Firebrand

Next morning, as promised, the jarl sent Martel on his way with provisions and a guide. As the waterways generally flowed east to west, and he had to go north, a boat was of no use, and the Tyrians rarely, if ever, used horses for travels. But as before, Martel’s scout set a good pace, clearly a hardy fellow accustomed to long marches on foot; at times, Martel used his empowering magic just to keep up.

Although Martel had not travelled in this exact area, he had made a similar journey years back, going to the solstice moot that the jarl had mentioned. And another before that, travelling with Rolf to his tribe. Thus, he knew to expect another river, which they reached after several days. Last time, Martel and Eleanor had followed it east to the gathering place of the moot; this time, as on his first journey, he would cross it to go further north.

The river marked the boundary of the tribe’s lands, and the scout turned back here, though he first showed Martel a ford where he might cross. The water went deep, up to his stomach, but with his staff supporting him, he made it to the other side. He could have done as he had with the Frosten, using magic to get across dry, but it seemed an unnecessary use of magic, and so he refrained. Once he had made it, climbing onto the other shore, he exchanged a wave with the Tyrian scout, and they went in their opposite directions.

The lack of roads made it harder for Martel to set a course, but he steered as best he could by watching the sun. The occasional sign of settlements – usually animals grazing in the distance or fields growing crops – gave Martel an opportunity to barter; buying supplies rather than spending time to forage in the wild saved him considerable time. However, more than once, he gave up on negotiations and simply left. Few Tyrians spoke any Asterian in these parts, and seeing a southern mage approach their homes made them suspicious and fearful. Rather than risk a confrontation taking place, Martel simply hurried onwards; while the locals posed no threat to him, an altercation might summon a stronger response from the local jarl.

Now and then, he came across travellers going in the opposite direction. From brief conversations, Martel understood that they journeyed to the solstice moot, giving him more reason to hurry; as they were going south while he moved north, they could not provide him with any aid, but it served as a reminder that he had to reach his destination before solstice, as per Atreus’s instructions.

Two fivedays after he crossed the river, Martel saw them in the distance. They might have been visible earlier, but mist and clouds had covered the horizon, and it took the first day of clear sunlight before they came into view. A mighty chain of mountains that stretched from east to west as far as the eyes could see. The Pillars of the World.

The sight spurred Martel on, and it also made navigating easier. He simply fixed his eyes on the nearest peak and continued walking. He did not know exactly how close he was to solstice; it should still be more than a fiveday away, but he did not know either how long it would take him to get there. So he marched at a brisk pace, barely allowing himself much sleep.

Martel did not get much rest regardless. Besides old memories dredging up his past in his dreams, the nights had become so bright, it felt unreal. He had lived more than half of his life in Nordmark, and Martel was no stranger to long summer days with only a handful of dark hours between sunset and sunrise. Still, this surpassed his experiences. In addition to the night being so short, the sky never truly darkened, but remained a light shade of blue, and at all times, Martel could easily see his surroundings, even absent any moonlight. Between his restless dreams and the lack of darkness, Martel slept only a little, and he felt worn each morning when he resumed his journey. But he made the most of his waking hours, barely taking breaks, and step for step, he approached the mountains. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel·fire.net

One such night, where Martel had managed to find uneasy slumber, he nonetheless woke up with a jolt. At first, he thought his runes of warning had been activated, and he prepared several spells in his mind. Taking another moment, drowsiness clearing from his mind, he realised that he had been awakened by noise, not his own magic. A howling, to be precise.

As if to confirm, the sound repeated itself. A wolf somewhere in the distance, howling despite the lack of any moon. Perhaps the bright summer night drove the beast to call to its brethren, or maybe Martel’s father had been full of tall tales when he claimed they howled to greet the moon. No matter the reason, Martel felt a pang of dread upon hearing the drawn-out lamentation of the canine beast. Wolves tended to keep away from human settlements, but they were a plague upon livestock, which they found easy prey. And in the most desperate of times, when harsh winters and famine left them starving, they might turn upon children caught in the open.

Fear of wolves ran through everyone growing up in Nordmark, and the remembrance of this returned to Martel, until he recalled his present circumstances. He was not a child or a farmer whose livelihood depended on his animals thriving. He was a mage, to whom the beasts of the wild posed no threats. Checking that his runes were still active, Martel reassured himself he had nothing to be concerned about. All the same, he gathered some twigs and built himself a fire, ignited with a spark of spellpower. Not because he felt cold; even this far north, the nights were pleasant at this time in summer. But it would serve as a reminder to the howling wolf and its pack to stay away from humans. Listening to the crackling flames, Martel lay down to sleep another hour.