Book 8: Chapter 16: Into the north
For many days, the road was grass-grown and could barely be felt underneath Martel’s feet. Eventually, he saw flocks of sheep and the occasional shepherd; those who dared to dwell closest to Archen. Seeing a tall wanderer with a black staff appear from the east, they made signs to avert evil and led their animals away.
Martel did not approach. He had supplies to last a while longer; Atreus had insisted they bring plenty along, and Martel now understood why. Not enough to last for a journey to the northern mountains of Tyria and back, but Martel would barter for provisions further along on his travels where his appearance was less likely to incite fear or calls for inquisitors.
He kept to a north-westerly direction until he reached new roads, this time built by Asterians and yet to be overtaken by vegetation. Following them, he eventually came to towns that, although still wary of a travelling mage, offered a dry place to sleep and food for his journey. Martel repaid them as his usual wont, making simple enchantments to illuminate or heat their homes or else by leaving silver, in case they did not seem the sort to appreciate magical gifts.
He found the nights hardest. Travelling did not trouble him; he was hardy and could walk from sunup until sundown, and should it rain, it took little effort for him to dry himself through his magic.
But at night, the old ghosts of the battlefield returned to him. Eleanor’s presence, the sound of her breathing, had helped keep them at bay. Now, on his own, nothing prevented them from haunting his sleep. He woke often and early without feeling particularly rested; all the same, the road beckoned to him. He had to reach his destination before summer solstice or wait a whole year for the next opportunity.
For that reason, Martel decided against going to Engby. While he would pass through Nordmark, it would still add many days to his journey going that far west rather than continuing straight north to Tyria, and he could not allow such an indulgence when time was lacking. Perhaps on the return journey to Morcaster. With such thoughts of reunion, Martel tried to chase away the spectres of the past and while away the long hours on the road, sometimes even with success.
About a month later, Martel reached the Frosten river. Martel could not swim, and he had no knowledge of where the fords might be to make it easier to traverse. Instead, he solved the issue of crossing the way a firemage would. He pulled all heat from where the water touched shore and turned it to ice; just enough for him to step on. The patch of ice immediately became caught by the current and began floating him down the river. Raising the wind, Martel spread out his cloak like a sail and pushed himself in the right direction.
It took a while, including quite some spellpower to maintain the ice patch and the wind, but Martel crossed the river swiftly, keeping his feet dry. Once on the other side, he sat down patiently and waited.
The Tyrian scout found him before too long. He approached with a bow in his hand, though no arrow on the string. Martel did notice a short sword by his side along with lamellar to protect his body; this was not a hunter, but a warrior, presumably in service to the local jarl keeping an eye on the border.
“You are mage?” the Tyrian asked, eyeing the black staff that lay across Martel’s lap. “I am.” With careful and slow movements, Martel took hold of the staff and raised himself up to stand. “I wish to travel through your lands. To the Pillars of the World.”
“You swear to come in peace?”
“By the Stars and all gods, I come in peace.” Martel bowed his head deeply.
“I take you to the jarl.”
Martel repeated his gesture. “Much appreciated.”
Compared to the home of the Raven tribe, the city of the Beaver folk was easily twice in size if not more. It lay on flat land with tall earthworks and ramparts protecting it, surrounded by fertile fields. A brook flowing towards the Frosten river supplied drinking water and a natural road towards the sea.
Martel had travelled for days in the company of the Tyrian scout, primarily in silence, which suited him fine. They set a strong pace, and the Asterian knew he was travelling faster than if finding his own way.
Guards at the gate did not hinder their passage, presumably because Martel came in the company of the jarl’s warrior, but they stared and mumbled to each other. His guide led him down the thoroughfare of the city until they reached the jarl’s mead hall; even if he had never been here before, Martel recognised its shape and purpose.
Inside, it looked the same as its counterpart from the Raven city. Tables and benches, animal skins on the floor, warriors eating and being served by thralls, and those of less importance seated along the walls. At the far end on a raised chair sat the jarl, wearing rich furs clasped with gold. He was an elderly man, sixty or more, but he seemed in good health and of a sound mind. After the scout had explained matters in Tyrian, the jarl looked at Martel.
“Welcome in my halls, mage of the south. I am Asgeir Jarl.”
Martel inclined his head. “I thank you for your hospitality. I am Martel of Engby, a wandering mage seeking passage through your lands.”
“I don’t remember that name, but your staff I know. You are the Blackstaff who fought at the solstice thing.”
“I am. Does that lessen my welcome?”
The jarl shook his head with slow movements. “It was honourably fought and the judgement of the seiðr-women. Besides, it was years ago, and we took our revenge on the Asterians who strayed into our lands. If all you truly seek is to travel through, do so with my blessing.”
“It is all I seek,” Martel confirmed. “My destination is the Pillars of the World. I will not shed a single drop of Tyrian blood.”
“That includes your own, judging by your eyes.” The jarl laughed, a dry, heaving sound. “Very well. Be seated, eat your fill. Tomorrow, I shall send a warrior to guide you on the swiftest path north.”
“You have my thanks.” Martel went towards the closest open seat on the nearest bench, but he was quickly beckoned to move up and sit near the jarl. As thralls came to fill his cup and plate – seeing the iron rings around their necks made Martel uncomfortable – the jarl and his warriors began asking for news of Aster, where he had travelled, and what deeds his black staff had performed. Knowing this was the price for hospitality, Martel gave answers as best he could.