Book 7: Chapter 13: The desecrated thumb
Travelling on dirt roads rather than cobbled stones affected their progress, but the two mages did not mind. While a winter sojourn was never easy, especially in wild lands with few people or places offering shelter, their magical powers made up for any discomforts or deficiencies caused by the weather and their current direction. When animals strayed too close, Eleanor’s arrows swiftly secured them a meal, and Martel’s enchantments dispelled darkness and cold as needed.
Martel often remembered the first time spent in this manner, when they had deserted from the legion and hid in some Khivan forest by the eastern bank of the Savena River. Despite being surrounded by hostile troops who would kill them on sight, Martel recalled it as his first taste of true happiness. Disregarding the snow and freezing weather, their current situation felt the same, with the added benefit that neither Asterian legions nor Khivan regiments hunted them. Martel’s only trouble was his inability to sleep undisturbed for a full night, but every rose had its thorns.
They used the sun during the day and the stars at night for navigation. Eleanor’s excellent command of all celestial objects served well in this regard, and Martel was happy to let her choose their route. Still, he found himself wondering one evening why the sun set on his left rather than in front of him, as it should if they were moving directly west toward the coast and eventually Aquila.
“Eleanor, shouldn’t we be moving more towards the southwest? This is northwest at best.”
“I admit, we have strayed from our course a little.”
“Easy enough to correct.”
“Certainly. But let us continue this way a while longer.”
Martel glanced at her, riding next to him. “You are unusually coy. What’s on your mind?”
“So,” she said, almost hiding the touch of eagerness in her voice, “there is a rumour that the Archeans had an outpost in western Nordmark. I figured, since we are in the area, we might as well take a look.”
He frowned. “What for? It’s probably in ruins. And if not, surely someone would have plundered it in the last three centuries.” “Anything obvious, yes. But you remember our own school trip to the complex outside of Morcaster, with the Stone of Archen? The one that revealed our birth star.”
“I remember.” Cheval had nearly been eaten by whatever monster dwelt within its dungeons. A pity Master Fenrick had intervened. “You think something like that can be found here as well?”
“I consider it worth the time to investigate. After all, ordinary looters would not notice such a thing. They would miss what only wizards might discover.”
Martel had his doubts, but he saw no reason to deny Eleanor her expedition. They had all the time in the world; in fact, any delay before they would reach Aquila and once more be suffocated by people and civilisation, all the better. “Alright. Fine by me. But how do we find the place? I doubt we’ll just stumble upon it.”
Eleanor pointed at the stream of water, along which they currently traveled. “I am hoping that we will find a settlement of some sort downstream. If there is a ruined tower complex somewhere in the area, the locals will know.”
As good a plan as any that Martel could come up with. “Very well. We’ll ask the next time we come across any people. Let’s hope they’re talkative.”
When they finally came across a village, the inhabitants seemed mute, though by choice. Strangers and mages appearing to enquire about ancient ruins belonging to dead wizards did not induce much conversation in the villagers, as the travellers learned. However, they had the cure; a few pieces of silver loosened the tongue of a huntsman long enough to point them in the right direction. He even threw in a warning, telling them they best stay far away from such accursed remains, known to swallow up the unfortunate and the reckless. Trusting in their power as mages and aware of how anything related to magic was viewed in Nordmark, Martel simply thanked the man, and they continued in the appointed direction.
For several days, they journeyed as instructed, until the dirt road became a trail, and even that vanished eventually. Now moor turned into lightly forested terrain, and they did not see a living soul. Yet as they began to wonder if perhaps they had paid silver for the privilege to look the fool, they saw it in the far distance. Surrounded by trees, the ruined structure barely rose above them against the horizon. Maybe it had once been far taller, like an index finger pointing at the sky; now, it mostly resembled a deformed thumb.
Using it as their marker, the pair turned their horses in the direction of the tower, or what remained of it. The woods became denser, slowing their progress, and Martel noticed a curious absence of animals. While it might be attributed to winter, it felt eerie, and he wondered if the distrust of this place shown by the locals had gotten to him.
Eventually, they dismounted due to the forest and led their steeds by the reins. Still acutely aware of the silence, Martel noticed immediately when it was finally broken. Footsteps could be heard along with rattling in the bushes. Eleanor stopped and turned toward the noise, one hand on the hilt of her sword.
Martel extended his sense of magic, but nothing returned to him; not the faintest trace of heat. He wondered if some manner of deception was at work, or maybe they were both imagining things; beneath the canopy of leaves, the pale winter sun did little to reach them, and the whole scenery made it easy for the mind to imagine shadows out of nothing.
A man broke through the undergrowth, moving with slow but determined steps toward them. At least Martel knew his hearing was sound, though he wondered why he had not felt any sense of heat from the fellow. Staring into the stranger’s vacant eyes, the truth dawned on Martel. He belonged to the undead.