Arcanists
Teachers and Learners
Irellia Dumtruk stowed the last of her belongings into the haversack. Neatly folded, of course, but placed with careful consideration to the side she would reach for, and how often she might need them.
It was the second time she had rearranged things. The heavy scarf on the top, for winter’s winds came sudden and unexpected, especially in the northern reaches of Damara, east of the Moonsea. That is where they were going, and she would be well prepared for the trip. She always was well prepared, and that is why she made so fine a mage.
She pressed down on her things one last time, spare rods now easy and at hand in case they were required. Sometimes a blunt solution was needed, and spellrods usually provided just the sort of unrefined magic that countered the brute force any might expect on a great journey. Pleased enough, she raised an eyebrow - her version of a smile - and latched the button.
The great wizard stood patient, a familiar bemused expression as he watched his ever meticulous apprentice. Sleve Misweemy looked the part. His hair was wispy white, unkempt and flowing, often disheveled. His robes of deep blue shone with intricate silver scrollwork…when he wanted them to. The hood, when drawn, had a way of causing men’s eyes to pass over him and Irellia. Suggestion was so trifling a form of magic that it could be willed without word or motion. Sleve had greater powers than just that, and he had lived near seventy years because he knew best how to hide what he was.
The younger she-mage was too logical for such concerns, and no matter how he tried, his lessons of the perfidy the world were always lost on her. “Why should I fear?” she had said once. “I am no threat to them, although they would be fools to test me.”
Even now, pulling tight her pointed, wide brimmed hat, she gave no thought for how she appeared. She leaned forward to hoist the heavy satchel, her hind end presented large and round.
Sleve averted his eyes, snorting faintly. So brilliant…so naive. Irellia gave no more thought to her alluring figure than she did her wizardly garb’s obvious sign. Blues and grays were her robes, mismatched to the sun-washed hat of the same. Irellia made fashion from the unfashionable. She turned then, leaning forward on her orbed staff. “I am prepared, teacher.”
“Good,” said Sleve. “Now you will remember to be as good a student in the wilds as ever you were in Iniscar School.”
“I shall, teacher.”
“And you shall refrain as ever from excess, remembering that without humility, a mage is but one step from a fate infernal and deservedly terrible.”
“Yes, teacher. Of course.”
“And you will call me Sleve. Formality speaks to naïveté amongst the base.”
Irellia’s mouth quivered, hesitating at the abrupt break in protocol. “Yes, Sleve.”
Sleve chuckled. “Ever so formal. But that is why we go to where we go, that you might learn more beyond the volumes you so readily retain.”
She looked down, sensing rebuke. “I…I am here to learn.”
“Then be attentive. We go to meet our guide. He awaits at the Moose River Inn.”
Irellia’s head jerked up, mouth agape. She wanted to protest, but checked herself.
“Yes yes,” said Sleve, “a gathering place for adventurous sorts.” It was a softer euphemism, for thieves and worse were the sort to gather in taverns, and Irellia hated crowds as she did music. Frivolity made no sense.
The old wizard studied her a moment and then, abrupt as a spellburst, he wheeled around. “Off we go!” He moved fast as a shadow retreating from daylight, uncommon among men, but like a lifelong student of the arcane would expect. Irellia followed and did not slow.
Within the Inn they met with the ‘guide,’ and he did not impress Irellia at all. He had what might have been a spellbook lashed to his belt. His robe was more a coat than anything, meant to look noble or scholarly. On this Regeld, as he was known, it simply looked like the garment of a vagabond. The slender blade at his side and the barely concealed dagger both served to give him the appearance of a cutthroat. For whatever reason, this supposed mage wore a chain shirt beneath his own loose tunic.
Regeld was indeed a most unusual sort.
“Three of us then.” Regeld downed his tankard, wiped his mug with the back of a hand, and stood. “Fair contest…if the foe is as deadly as you say. You’ve got more than a bargain with me!” He waved his hand back towards the other patrons, a poised harpist among them. “Or you can take your pick, but I’ll doubt you’d find one whose spells bite as hard as his sword.”
Sleve spoke to Irellia’s mind. “I told you it was the way with these sorts.”
“Ha!” she answered aloud, matching the man’s bravado with her own. “I see a vacillating half-swordsman, and I know nothing of your spellcraft.”
Regeld nodded. “And I fit the job, whatever it may be. Many wizards could not reaffix a wagon’s wheel. Not even to save their life!”
“Sword.” Irellia snorted. “Use it then as you assuredly must, if you can’t help guiding us into a waylay by brigands or whomsoever. Keep them off the two of us for so long as we might gain our footing, then a true contest it’ll be.” She lifted her own pint then, eyes icy blue over the rim as she looked at Regeld in silent challenge. The jovial man smirked back, pleased to see a break in the woman’s cold demeanor.
Sleve’s eyes roamed low under his hood, ignoring the banter as he envisioned the places they would go. “The glaciers hold many secrets, and many dangers.”
“But of course!” rebuffed Regeld the strange. He seemed to have no notice of the she-mage’s earlier harshness. This man had grit.
Old Sleve continued. “Though I know you well enough, Irellia knows only what can be heard. You come highly recommended, though your penchant for fame mars your reputation. And your want of gold.”
“We all fight for something, old master. But ne’er do they say that Regeld Redwall was untrue to his companions. Not never! I’ll go with you north, and gladly.” He did have an agreeable demeanor, and his eyes and smile were earnest as they were mischievous. An elfin look, like a scholar…and a bit of a knave to boot. Irellia couldn’t help smiling.
An interloper came forth, and Irellia’s cold and serious nature returned at an instant. A tiefling, clad in mage’s robes that looked more like strange vestments, or a mishmash of schools at least. “Interesting,” he said to them all, leering at Regeld alone. “You said that you looked upon the palace of the Queen of Reason.” They hadn’t, but the interloper continued. “Tell me then, how know you the road?”
Regeld’s smile had vanished, his mood soured although he seemed not quick enough to know why. He clearly suspected this tiefling to have bad intentions, but was at a loss for words. Irellia felt almost queasy herself, and strangely provoked by the way the tiefling paid not a glance to her or honored Sleve. Not only that, but he possessed a certain beauty…flesh a warm shade, contrasting with lips that seemed like a shiny blue, matching the fine horns that swept back over thick hair of the same.
“The road reveals itself to those that wish to know.” The harp plucker spoke up, setting the instrument down to join the increasingly tense gathering. His own tresses were long and bound back with a shining ribbon of green, although his posture seemed more like a proud knight than a bard. Lean and hard under his burgundy tunic, he evoked the image of discipline.
The tiefling’s sickly sweet smile vanished. He turned back to face the bard, who now continued. “A true knower learns by following the signs, but only those who know how to look.” He crossed his arms, flicking a finger at the tiefling as he did so. “Not by pulling answers with trickery.”
Trickery, illusion, or hypnotism, the ‘bard’ dispelled it at once. The tiefling’s handsome features dissolved at once, revealing skin drawn over his bones like a desiccated corpse, his horns not sleek at all, but uglier than an old goat’s, splintered and painful to behold. The thing covered its face and whipped around at once, charging his way towards the rear arch of the establishment.
Sleve stood then, his gaze no longer distant. He was not guessing, but sure in his pronouncement. “What is he to you, warlock? And what do you want from us?”
The not-bard did not seem perturbed by the old wizard’s revelation. Indeed he smiled and removed the band around his temples, allowing his hair to fall straight down to his shoulders. The trepanned gem was now visible in his lower forehead, blue swirled with black. The eyes of the three scanned over the revealed third on this stranger, and he did not balk. Instead he bowed, theatrical as his abandoned guise. “Karven Arsideld, of Arabel the walled city,” he said calmly. “And you’ve just drawn attention you cannot afford.”
Irellia’s eyes widened a moment, and from under the brim of her hat, she looked round the room. Any one of these rough men could have ill intent for her and hers, as could this unexpected one, so conveniently placed. “Why help us at all, warlock? We can fend for ourselves.”
“I do not doubt it. Karven dragged a chair forward, letting his tresses fall forward once more, although the gem still remained clear to mark him for what he was. “Let us say that I have a disdain for middling sorts such as that one. Base fiends.” He snorted, clearly possessed in part by one of great pride, perhaps great power.
Sensing no lie in the man’s words, Irellia pressed further. “Truly, you come from Arabel?”
“Yes. A knight of Cormyr was I, but circumstance is something even you wizards cannot fully control.” He looked back before leaning forward, now speaking to Sleve. “You require a fourth.”
Old Sleve flitted his fingers about, head bobbing slightly as he recited some old poem.
“The mages four to pass the door,
fire and flame, spells and shame.
Where darkness grows, the shades expose.
Down we go, the deep abode.”
The warlock and Irellia were quiet, a look passing between them in search of comprehension. It was the way with wizards, speaking in riddles. Irellia could piece them together, most of the time.
“Four we need then.” It was Regeld who spoke. He pushed his mug forward, pulling on his gloves as he spoke. “Then into the hands of fate we go. Come then ye two. If the warlock means to betray us or not, it’ll do us no good to tarry.”
“Quite so,” said Sleve. “And he lies not. We will be waylaid on the road. So why delay?” He shot up, and now towards the same door by which the shamed Tiefling had fled earlier.
Regeld slapped down a handful of silver. “You’re welcome,” he said to no one. “And they call me a rogue.” He hurried to catch up with the other four.
Hazards
It was as they had all guessed, and Irellia hardly needed to sweep the road with her hazardwhisp spell. The bandits had set wires across the road, taut, but the fisherman’s line caught the light where they had placed it. The other traps were surely as rudimentary, and so they proved when Regeld took it upon himself to spring them from afar.
Holding his hand before him, he made motions with his fingers like some spiderling or even in a motion one might tickle or tease a little one. He snorted when the first snare loosed on nothing, the swinging log failing to come free from the divided trunks that held it. One of the bandits cursed, loud enough to be heard. The rest of the loops or plates proved equally ineffective, darts launching against nothing while the companions waited uproad.
Regeld drew his slender sword and walked forward, kicking loose one of the pressure plates and sending snow and mud flying. He swiped his sword at the air. “Are you lot ever going to find your stones? Have at thee!”
Such an unimaginative taunt, so apt for those men from the inn. They came from the hill above and to the left, no longer hiding behind the barren trees. Down they came, over the light dusting of frost and crunching the dead leaves and roots. The most formidable looking among them, jaw jutted forward, breathed heavily as he advanced on Regeld with rage.
Sleve covered his face with a voluminous sleeve, one eye shut and the other angled up as he yawned. Thuds could be heard from behind and further to the side, the archers among the foe dropping to the ground in deep sleep.
Karven looked near like to fall asleep, his petulant look bordering on a yawn of his own. “Kill me one, if you will, please.” He walked forward, contemptuous and slow, hands throwing back the cape he wore to reveal his leathern vest. The plates sewn onto it were warded, and they glowed a slight red.
The leader carried an ax, or what may have been a bardiche. His posture gave every indication that he knew how to use it, and he shifted from one foot to the other, murderous intent in his eyes.
Against him, Regeld hunched forward, one leather gauntlet held forward, hand hovering over the ground for balance. His sword hand he held low, carefully pacing so as to intercept the lean brigand across from him.
Reaching behind her to her satchel, Irellia’s fingers found the rods she had stowed. A smile of satisfaction crossed her lips. I pack the best, truly I do. She felt the long grooves of the one she had in mind, and jerked it forward, her legs spaced to absorb the recoil. “Sha!” The exhale was less to do with the spell and more behind the fervor that powered it, and a sparking trail followed as the tiniest green star shot forward.
The big brigand probably dismissed it, such sparkles and lights being commonly seen in these eastern lands where many called themselves mages. Irellia’s wand was no trifling trinket. Whereas a lesser might merely burn like a branding iron, the tiny star flew deep into the big man’s flank, perfectly exposed as his arms raised to grasp his maul high. The light burst inside sudden, small, but rupturing enough to find his heart. He fell dead instantly, crashing to the road behind a seemingly oblivious Regeld, who still danced with the bandit leader, parrying one blow and missing wide with his riposte.
“My thanks, lady.” Karven the warlock now strode over to where the big man had fallen, the etchings on his armor bright along with the look in his eyes. The fallen seemed to stir as though dragged towards him, but it was not the whole of him that moved. The man’s hide began to protrude at his side, and then suddenly it ripped open with a spray of blood and a horrible sound, like layers of fabric being torn at once. The bones came free and formed into a single osseous spear.
And that is indeed what it was that Karven now wielded. He looked back with a wink at Irellia. The rest of the attackers had now encircled the two men, and it appeared as though Karven would be struck on his blind side. He turned to face the threat, darting forward with the bonespear to engage a very horrified bandit.
They’re hesitating…and so am I! Irellia snapped herself out of it, observing as she had been. Another flick of her wrist and the rod shot true, the star (this one orange) burying itself into the cranium of a brigand that had turned his attention her way. The explosion was not absorbed by mass, and the man’s right eye and cheek burst free, along with his foreskull.
Loath as she was to expend a rod on so base a foe, it seemed worse that she should do nothing…or reveal the depths of her power. Irellia dodged backwards as a much leaner bandit came upon her, this one wielding two swords. Her mouth fumbled just as did her fingers, hesitation’s price now ripe to be paid. She fell backwards, stumbling over a stone. Humiliating.
The bandit caught sight of her shapely form then. His look was truly ugly in that moment, and Irellia’s embarrassment turned to fury in a heartbeat. She dropped the stone and raised a hand. This one hurts.
Faster than she could cast, a tiny dark circle appeared beneath the advancing bandit, and rapidly expanded to enclose his space. The man did not notice, nor did he halt. Irellia’s eyes went wide as she saw - a skeletal hand shot up, fast as a spring-loaded spike. The white fingers clasped around him, and his look of sadism was replaced by abject horror.
He had no time to scream. In a half second, the hand plunged back down, bandit in tow to torment unimaginable.
Irellia stood back up, the memory of her spell fleeting from her lips. Karven smiled back at her, two brigands dead before him, his bonespear red where it had drank their essence, his free hand lowered. His grip was the same as that hand that had saved her from the attacker. She looked to her right, expecting to see just as she did. Sleve’s head was low and to the side in profile, his own way of saying that he did not want her to behold his disappointment.
A desire for absolution overrode her sense of reason then. The she-mage would have sped into the fight, but there were but two bandits left standing. Karven paced wide and held the bonespear to his side, offering no help to the now-unsmiling rogue. He whipped his hair back out of his eyes, watching to see whether their rogue would survive the long journey ahead. His half lidded expression suggested to the negative.
Regeld continued to keep the wiry brigand at distance, slender blade extended as he paced round, gaining precious space whilst denying it his foeman. A fine strategy for the ring, for duels of honor…and that is why he appeared as out of place as the long scholar’s coat he wore.
The second brigand rushed in from behind, hands wide and glowing with their own fire - the brigands had a mage of their own, and he now rushed in with eyes aglow and flames billowing tall.
Regeld ducked low and spun halfway, his sword now extended to meet the onrushing man. The steel shot up through the man’s unarmored chest, crimson pooling the shirt on his back. Regeld spun back away just as the bandit leader charged forward.
The coordinated strike was too slow, and Regeld spun out of the way, scoffing as the leader hacked into the shoulder of his remaining man. Neither rakish nor fearful, Regeld’s stature seemed to increase greatly then, steady and confident. Irellia was no longer in stasis, but new doubts presented themselves. Has he been toying with him?
Evidently he was, as the brigand came forward again with a swing, snarling and cursing at the handsome swordsman mage…or whatever he was. Regeld evaded easily, and then of a sudden, he came back with heels pressed together, sword wholly extended. The lead bandit hesitated.
It would have made no difference had he not, for Regeld’s following strike was swifter than the eye. He chopped high and opened the man’s neck, walking past the crimson spray almost lazily. His eyes went to the assessing warlock, and lingered a moment. He had wiped clean and banished his steel ere the defeated foe’s legs had ceased twitching.
And so it was that the four survived their first encounter, a trifling test, as expected by the master wizard. Sleve nudged his student, and thus did she pose the question. “Your contrivance, Karven sold-soul?” Her eyes, blue as ever, shone from under her hood. The two lights searched every twitch, every motion. Even a dragon could not lie under her gaze, for a veritable knight of truth was she, whence she deigned to channel such power.
Karven shook his head, a smirk on his features. “They came of their own volition. I marked them the moment you walked into the Moose River.” He put a finger to his ear. “Three eyes I have, yes. Makes folk forget my ears hear much.”
Irellia turned to her other companions, shrugging as though to say, “no deception.” Sleve’s own eyes flicked back and forth across the winter sky, contemplating weather perhaps, or any number of consciousnesses his mind wandered to. It was his way, and the way of many great wizards.
Irellia, of course, channeled her thoughts as well as she did her time. Contemplation would come later, for now, it was imperative to decide. “Then let us away, Karven, Regeld, and teach…” she caught herself, “…Sleve.” She turned and walked on, rump swaying side to side like infernal temptation before the three. Of it, Irellia - brilliant in books and with a memory like an iron cage - remained blissfully unaware.
Hours passed and the four sped along the road. Irellia took from a pouch an elvish treat she kept for sustenance on the march, a wrapping of soft leaf, tender venison, and dried-orange layered within a bundle of grain that did far more for energy than their small size would suggest. The morsel passed her lips and she chewed while marching on, pulling her long glove snug once more. Irellia hated to make a mess.
Without word, Regeld the rogue turned from the trail and began to lead them over a minor rise and through a loose forest. Sleve chanced to reach through the plane known to wizards, explaining to Irellia without spoken word. “Regeld is of a sort familiar with the paths unseen. I have known of him for years. He is a wanted man in many places, so he must know how best to remain unseen. Bad idea, anyways, to camp near a road.”
Karven, of course, was ignorant of the exchange, but he affirmed the scout’s wisdom. “Wise, sword mage. I guess you to be a man of the woods.”
Regeld answered with a half glance back. “Tis a basic measure. Not the slayers of vile Irenicus, nor the Companions of the Hall…heh. Not even Dragonbait’s stalwarts would have lived long, resting by the road.”
Karven snorted, the history lesson apparently trite to his ears. He looked to the sky and called out ahead to Regeld. “Dark that quick is it?”
“It will be, yes.” He wore a hat near as wide brimmed as Irellia’s own, although the berries and what seemed like mistletoe gave it a flare much different than any wizard she had ever known. “Here’s good.” Regeld came to a stop, let his pack drop to the ground, and began to look around for firewood.
Sleve said nothing, but he drew a circle round where he thought best. He then cast a handful of some strange dust to where the fire pit was to be, tossed down his staff, and lay down to sleep. He was snoring almost before he had even fully reclined.
“Well the old man has faith in us,” said Regeld. “I suppose I’m to take the watch first?”
Karven waved a hand in dismissal. “No need.” He looked away and made a whistling sound.
Irellia was already at work with her own satchel when she felt the sudden gust. She looked up to see visible winds, or perhaps coalescing vapors. These grew denser and denser until a hound came to be before Karven, its master. It was a sorry looking thing, at a state between apparition and flesh, but the flesh seemed eaten away at in parts. One ear was gone, and an eye dangled low from the skull.
“No begging, Bohica,” admonished the warlock. The hound straightened up, the flesh forming rightly now, its eye retracting to where it ought to be. It licked its muzzle.
Karven looked back at the others, a grin on his features. “He’s hungry.”
“What does a spectral hound eat?” Irellia was wholly enthralled, coming to stand near and look at the thing. “I’ve always wanted to know?”
“Same as any four legs,” said Karven. “Here.” He tore free some dried meat from his hands, gnawing one bite while tossing it to the hound. It snapped once, catching it effortlessly.
“Oh,” Irellia snorted. “Then I suppose we’ll sleep well.” She noticed Karven hauling back stones and proper firewood, dry as he could find it. She wanted to be useful too, and she had just the spell in mind.
Night on the Trail
The three sat round the fire, a bird roasting on a spit, suspended between metal poles of perfect height and many uses. All gifts of the rakish rogue he seemed far less rakish now as he passed a stone over the edge of his sword. It was obviously an heirloom, something worth honing. The haft was ornate, perhaps of elvish make, or from a past age of man when princely accoutrements were often for function as much as form.
Karven said little, eyes fixed on the fire. If it was the way he communed with his eventual benefactor, it was understated. Both eyes and gem drank the firelight in equal measure as he silently contemplated, lost in his own thoughts. The frigid air abated from the lot of them, that kindlesand of Sleve’s being potent in more ways than one.
Despite the comfort, Irellia drew her knees up before her, mind racing with the day’s events. Sleve snored silently, inscrutable as ever…he never praised her as a student, and that is why she found him such a good master. He offered fair assessments and only spoke as cryptically as he should, for his great power was not illusory. She had found great fortune when she found him as a teacher.
Sleve had told Irellia to ask many questions, and how the answer revealed not just a possible truth, but showed more about the speaker. She asked now of Regeld, “So is that what your skill is? Master of the blade, and a bit of all else?”
Regeld, who had brought the edge up to his eye for closer examination, scanned over to where the woman sat. “You might say that.” He honed the edge twice more and then sent it into the sheath with great care before reclining halfway towards her, basking in the fire. “I spend much time on the trail. The woods are as a second home to me.” He chuckled then, waiting a moment. “A first home, truly.”
Irellia gave him a moment before continuing, as Sleve had once told her it was polite to do so. “Then you knew those bandits that thought to waylay us?”
“I heard some and I suspected much…but no, I did not know them or of any outfit to which they might belong.”
“Why tease them then?” She didn’t pause now, her train of thoughts rapid and her mouth following in trace. “You did not seek sign, and we did not search them.”
Silence.
“Their leader. You could have dispatched him at will?”
“Aye.” His eyes now met hers, showing her the course was truer now.
“Did you mean to humiliate them ere you slew them all? A lesson to those watching?”
His eyes went back to the fire.
Irellia was leaning forward now, poised almost as if to shake the man’s arms for answer. “The mage…you knew they had a mage.”
“Didn’t you?” he asked, sitting up to match her now.
“I…I felt a small presence. He wore robes but looked like some of the others.” Her lip crinkled, placing the usual heuristics. “Even their leader was reed thin.” She drew her cloak close about her, aware she was wider of frame than many mages, and knowing it a poor measure by which to guess.
Regeld raised an eyebrow, catching her realization. “I did not know which was the caster.”
Her eyes widened then, voice low. “You danced with the leader to draw the mage out.”
A smile passed over Regeld’s mien, and he drew his own patchwork scholar cloak tight. The bedroll too, necessary even within the enchanted campfire’s warmth. “Pleasant dreams, Irellia.”
Irellia could have asked questions for an hour yet. She looked to Karven, still in trance perhaps, or some other form of sleep. His hound paced in the distance, silent…translucent.
The mage lass reclined within her cloak and closed her eyes. She thought to will herself to drift by the old method - still as she could be, and eventually sleep would come. Her mind raced for many hours yet, and then she dreamed much.
On and on, to Gattagrond
Irellia started awake suddenly, breath rushing in like the tide of her coastal homeland. She shot up fast, the wide brimmed hat falling to the snow outside their circle. It was already bright. I’m the last to wake! She stood and reached back, her dark hair having fallen loose and tangled about her shoulders.
Looking around as she bound her hair back in a quick swirl, she saw no sign of Regeld the guide or thief or whatever he was. She saw not Sleve either. Donning her hat and straightening her garments under her robes of blue, she went to the nearby brook where she heard the other man at work on something.
Karven had stripped bare above the waist, his hands hacking at something, blood up to his elbows. Every breath scent mist into the air, but he seemed indifferent to the cold, for his work was arduous.
A dressed stag hung between the trees before him, and he was now cutting the last strips as Irellia approached. He seemed to sense her presence, and turned his head back.
He was fitter than most, a man of proper habit. With that and the way his silken tresses fell over his face, he was indeed alluring. Alluring and bloody.
He faced away as he spoke. “Courtesy of Bohica. We eat hearty this morn.”
Irellia drew alongside, noting the hound’s patient poise, panting despite it having no need to. A wondrous creature, a faithful simulacrum. Despite herself, she smiled at the apparition.
“You can pet him. He doesn’t bite.” Karven tossed the hound a strip of deer flesh, and ate one himself, raw and red.
Irellia thought to do it out of courtesy, but then decided courtesy was unnecessary. She did find animals fascinating, real and spectral…or planar, or whatever they might be classified as. She preferred a sort more like scales, or shelled. They seemed more content, more at ease.
Karven said nothing further about the hound, but washed his forearms and hands clean in the snow. He rattled a sort of pendant - charms fixed around a great loop - and Bohica vanished with the breeze. “Start the fire and I’ll cut it proper. I even have some spices.”
It was good to have a use. Irellia went back to the camp’s stones and brought the blaze up. A simple spell, hardly even worthy of the name. She reawakened the dormant embers, not yet transmuted to full ash. It was in the memory of the material, and the fire jumped high at the merest flick of her fingers.
The cuts were dripping fat, flesh sizzling with savory aroma, just as Sleve the wise wizard made his way back, perfect timing as was usual for his sort. He said nothing as he took his pick of venison, bringing it up to his mouth as he stood.
Regeld had also returned, although he gave no indication of where he had gone. “To listen to the birds,” he said when the warlock had pressed him on it.
Sleve was utterly forthright. “Gattagrond lies two days for a wayfarer.”
“And less for us?” asked Irellia.
“It is so. I made half the trip ere ye woke. Afore Regeld did, at least. He’s rather pious.” The wizard’s words hung on the air a moment as he bit into the steaming flesh. “Good find, this. Ah yes. We should arrive oh, I’d say, at about the witching hour.”
Regeld drew his old coat tight then and set his hat straight. He sent a smile Irellia’s way, and went to await them for the remaining journey.
The remaining journey went just as Sleve had predicted, and Irellia thought it no exaggeration that left to his own devices, the great wizard truly could have walked there and back in the indeterminable hours he had risen.
Gattagrond had been a mad notion of a group of dwarven miners, likely those from somewhere in the distant south. Those were often dwarves more taken with new (or very old) discoveries, as there was nothing to reclaim for them under the great glacier.
Little knowledge had not dissuaded those dwarves of long ago, no more than it did the manifold miners, explorers, men of letters, and base adventurers.
Nor did it dissuade Sleve and his keenest student. “Only once did I cross these paths with an apprentice,” he said as they came unto the inn, arriving at the witching hour as he predicted - almost to the very minute.
Irellia wondered who that other student might have been, but she banished the question. The looming glacier seemed like a horizon all its own, white under the sky like waves under a clear night. It was quite beautiful, and even the sky seemed to dance above it, northern lights turning about in every color that the eye could see (and some that only a mage might).
The next day was spent procuring the proper gear. No aerosans, no great elk driven wains…only heavy, heavy furs and skis. Irellia fell a few times before getting the way of it, practicing on a snowdrift nearby. Their teacher was a youth, not near a man yet. For reasons she failed to grasp, the lad’s eyes went wide as Irellia bent down to remove the long planks.
She turned around, noting the odd expression. “It’s not the downhill race I hear tell of. They use these in Luskan and beyond.”
The boy’s consciousness seemed to return. “Aye, tis. Er…you are right, Madame.”
He was in truth a good teacher. For as small as he was, he made it look easy. Without the condescension a senior might have had, he made it very clear that skis merely facilitated movement, but that did not mean they made you fast. Why can’t all speak as plain as this child? Irellia smiled at the boy and he blushed for no apparent reason.
“Your gold, lad.” Sleve paid the boy for the provisions that made the four’s packs great, the heavy and dark cloaks that fell about their shoulders, and of course, for the skis. It was more than it cost altogether, perhaps significantly, but the old wizard seemed not to notice or care.
The lad sped off, a look of joy barely concealed.
“Well then. Seems I’m now the guide.” Sleve shouldered his own skis and started forward. This time, he turned to wait and affirm. He puffed once from the pipe beneath his now double hooded face. “And the two of you both, you know we march into a place of danger and great wonder…but treasure? I can only suppose what we might find. Only do I tell you true, we go over and under, and to the realm of the Queen of Reason.”
The Queen of Reason. The name was unknown to many, unknown to most. The four were mages though, if of strange sorts. Irellia thought herself mundane, for once, with these two enigmas at her side. Yet they did not hesitate as they affirmed their answer.
And so the four went onwards, promises of great mysteries and great knowledge beckoning. There is no sort of mage who could ever resist such a call!
A World of Snow
For days they walked, trusting Sleve’s guidance and great knowledge. The skis performed their work by night, admirably functioning as poles with which the four each draped their portions of a great shelter, fastened by a rock tied round where each joined, and with a raised old kettlehelm that allowed smoke to escape but covered the apex aperture. With a fire inside and a blanket to each, the nights were beyond survivable, even bordering on snug.
Of course, without their spellcraft, the party would have been much more frigid. Survivability and comfort are sometimes at odds ends, and so it was as they marched on with each passing dawn.
Sleve gave no indication of hardship, for it was not his way. Irellia took it in stride, knowing that the man’s joints must be tested under such a journey - a journey made for her benefit, above all. The final test that would seal her place in the hallowed scrolls of Iniscar.
Secretive was that order of mages, yet rightly respected among those who knew it true. Irellia had already discerned one of their closest secrets. For nigh on four centuries, they ever had one of their number among the Shrouded Lords of Waterdeep, those rulers of a city of great wealth and power, hidden beneath robes of sorcerous look.
Another among their order had lived in the time of Myth Drannor, in his mind and ancient across were treasures of knowledge unfathomable even to master mages.
They had among them a most rare sort still. A double agent, he might be called. Even now he continued at the academy of Sorcere…a dark elf who bypassed every spell, every insight of the dark priestesses, yet he persevered. Menzoberranzan was a land where the very notion of espionage was unthinkable, barring that of the endless factions and feuds within itself. All the same, Iniscar had one tendril that pierced the web of Lolth.
Irellia wondered how Sleve had come to know Regeld the rogue. He seemed a middling caster to her, although doubtless he kept much of his knowledge hidden. Standard for a mage, truly, but the jollity of his public facing self was absent now. The cold affected him worse, and Irellia at last attributed it to the most mundane of reasons, and she guessed right…in part.
Regeld was spry beneath his cloak, his coat, and the garments he wore beneath. When under the walls of their tent, he would turn his shirt over the flame after changing it, and he did this of a night. One set of clothes ever damp with snow, the other worn. “Clean,” he said between chatterings.
That was not all about Regeld that seemed to change, another of his deceptions pulled away by this land. Neither of the younger men had shaved in the near sennight upon the glacier, and Regeld’s scruff grew almost white as the snow itself. Or white and blue, rather, like the glacier under the drifts. His own hair gave similar tell, no longer the common brown tresses. His undyed roots exposed as the same cold color.
When the warmth came deep - helped along by the broth that Karven had the foresight to make - he explained it to the others one night.
“The land here…this magic. It is of a very cold sort.”
Sleve puffed at his pipe, as he did not before turning to himself. “Twas the Queen of Reason’s legacy. A true Ice Queen.”
“Was she mortal? One of the fair race?” asked Irellia, her own bowl held close to her nose.
“Oh aye,” answered Sleve. “The fairest. Most wise, most beautiful and tall. Hair down to her very feet! Her name befuddled many. Most impossible to reason with.” His eyes went to Karven then.
Karven seemed comfortable here, despite his affinity for fire spells. He had no difficulty in scouting ahead at the roughest patches over the glacier, and it did not tire him to leave a trail of snowmelt that the others might follow, perfectly spaced for skis between the drifts. He spoke now.
“The Queen of Reason…” he let the words linger, and then snorted. “An idiot bitch of a monarch. Killed her own daughter, it is said.”
Regeld drew a blanket close, as if the story itself chilled his bones. He said nothing further. He was healthy, his sinews strong. Slim? Yes indeed, but fit enough to bear the weight he did and to fight as he would. The strange magic of this place he could feel, and Irellia felt it too now.
“What became of this Queen?” asked Irellia to any who might answer.
Karven wore a sardonic sort of smile, as though the morality tale was too perfect, wrapped up with a nice bow on top. “Her kingdom faded, of course. So it is with Eladrin, capable of abandoning our world for one of their own, once things turn hard. Vultures.”
He flicked a pinch of sand onto the fire now, the blaze shot high anew. Sleve’s eyes lifted although he remained still, puffing his pipe in silence.
“The Queen of Fools perished in flame,” said Karven. “She did rule a great expanse. A land the cold could not touch.” He saw the question in Irellia’s eyes, and even Regeld seemed enthralled at this new telling. And so Karven gave answer. “Oh aye, the land still is warm, even so far north, hidden from all the world. It positively steams, rivers of snowmelt. But nothing grows there, heh. Only molten stone.”
He lay back, shadows dancing on the canvas as he held up his hands, spread wide as if to evoke a great conflagration. “That was long ago. A thousand years if it was a hundred. The realm now the abode of The Devourer.”
“A great red,” now said Regeld, his sickness abated by a look that could only be called some sort of dread determination.
Karven’s lips and eyes spoke to how impressed he was at the rogue’s knowledge. Regeld stated it fully for Irellia’s sake, although his eyes remained fixed on this loremaster of a warlock. “The dragon, Inferiux.”
The Glacier Fights Back
The glacier was no gentle beast. For days it had allowed their passage, skis hissing over crusted snow. Irellia was never graceful, but she proved sturdy enough under the weight of heavy provisions. The sky had remained a hard, bright blue, the northern lights a distant memory now that the sun hung low and brief. They made good time, Sleve’s strides unerring, as though he followed a line only he could see.
All seemed well until the winds came. It began as a whisper from the west, a cold breath that tugged at cloaks and hoods. Regeld paused first, hat brim pressed flat by a sudden gust, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “Storm’s brewing,” he called back, voice already thinning. “Fast one.”
Karven lifted his head, gem flickering as he tasted the air. “Too fast. This isn’t weather. This is the Queen’s old ward, roused.”
Sleve said nothing, only drew his pipe from beneath layered hoods and clamped it unlit between his teeth. He quickened the pace.
The wind became a howl. Snow lifted in sheets, not falling but flying sideways, stinging like thrown glass. Visibility shrank to arm’s length; the world turned white and roaring. Skis tangled. Packs dragged heavier, then lighter as ropes snapped. Irellia felt her outer pack lurch, the careful arrangement within suddenly meaningless. She clutched the strap, but the wind tore it free and sent it tumbling into the blur. Spellrods, elvish treats, spare gloves….all gone. She had only the cross-body satchel now.
One by one the others lost their burdens. Regeld’s heirloom sword remained sheathed at his hip, but his pack vanished. Sleve’s staff stayed gripped in one gnarled hand, yet the great shelter ripped away like parchment, poles clattering into nothingness. Karven cursed, low and vicious, as his own gear followed.
They huddled together, linked by hastily knotted rope, heads bowed against the gale. The storm lasted hours, or perhaps only minutes. Time lost meaning in the white dark.
When it passed as abruptly as it had come, they stood in a shallow bowl of snow, four figures half-buried, breath pluming in the sudden stillness. The glacier stretched empty around them. Skis gone. Shelter gone. Food, fuel, spare clothing. It had all been scattered to the winds or swallowed by crevasses they could no longer see.
Regeld was the first to speak, voice hoarse. “We’ve lost near everything.”
Karven’s eyes burned, the gem in his brow glowing dull red. He paced a tight circle, boots crunching. “No. We have what matters.” He jabbed a finger toward the invisible north. “Four mages. Four. The door will not open for three, nor for five. The rhyme was clear.” His breath came quick, almost fevered. “We go on. We must go on.”
Irellia felt the cold bite deeper now, without the weight of her pack to warm her back. She looked to Sleve. The old wizard stood still, staring at the snow as though reading omens in its surface. Then he took a step, and staggered.
His foot found a hidden ridge beneath the fresh drift. He pitched forward, staff skittering away. Irellia lunged, catching his arm before he fell fully. The wind, though quieter now, chose that moment to gust again. Her wide-brimmed hat lifted clean off her head, spun once like a startled bird, and vanished into the white.
Hair tumbled free. Dark, tangled, whipping across her face in wild strands. She hauled Sleve upright, one arm around his shoulders longer than strictly needed. He was lighter than she expected, or perhaps she was stronger.
Sleve regained his balance, but his gaze fixed not on the horizon, nor on her face, but on the empty air where her hat had been. “Your hat,” he said, voice low, grave as prophecy. “It is lost.”
Irellia blinked snow from her lashes. The cold already nipped at her ears, but the words struck her as oddly weighty. “I’ll buy another when we return,” she said, attempting lightness. “Or perhaps I’ll take after you, master, and simply wear a hood.”
Sleve’s eyes met hers then, sharp despite the exhaustion. “Hood or hat, it matters little. But symbols matter.” He did not explain further.
Karven had retrieved Sleve’s staff and now pressed it into the old man’s hand. His own face was drawn, the sardonic mask gone. “We cannot linger. Night comes soon, and without fire or shelter…” He looked at each of them in turn. “I will not lose any of you. Not here. Not before the door.”
Irellia gripped her hair and bound it back, dark curls now out of the way. She said as much as Karven had by expression alone.
Regeld, beard now thick and blue-white, nodded. He drew his sword, tested its edge by feel alone, and sheathed it again. “Then we walk on.”
They set off, four silhouettes against the vast white, lighter now in more ways than one. The wind had quieted, and ahead, faint but unmistakable, a darker line marred the snow: the edge of something vast and buried.
The ice below, the snow now not the light dust but hardened nearly like ice itself.
That was not all, and this was no common glacier. Sleve raised an arm, finger pointed as if in final direction. His long beard whipped with the breeze in the same direction. There, almost invisible at distance, there was a great fissure. Past the snow and deep into the ice, but not ice alone. The dark of the glacial ice descended into a veritable abyss below. Behind the blue wall was the faint outline of stone, yet unbroken by the movement above. The old northern highway, it had to be.
Irellia’s eyes went wide. She turned to Regeld. “Are you strong enough to climb down?”
The man’s elfin features seemed to brighten now, and the civilized persona revealed itself again. “I kept these close for a reason.” His daggers he now drew. Not a rogue’s daggers at all, but more like triangular pitons. The loops at the end were obviously made to be tied off, although none possessed the requisite chord they might climb down.
It was of no matter to Regeld, and he climbed his way down, tremendously agile. Snot and sweat ran down the man’s face, and his arms trembled from the exertion…but he made it to the appropriate point. Gaining purchase with his feet, he looked back up to the edge of the crevasse. No words needed, he had found the entrepôt.
Karven clapped his hands. “Well done, rogue.” He rubbed his hands once then before waving back the others. Eyes cast downward, he spent some time in intense focus, some distance away from the sudden ravine. Almost imperceptible, he began to sink into the hard snow…and then more evenly, he stepped forward, descending.
“He makes a path…” observed Irellia.
Sleve blinked twice, noticeably. “We each have our part to play.”
Irellia let out a mirthless laugh. “Ropes would still be nice.” Sleve said nothing back, the truth readily apparent. There was no turning back. They had found a passage under the ice or they would be finished.
She followed behind, hands pressed to the slick walls. The wetness seeped through her gloves, and she registered the loss of sensation. More than once she slipped and fell upon her bounteous backside, but she regained her feet in short order. She could hear Sleve following the way down, the way illuminated by the reflective glow of sunlight from either direction.
After an awkward descent, the two came to level ground, cleared by the warlock’s fire. At this last step, Irellia slipped one last time with an “oomph” sound, and Sleve crawled down shortly afterwards.
Karven looked back to them with a grin. He was deviously charming, although more to the devious side. The spell had probably exhausted him, so hot was the fire, and so purposefully directed. He had proven useful indeed, and Irellia felt quite useless of the bunch. She peered into the ice, straining to see what lay beyond.
No magic work needed, Regeld chipped at the barrier with a single piton dagger. It was an awkward pose, and he alone could have achieved it - legs spread to find purchase on nubs of ice, his left hand a death grip on the static pick.
Abruptly, the ice before the cave’s entrance broke free and descended to the great pit beneath, crashing after many long seconds. Between it and the other three was now a gap, a great leap for anyone.
With aplomb, Sleve walked over the short expanse. He beckoned the others follow, and only after Irellia stepped across did she see the faint outline of a rainbow below her feet. A wizard’s bridge, and an easy conjuration for the master wizard.
Moments later, all four were safe and secure within the tunnel entrance. They collected their breath, and Irellia found a chance to contribute at last. She rubbed her hands together, and a small orb materialized before her. A ball of light and nothing else, but nothing else was needed. The tunnel now burned bright from her illumination, and all could see the deep rune wards carved into the stone.
All shared recognition then - a path of dwarves, undoubtedly ancient, protected against the ice’s ruination. On they went, Irellia in the lead, deep into the hidden mountain beneath the glacier.
The Ancient Tunnel
A brief respite to catalogue their possessions, and Irellia was relieved to find her side satchel had not lost its contents. She said as much to Sleve.
“Even a wizard must trust to the fates at times,” said Sleve, and then he chuckled, adding that “we must trust to them more than many, in truth.”
Irellia showed no sign of irritation. Indeed, his words seemed less cryptic to her with every passing day. All the preparation, yet she had retained her most precious tools by happenstance. Fate, Sleve would call it. She said nothing about the loss of her rods and provisions. Sleve himself had never used a rod, she recalled.
For how long they walked, none knew. The orb of light would remain until Irellia dismissed it, and she let it burn through the night when they came deep enough to escape the bitter cold of the world above. Whatever dread power had robbed Regeld of his warmth seemed to be behind them. Perhaps the old magic worked into the passage. Karven slept with his back to the wall, seeming positively comfortable now to be below ground.
The chill bit at Irellia still, and though she could not call it a comfortable night, she did manage to catch her winks.
The party set off at what they reckoned to be dawn, deep within the earth now. The way was remarkably straight except in the places it was meant to turn. Sleve had been a great teacher of natural phenomena, and it was evident that the dwarves who had constructed this highway had prepared for a great freeze…or perhaps it was the methods they warded against the rifts in any land. In any case, the effect was the same, and ere long they came before a gate.
Not a great gate, not the sort that would mark the entry to some lofty kingdom of the stout folk. More a door, utterly unremarkable.
Irellia placed a hand and looked into the passage beyond. Through closed eyes and above the whispered spell, she beheld an abrupt turn left through the rock. Her vision went into a room angled with great precision and there sat a dwarf, writing at a ledger the same annotations he had for countless tendays past: ‘All is secure in the Aknelbrag Way. The stones stand strong. Our arches, stronger.’ The whole of the volume, hundreds of pages thick, the exact same thing, with only one aberration, some years past, where the following was annotated for that tenday: ‘Wicks run low, sent for more. Magnecite too, for good measure.’
The dwarf finished his log and returned the tome, standing and grabbing a waiting ax and shield, ready to depart immediately, for his helm was yet atop his head.
Her vision of the room and all its contents was cut short by a loud rap. Sleve was tapping the end of his staff upon the door, shouting for the dwarf by any number of common names for that people (some of them bordering on rude).
Moments later, the door swung outwards and the wizard and apprentice stepped back. Looking at them both with great irritation was the dwarf that Irellia had espied. He stood with arms crossed, eyeing the four of them.
“Who comes unbidden into the realm of the Umorathrain?” demanded the dwarf. It was a ritual challenge, although his hand did not drift towards the hammer at his side, nor the short blade upon his other hip. A guard? A guide? Or perhaps both, the dwarf fulfilled the role of both of these in addition to his lonesome custodianship of this passage.
Irellia spoke for the group, bowing low. “Master dwarf…” she began.
“Rorke,” the dwarf interjected. “Watcher of the old highway.”
Adapting quickly, she dismissed with honorifics. “Rorke, we four seek passage. Our quest calls us here. An ancient curse we seek to undo…a mad realm walker whose kingdom vanished under fire and ice.”
Rorke stood a little straighter, almost tall, insofar as a dwarf could be. “The Queen of Reason…be you the four?”
The wizardess beamed at the words. “You were foretold of us?”
“Many things are foretold, yes. My kin are respecters of prophecy.”
Karven strode forward then. “Was it prophesied, then, that outsiders would see perish the tyrant queen?”
The dwarf laughed then, perhaps the first time he had jested in ages. He passed a hand over his great, brown beard. “That old elf witch has long departed these lands. Devoured it was said. Yes, by the Devourer. A nasty fiend of a dragon, that one.”
“But the curse remains…” Irellia reasoned it aloud without though, and Rorke’s eyes went to hers.
“Indeed it does,” he said, “although that old kingdom remains in part. The snowdrifts cover it in part, although it remains above ground.”
Regeld stifled a groan, and Irellia explained for him. “Our shelters were lost to us mast…I mean, good Rorke. Nevertheless, we must press on. Tis our wizard’s quest.”
“Aye,” said the dwarf. “You said as much. Well then…” he turned to walk away and stopped a few paces thence. “Are ye coming?”
A terse invitation, but that was the way with dwarves. Follow they did, waiting only so long for Rorke to make an addendum to his logs. He returned also with something that appeared scepter and lantern in one. He shook it in his hand, cursed, and bashed it against the stone. The lantern flickered and then let out a vibrant glow. “No need have I for this.” He handed the thing to Irellia, who accepted it with gratitude. An artifact of ancient make, and evidently quite durable. She banished her orb and noted Rorke’s grin before the five now walked on.
Their guide proved to be quite the unhoped for boon. How long it had been since he had seen humans, none could guess, but he did impart a bit of his clan’s lore to the outsiders. “We were here long before this interloper queen, and we’ll be here long after the dragon.”
Irellia found it all fascinating, for she had only ever heard of dwarven realms, and it was not lost upon her that she was the first of her kind in centuries to have made contact with this far flung people. She noted that Rorke did not look so unusual, all told, but his skin was very fair. These were a people of ice, and though not stark white as many of the fabled shelves, he was clearly marked as a creature of the glacial north.
“Is it as it is said?” she asked. “The old tale, I mean. Dwarves and dragons, contending for space.”
“Tis not,” said Rorke, pleased to tell more of his realm. “The one called Inferiux does not bestir himself. He has many servants, but dragons are not so cracked as to come for a deep realm, well warded as we are.” He gestured to the stones, ever so often marked by some rune of indeterminable age, but now of certain origin. “Nature herself cannot crumble our foundations.”
Irellia guessed right the trouble. “The curse then, what of it?”
Rorke inhaled before continuing. “Aye, that. Well guarded we are, but few, you might of guessed. The Queen is long perished or fled from this plane, but others have risen to take her place.”
“What others?” It was Regeld who asked, freely admitting that he knew not what beset them.
“Why, does your graybeard tell you nothing?” The dwarf’s eyes fell upon Sleve then.
The old wizard’s staff now sounded against the stones louder as before, as though his name recalled him from the world of dreams. “I dared not name this terror ere we could confirm, for it is not meet that one should invoke their kind.”
Rorke nodded as he walked on. “Aye, wise indeed. Beholders have a way of hearing their names spoken, even in a safe place such as this. Nasty, horrible things they are.”
Irellia’s breath caught. Such a foe was beyond her, of that she was certain. A terrible test for a wizard. She looked to Sleve, although his eyes remained on the steps ahead of him. She reached back and bound her hair tighter once again. The loss of her hat now fresh in her mind once again.
The Northern Daylight
Despite his stunted legs, Rorke the dwarf led the four at a brisk pace. The path branched in a few places, but it was remarkably straightforward a journey. Some days later, aided by the guide and his generous provisions - tasteless, yet filling - the path wound its way up, never widening yet obviously approaching another entry to the overworld.
After the relative comfort of the tunnel, Irellia loathed to come once more onto the terrible cold of the glacier. It was to her great relief that the land beyond the northern tunnel was far more bearable. Cold enough for ground snow, yes, but almost comfortable.
“Residual magic,” explained Sleve.
Regeld nodded in affirmation. “It was said her realm was evergreen, even at this latitude, even in winter!”
Rorke said nothing, and Karven sneered in disdain. It seemed that this Queen of Reason was loved by very few.
The dwarf looked to the sun. “I’ll go with ye four another day or two, but into that cursed realm, I shall not set foot. ‘The mages four,’ aye, and no more. Best to not test the words of the ancients.”
Regeld strode forward, wasting no time. “We thank you all the same, master dwarf.”
“Rorke,” corrected Rorke, and he followed in suit.
The enchantment that kept out the blistering cold served another, less savory purpose. After half a day’s march, it became apparent to the skilled mages that they had traversed a great circle.
Karven was the first to let his irritation show. “Aren’t there any ruins? Dragonfire? Something?”
“Should be a fissure,” said Regeld, softly. “A rift in the air itself. It is not a matter of distance, for we are in the right place.”
Irellia’s hand went to her satchel, and she brightened at once. “I’ve got a tool for this. Not a shovel, but an echoer. A sound device…here, you’ll see.” She unslung and reached into the meticulously packed bag. She rummaged a bit, and then her fingers felt the intricate mechanism. “Found it! Here look.” She stood and turned.
Regeld wore a smirk, Karven had an eyebrow raised, even the stoic dwarf cleared his throat, evidently flustered. She noticed the pattern at last, puzzled: “Why do male humanoids exhibit dilated pupils and elevated respiration when I access lower compartments?”
Rorke, nonplussed, raised a bushy eyebrow. “Why, tis yer great booty, lass. Not the kind we be findin’ in the under caves, I mean. Surely this you know?”
She reddened, jaw slack as she once more searched for the words. She looked to Sleve, who was wheezing under his hood. “Rorke has a way of it. Straight as an arrow, perchance he might instruct you better than me.”
“Wot,” said the dwarf, “I always knew Sleve the wizard to be a men of truth telling.” His expression softened then. “There now. This dwarf might be simple, but no simpleton am I. Yer like us, lass. Confounded by men who say one thing and mean another.”
Irellia’s heart turned. Now this was something she could understand. She hated compliments, mostly because they were one of myriad manipulations used by the base…but the dwarf had spoken most true, granting her a surprising honor. They did not compare others to themselves lightly.
“Thank you, master dwarf.” She bowed low, and he returned the gesture. “And the two of you,” she pointed at the men, “kindly keep your eyes to the horizon, or better yet, help me look for this great fissure…if it truly exists.”
The two men shared a glance, both seemingly pleased with her newfound boldness, and went separate directions, eyes cast down as they shoveled aside the snow.
