The tempest that struck the Siunna Valley filled the vale with ice and snow. Unprepared for the sudden winter, the trees of this forest recoiled from the cold, their green leaves now frosted over. A deluge of heavy flakes and howling wind confronted them as they exited the treeline. Viggo shuddered at the cold. Through squinting eyes, he studied the landscape before them. Seonteoch, the town below, was quaint, surrounded by well-worn mountains that seemed to fade into the distance, heavy fog obscuring their view even from this height. A steady river bisected the valley, snaking its way through the terrain as if searching for an escape from the mountains and canyons that kept it from the sea.
Gyim. In a matter of hours, they had traveled all the way to Gyim, across the Plys sea to the continent of Kador. Gyim was, of course, on the wrong side of the continent, near the northern tip. Antuza made up the southern coast of Kador. They were many hundreds of miles from their destination, but Hawthorne assured them that Indenos did not work linearly, and that this Lith had been ‘on the way’. Viggo did not even attempt to understand the laws of such things.
Hawthorne beckoned them to follow, and they began the winding march down the cliffside into the valley below. Viggo trailed behind the others, stuffing his freezing hands deep into the pockets of his thin trousers. They had not prepared for this unexpected winter. Viggo did not know much about Gyim, but for this time of the year, a blizzard seemed uncharacteristic.
Ever since leaving Senna, this world of myth and magic and legends had left him feeling dour. From his experience, those that dabbled in such arts had no good intentions. He thought back to that day in the church. The day that any chance he had at finding out where he came from—who his parents were—had disappeared. The church and all its ilk had thrown him out, all because of what he had seen. Magic. He never could figure out what exactly they were doing. He had often thought about going back. To try and uncover their secrets. But the truth was that he never wanted to. He had found comfort in his new life. First as a blacksmith, then as a medic. But still, there was always that inkling—that shred of doubt that plagued his thoughts. Perhaps his parents had been nothing. Derelicts that had pawned him off to the church at the first opportunity. Something, something, told him there was more. A belief. A hope that there was some grand purpose to it all. All throughout his life, he had held firm to that hope, stronger than any faith he ever put into the gods. He longed for a greater meaning to his life.
He shook off his thoughts as they approached a narrow pathway carved into the side of a steep canyon. With practiced steps, Hawthorne led them down the precarious footpath. The trail had been made for access to the Lith, Viggo had no doubt. When was the last time it had even been put to use?
Ice and snow covered the ground, crunching under their inadequate boots. Viggo shivered. His thin jerkin could not stop the frozen wind from chilling his bones. From their vantage, Viggo could just make out the city, nestled deep in the valley below.
“It’s smaller than I thought,” he said through clattering teeth.
“Seonteoch was once a great city for scholars,” Hawthorne said, his voice carrying over the wind. “It saw the height of its prominence with the Sovereignty. It saw its doom, along with many other cities, during the Divergence.”
“Of what importance does it hold now?”
As they rounded a switchback in the trail, Hawthorne paused to glance up at Viggo, his sharp eyes filled with something beyond cold calculation—was that worry?
“The Aratheum stands, even still, to this day. A lasting remnant of the ages past. One of the greatest libraries east of the Agnum ocean. And a place of meeting for others of our order.”
Hawthorne turned, his long legs setting a nimble pace down the perilous slope.
Although it was not at elevation, the road to Seonteoch, nestled in the dense woodland of the valley, was even more frigid than above. Someone, or something, lay ahead, an acrimonious invitation, and a promise of what was to come.
Though Viggo was sure that they were all bitterly miserable—he could see it on Marcus and Rykker’s faces, at least, though Sev obviously showed no reaction, and neither did Hawthorne—they did not complain. A hardened band they were, after the siege. After Vanen.
It took them a cruel hour to clear the tree line and spot the town up ahead. Low stone walls, older than an age, bisected the snow-covered land, only stopping when it reached the banks of the winding river to the west. Beyond, slumbering houses of stone and thatched roofing lay dormant.
Hawthorne led them through the empty town. “The people here would not have known this was coming,” he explained. “They will have barred themselves in their homes. The Gyish are a superstitious people.”
It was quiet. Too quiet, Viggo thought. Even considering the snow that blanketed and muffled everything, or the absence of townsfolk, there was a deeper silence that bothered him. A soundless foreboding that tickled at his nape. In the air all around them, he sensed a sickness—no, a wrongness. A scent of evil even stronger than Vanen himself. Bile rose in his throat, and despite the freezing chill, his palms grew sweaty.
“Something is wrong,” Viggo said.
“Very wrong,” Rykker echoed. “It’s like a ghost town.”
“It’s more than that,” Viggo uttered through clenched teeth. He shut his eyes, exhaling deeply.
“Are you okay, soldier?” Marcus asked.
“Fine. I’m fine.” Viggo opened his eyes. The feeling subsided to a dull nausea. Was he the only one that could feel it? He glanced at Hawthorne, who strode ahead, and could discern nothing. The man was a godsforsaken stone wall, showing less emotion than Sev, who was made of literal stone.
“In the north, a storm like this would bring the children out to play in the snow,” Marcus said. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together.
“This is no winter storm,” Hawthorne said. “This is the work of our enemy. Something... awful has been unleashed upon this place.”
“What is it?” Viggo’s voice was almost a whisper.
“I cannot say for sure,” Hawthorne replied. “But if my feeling is correct, an avatar of Odeth unshackled by human trappings. If a Scathe can no longer control the hunger that drives them, then the hunger takes over. They are good for only one thing: wanton destruction. Impossible to control, yet it seems Vanen has unleashed one here.”
“Gods above,” Marcus whispered. He gestured vaguely to his surroundings. “Something like that is the cause of all this?”
Hawthorne nodded. “Let’s go. The Aratheum will offer refuge.”
A gust of frigid air battered against them, and a sinister voice came with it, whispering in Viggo’s ear in a breathy language that he could not understand. His throat tightened, and he clenched his jaw, then hurried to follow.
The Aratheum, an ancient, stately fortress of stone and mortar, withstood the onslaught of wind and snow with ease. It had survived countless wars, a mere storm could not shake its foundation.
The immense wooden doors framed with iron gave way to a spacious chamber lit with braziers cradling flickering fires. Heat radiated from them, keeping the cold at bay.
The sturdy wooden desk that lined the far wall was unattended. Hawthorne ignored it anyway, and led them deeper, into the library proper. They heard muffled voices up ahead, whispering in hushed, worried tones.
What must have been nearly half of the town sprawled in the inner atrium. Large blankets had been laid out on the floor, reading desks pushed up against the stacks of books that lined the walls to make room. Families sat it clusters, huddled together for warmth. Men and women dressed in simple robes moved among, distributing baskets of food. Some of the townsfolk and librarians looked up as they approached, some eyes going wide at the sight of Sev, but most seemed too absorbed in their own activities to pay much attention.
Viggo frowned at them. He had been here before. Not here, but back in Valla. Different place, same story. These people had done nothing to deserve to be driven from their homes. Have their lives disrupted. It angered him. The thought of creatures such as Vanen out there, with no thought or care towards the collateral damage they caused. At least no one here had been killed yet. Valla was an entire city slaughtered.
A second feeling come over him then—hopelessness. That overwhelming sense that it did not matter what he did. He was just a regular person. And he wasn’t even terribly good at being regular. He had been kicked out of the Church before he was fifteen, lost his apprenticeship as a blacksmith, and was he really even a damn medic anymore? Every single path he had taken in his life had ended up in failure. Even Annet. There had been a spark of something, hadn’t there? She had sensed it too, he thought. And now she was gone, and somehow he felt as if even that was his fault.
A power beyond his literal comprehension diminished him. It terrified him, too. If not for men like Marcus, Viggo would still be facing the death every single day at the hands of the Empire. Or maybe he would have deserted anyway. Either way, he was glad to have someone to follow. Someone to make his decisions for him. That was for the best. He was shaken from his reverie when the rest of his cohort made their way into the main room.
Skylights in the roof provided some light, along with dim candles encased in lanterns. Though there was no hearth or fireplace, warm air thawed his bones.
They gave the townsfolk a wide berth, and Hawthorne nodded to one of the librarians as they passed, an older man with thinning hair and kind eyes who nodded in response.
“Mr. Hawthorne, we are surprised yet pleased to find you in our library yet again,” the librarian said. His voice was diminutive, but carried well. “We were informed you would not be returning for some time. Is your presence here, by chance, related to...” he gestured towards the skylights above.
“I’m afraid so, Keeper Shaise.”
“I thought as much.” The old librarian nodded solemnly. “I’ve instructed the scribes to keep everyone inside. I was worried that this storm was of an unnatural origin.”
“Good,” Hawthorne said. “Keep it that way. There’s... something out there. Other than the storm.”
“There’s something else,” Shaise said. His brow crinkled, and he rubbed his hands together. “Visna’s boy was out in the snow before we called everyone to the library. A couple of volunteers went out looking, but... he hasn’t been found.”
Hawthorne frowned at this, genuine concern flashing across his face. “Where is she now?”
“Your friends? Are they...?” the Keeper raised a wiry brow in question, nodding towards Viggo and the others.
Hawthorn waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s alright, they are, as it were, recruits.”
“Of course,” the scribe nodded. “Visna is down in the undercroft, with the others of your circle. She and the others have been discussing sending a search party into the woods.”
Marcus stepped forward. “We can help.”
Rykker groaned.
“We can help,” Marcus growled. “It’s why we’re here. To fight this. I can deal with the cold—I grew up with it. And I’m pretty sure Sev can’t even feel it.”
“I feel no cold,” Sev offered, his eyes beaming.
“Marcus is right. The threat here must be dealt with before we can proceed further into Indenos,” Hawthorne said. “Whatever horrors Vanen has unleashed here, it is our charge to see it destroyed.”
At Hawthorne’s words, Shaise paled, but said, “Thank you, and thank the Three for bringing you here.”
“Don’t thank us,” said Hawthorne. “We’re the reason this has been brought upon you.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Viggo and the others. “Come, the undercroft awaits.”
The undercroft was actually a basement beneath the library, tucked behind a locked door, for which Hawthorne produced a key from his bag. A wave of heat hit Viggo as they entered. A large furnace lined the left wall of the small room, which had been decorated with an austere set of chairs, a table, and a single bookshelf. Pipes stretched from the furnace to the ceiling and disappeared, presumably to pump heat throughout the library. Otherwise, the room was bare save for a pile of wood stacked in one corner.
Inside, a pair of men and a woman were talking nervously at a table. “Telen and I will go, Visna. You should stay here in case he comes back.”
The man who was talking looked up and his eyes widened at the sight of them. “Gods above, Hawthorne. You’re back? It’s damn good to see you.”
He stood up, approaching the group. He eyed Viggo and the others, but did not say anything immediately. The man was tall, almost a head taller than even Hawthorne, and nearly twice as wide—thick muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he walked.
“Hello Nelan.” Hawthorne reached out a hand, but Nelan engulfed Hawthorne in his arms instead, lifting him a good two inches off the floor.
“Sorry,” Nelan said as he took a step back. “I didn’t think we’d hear from you for a while.”
Visna, a pale-haired woman with a round face, stood and made her way over, the other man, Nelan, trailing behind. Her lips were pressed in a thin line and her jaw was clenched, but it was her eyes that Viggo noticed the most. He had seen that look before. The look of someone that would tear down the very heavens above to get back what they had lost.
“Did you do this?” Visna’s voice was restrained, but there was a tension behind them.
Hawthorne winced. Viggo didn’t realize the man could show such emotion. “Inadvertently, yes. It was not my intention for Seonteoch to be affected by our conflict.”
“This place was supposed to be safe. Our families were supposed to be safe. From all of them. How did they even realize we are here?” Tears began to well in her eyes, but the anger in her voice did not diminish.
“They don’t,” he said. “At least, I don’t think they do. They couldn’t have known the importance of this place, otherwise... I fear that the Aratheum would no longer be standing. No, they simply wanted to throw an obstacle in our path. The power that afflicts the Siunna Valley also makes travel in Indenos too dangerous. They couldn’t have known anything more than that I would be traveling through this Lith.”
She did not seem entirely convinced, but her eyes softened slightly. “Well, you’re here now.”
“I’m here now,” he repeated. “And I’m going to help. We’re going to help.” He glanced at Viggo and the others, then introduced them.
Viggo found that he was in the presence of royalty. As it turned out, Nelan was Lord Governor of Ishan, back in Ilris. Telen, a High Judge of Sohntu’s Assemblate. And Visna, a damned Atre. She ruled over all of Elos, one of thirteen Free Cities. He tried to keep his jaw from dropping.
Hawthorne explained that he and Mara had worked hard to form relationships with as many leaders across Valmere and Kador as possible, to strengthen their fight against the Empire. Against those of Vanen’s ilk. These three were some of their strongest advocates in their home nations, and were here in Seonteoch on important business.
Rykker had asked—the bastard—what business that might have been. Hawthorne went tight-lipped, and stated that he should focus on the matter at hand.
“My boy,” Visna growled, interrupting the conversation, “is missing. By the time we came to our senses and realized something was wrong about the blizzard, he had run off, and we couldn’t track him down.” She swallowed hard, but kept her composure. “He’s out there somewhere, with gods know what.”
“We’re going to find him,” Nelan said. His jaw clenched. “And destroy whatever’s out there.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Hawthorne snapped. He snapped at a Lord Governor. “You’re to stay here and watch over the library.”
Nelan narrowed his eyes, frowning. The large man’s hands balled into fists. “You know, if one of my subordinates ordered me about in such a manner...” He shook his head. “But, of course, you are right. We,” he gestured to Telen, “Are not equipped to deal with matters of your world.”
Viggo’s hand unconsciously found the wood of his hammer, the smooth wood providing him some measure of comfort. He glanced at Marcus and Rykker, and their expressions were hard.
They, too, were imagining what horrors awaited them deep in those frozen trees. But, they also knew that they had chosen this. They knew what could be gained from following this path, and had determined that it was worth the cost. What knowledge or power or whatever else lay on the other side. Viggo was not sure what he would find, but he contented himself to following. The following, he could do.