Stonework slept. She stared down at Orryn’s face, his mouth slightly open as he snored, bundled under blankets. His rat familiar was awake, at least, perched protectively on Orryn’s chest and staring up at Rivian with beady pink eyes.
“What are you doing?” Henry whispered.
Rivian glanced over her shoulder. “He reminds me of someone.”
Henry squinted. Rivian had spoken so little on their journey north and even less on the mountain. He was surprised that she even answered him.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Who?”
“A reflection,” Rivian responded. She made as if to drag her finger across Orryn’s jawline, but stopped herself. Instead, she ran her hand down the soft arc of her own face, then stood up, shaking her head.
“He looks like the king,” Henry said. “Is that who you mean?”
“Never seen the king,” Rivian replied. Standing upright, she had to duck her head to avoid the cave’s low ceiling. She reached up, pressing her palms against the stone and stretching. “Being in here remind you of home?”
“Infinzel?” Henry rolled his neck. “Not really.”
“No,” Rivian agreed. “No hooks in this stone. No pull. This is clean stone.”
Henry ran a hand down his own face, wondering if he was still dreaming. “What?”
“You never been hooked, Henry Blacksalve?”
“Hooked? What--?”
Beside Rivian’s feet, Watts stirred. The movement seemed to startle her out of the conversation. She checked the sashblades tucked into her belt, then stepped smoothly around their companions and slipped outside without another word.
“Hooked,” Henry muttered. He dragged his pack closer and rummaged around for his flask. “Yeah, I’ve been hooked.”
***
9 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Ten of the Trial
They found the body—if you could still call it that—halfway up the mountain.
The head sat in the middle of the path, mouth open in a scream, filled with snow. Flaps of the man’s neck disappeared into the rock so his symbol wasn’t legible, but Carina recognized him as the taciturn champion from Noyega she had spent a watch with. He’d been traveling alone and gotten a fast start on the rest of them. A lot of good that had done him.
The Noyegan’s arms were raised in self-defense. Like his neck, these too stuck out of the stone, bloody stumps splaying out where the rock seemed to have closed around him. A bit of his left shoulder jutted up from the path like a fleshy hump.
Next to her, Vitt slowly chewed a heel of bread. “Bit much before breakfast, isn’t it?”
“Gods, Vitt,” Carina said quietly. She turned to look over her shoulder, where the four champions of Fornon were huddled in quiet conversation. “Is this the work of a stone walker?”
They had seen the creatures twice more since that first time. Flattened humanoids with pearlescent flesh, skinny and wormlike—so far they had done nothing but observe the ascending champions, disappearing into the stone as soon as they were noticed.
“A territory marker,” Breck Bucksap said. “Fuckers letting us know not to go any further.”
“They pulled him down?” Carina said, crouching to take a closer look. “Into the mountain?”
“Stone’s like water to them,” Breck replied.
“To what end?”
“To what end?” Breck snorted. “For pleasure? For food? Fuck if I know, first of all, and who cares, secondly. Creatures are as old as the giants. Should be long gone from this world. Gods are trying to be cute.”
Vitt lifted his feet as if to check the stone beneath him. “How do we stop that happening to us? How do we kill them?”
“They die the same way a wall does. Piece by piece,” Breck said. “They’re strong but they’re slow. They can’t drown you in the stone if you’re anchored above.”
Carina heard shuffling footsteps behind her and started slightly before realizing it was Kendrick Branchbull. She had released the doe-eyed hulk from [Enthralled Defender] but found his protective behavior largely unchanged. He had already tied a length of rope around his waist and now offered the other end to Carina.
She nodded toward the Noyegan’s remains. “Should we bury him?”
“No,” Breck said. “Seeing that might get some of these others to turn around. Less of a race for us.”
Vitt glanced back the way they had come, peering down the mountain. Carina knew his mind. The rest of Infinzel’s champions—from inside the pyramidal city and out—were somewhere down there.
“And if they don’t turn back?” Vitt asked.
Breck grinned as he began tying his own rope around his waist. “Then they better be well fucking prepared, pretty boy.”
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Jeff Hart
Gosh, sorry for the delay everyone and thanks for sticking with me! Expected to be able to post like every day for the last couple weeks and yet... hopefully back on track.
