Unbound

Finding the Torrent’s Rest was just as simple as Doric had promised, though perhaps they had an easier time of it than most. The ice sleds drew interest in the packed streets, but the Claw had grown into a fearsome bunch. The vast majority of the crowds were Apprentice Tier or lower, and while most people couldn’t identify one’s advancement at a glance, Felix’s company walked with the casual confidence of those who had been forged in battle.

The masses had split before them without a single word.

The inn itself sat inside a calm bend in the Swiftsteel River, perched atop a piece of land pinched between its fast-coursing length and marked by the enormous statue of a regal-looking Dwarf. Here the river was wide, nearly double its normal size, and seemed to crawl by compared to the white waters further upstream. Tall homes and apartments clung to the far bank, dotted with winter-bare parks and snow-piled lawns, while inside the bend there were several high end shops in addition to the Torrent’s Rest. It was a busy place, but was clearly more exclusive…and expensive.

Felix felt that particular pinch when they had arrived. Despite a recommendation from their “most-beloved uncle,” the twin sisters that ran the Torrent’s Rest were adamant about their lack of vacancy. Times were quite busy, with the influx of folks from the border towns, leading the more well-off to come seeking their refined establishment. When Felix offered enough crowns to pay for his entire company for the whole week, however, their tune quickly changed. The entire fourth floor was emptied, their occupants ousted, and meals whipped up from seemingly nothing.

He only felt a little bad for the townsfolk put out on their rears. Most of them, he was assured, had only paid up through the morning and couldn’t afford a single second more. Refugees, they had spent what little coin they had on expensive lodgings instead of opting for a lesser establishment and had already started begging for whatever clemency the sisters were willing to give. Dwarven business women, it turned out, didn’t know the meaning of the word.

So now Felix found himself ensconced in a fine room at the very top of the Torrent’s Rest, settled into a comfortable chair so solidly built it even handled his exceptional weight without a creak. His room was an entire suite, in fact, consisting of four separate chambers and only one of them containing a bed. Said furniture was a four-post monster that could easily have swallowed ten Dwarves and was draped in sumptuous silk sheets and curtains stitched with sigaldry to maintain a pleasant sleeping temperature. The sitting room, where he and the others relaxed, was filled with seating, low tables, and two large fireplaces shaped into the likeness of some yawning Dwarven warrior. A merry fire crackled in their mouths, the warmth pleasant after their long, wintry walk.

“That’s an oxbow,” Harn said.

“What is?” Beef looked back out the window. “All I see is water.”Felix looked up at them both, arcing his neck to see outside to the river. His suite had a great view of the bend in the Swiftsteel, apparently.

“The river. It’s the bend. The shape of it is called an oxbow. Named after an old story my uncle told me.” Harn’s gruff voice was strangely wistful. Felix would have listened for that alone. “A great hunter, a bullman. Minotaur. He shaped a bow from the corpse of a monster. The greatest beast on land, they said, provin’ that he had no equal on the Continent.”

Harn scratched his cheek. “Dunno how accurate that all is, but it’s what they say. Anyway, the Minotaur saw a huge bird, a Roc, and shot at it with his bow. Not a normal bow though, was it? It’s arrows curved, chasing its prey, and it struck that great bird right in the rump. And what’d the bird do? It grabbed that bullman and dragged up across the sky.” He chuckled at Beef’s wide eyes. “The hunter shot arrow after arrow, but somehow they all missed. Damn things hit the ground, carvin’ rivers all over the Continent. Wherever it hit, the rivers turned, curvin’ on themselves. Eventually, the Roc flew so high they got lost in the stars. Stuck. Now they’re still up there, fightin’ forever.”

Harn pointed up into the sky, where a dim grouping of stars could be seen through the haze of smoke and light pollution. Beef was enraptured.

“Sick.”

Felix couldn’t help but smile and try to enjoy this moment of peace. Pit snuggled deeper into his lap, demanding belly rubs, and Felix obliged. Vess was to his right in a similar chair, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her and two books balanced across her unarmored knees. Her hair was loosened a touch after their long journey, and her gambeson was unbuttoned as she turned pages. A blue, high collared blouse peeked out from beneath it as she stuck the end of her tongue out of her mouth and jotted down a note. The proprietors had a fair collection of books, and Vess had charmed her way into their private library soon after hearing of it.

Evie was lounging on the very wide bed, her boots pressed up against the headboard as she snacked on something or other. The Chanters were gathered before the crackling fire, nearly fifty feet away, pouring over a map of the city.

The lot of them fit easily into the wide sitting room—the place was built for twice their number. It was quite nice, and certainly more room than Felix needed.

“Alright. Everyone’s had food?” he said.

“They have. The Talon leaders made it a priority, along with some relaxation in the tavern,” Vess reported. She nestled a leather bookmark into her tome before shutting it. “As ordered.”

Evie just held up a half-eaten roasted drumstick. “What’s the point of bein’ in an inn if we can’t take advantage of it, eh?”

Felix nodded. “Good. They could use the break. All of you could—but first, we’ve some planning to do.”

“Find the Gnome,” Harn said, settling down against the Dwarven mantle.

“Keep him away from Imara,” Vess added.

“And,” Felix said, lifting a finger. “Access the Dwarven vaults.”

“What? Why?” Tzfell asked.

“They have something I need.” In his lap, Pit gave a firm nod. “And I’m willing to trade for it. That’s why I brought so many Spirit Fruit and essence draughts with us.”

“Gaining access to the vaults requires entry to the Clan Hold, and an audience with the Hinterlord,” Tzfell said, understanding dawning on her. “Which is why you asked Captain Doric for an introduction.”

“Yeah. I don’t know if that’ll work, or if we need to figure out another path, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. There’s a treasure somewhere in these mountains, and I need it. Tzfell, can you look into what treasures Red Shield might have to hand?”

“They don’t exactly keep a public list. What are you looking for?”

“The Mote of Frenzy,” Felix said. A nervous energy spiraled through him. They were so close. “It’s powerful, said to heal any injury to the Aspects.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Laur admitted.

“Neither have I, but that is not unusual, especially if the Hinterlords have had it for any length of time. What goes into their vaults rarely comes back out again.” The Dwarven Chanter tapped her lips with a pen. “If it as powerful as you say, then it is likely in the hands of the Hinterlord himself. Reaching such an object would be difficult even in normal circumstances, let alone when the entire Hold is on lockdown.”

“Let me worry about getting into the Hold. I don’t even know if the Mote is here or in some other mountain. My source only said that the Dwarves took it into the Rimefangs, nothing more.”

Tzfell adopts a thoughtful look. “My order has some ears among the Dwarves. I will see what I can find.”

“I appreciate it.” Felix ruffled Pit’s floppy, russet hued ears. “Our first priority, though, is to find the Gnome.”

“He could be anywhere, right?” Beef asked. “That Titan lady is chasing him. If she’s anywhere as scary as everyone says, then I don’t see why he wouldn’t be halfway across the Continent by now.”

“But she’s still hunting for him in the Rimefangs,” Evie pointed out. “The Dwarves said as much. Why would she do that if he’d run off?”

“Maybe she’s bad at her job?” Beef suggested.

“We have seen a clue already, I think,” Laur said. “Those Trolls were suffering under the effects of a Mind Skill. Something had stirred their thoughts until they were soup—not a far stretch for a Troll, I admit. It was likely why they were so aggressive and acting out of ordinary.”

“Like being active during the day,” Felix said.

“Precisely.”

“Do we think it was Imara?”

Vess frowned. “What benefit would that have? Wouldn’t that make her own hunt harder, if Trolls were out and about attacking things?”

“Then was it Archibald?” Felix asked.

“Possible. We know the Corrupted is powerful, but we haven’t a clue on the Gnome’s advancement, other than his penchant for escape,” Tzfell said, exchanging a look with the Elven Chanter. “Can you lock him down with wards?”

The Elf chewed his lip. “Possibly. I don’t know what Skills he is using to evade capture, so crafting a ward to counter them would be like firing an arrow into the dark.”

“I tried to locate him using our connection, but other than knowing he was somewhere in the city, I couldn’t get more details. Either someone is blocking my access, or he’s learned to do it himself,” Felix said.

“If he’s been on the run from the Corrupted for so long, it is likely he has ways of fouling tracking. Even methods utilizing the Grand Harmony.”

“Which makes the Troll tactic make more sense. He scrambles up some monsters and conceals his trail.” Felix nodded. “We’ll have to search the city on foot, then.”

Beef and Evie both groaned.

“Can’t imagine that’ll be easy. Fella sounds slippery.”

“Yeah. Small too. Everyone’s so small in this place. I’ll have trouble spotting anything in these crowds,” Beef pointed out.

That was something Felix had noticed too, but it was worse for the teen Minotaur. At least Felix retained relatively normal dimensions despite his six and a half feet height. Beef was a bit over seven and built like a champion bodybuilder covered in fur.

“You can work with me, Beef,” Vess said. “I’ve some business to attend myself, and the Claw will have enough eyes walking the streets.”

Beef’s forehead unknitted. “Oh. Okay, I can do that.”

Felix tossed a grateful smile to Vess. She smiled right back. “Harn, I’ll need you to run point with the Claw, then. Fifty pairs of eyes will help a lot, but I don’t want to draw too much attention. Pick the groups, and keep them low key.”

“Sure, kid. The Henaari are canny enough for that, though they’re pretty distinctive.”

“That’s what cloaks are for,” Evie said. “It’s warm here what with all the forges and stuff, but it ain’t spring. No one’ll bat an eye at someone with a hood up.”

Harn grunted. “Good. You’ll lead the first shift, then.”

“Yyero’s boiled nethers,” Evie muttered. “Outstandin’.”

Felix drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, running through the details. He stood up. “We’ll start first thing in the morning. Relax for the night.”

“And you?” Vess asked as Felix walked to the door.

“Not tired. I’m going to take a look around.”

“Alone?” Laur asked. Then, less sharply, said, “Are you sure, Lord Autarch?”

“I’ll be fine. Stay. Rest up.” He opened the door latch and paused at the threshold. “Pit?”

The Dire Hound scratched his neck with a hind leg. “I’ll stay too. Wasn’t there something about food being sent up?”

“Already sent food,” Harn said.

Beef’s very large stomach growled. “I could use another plate. Think they got more in those kitchens?”

“Great heaps of it, I bet,” Evie said, wiping her lips. “What say we three take a gander?”

“Ooh.” Pit’s golden eyes sharpened and his ears pricked forward. A fox on the hunt. “I like that.”

Felix snorted. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t break anything.“

A chorus of assurances followed him out as he closed the door tight and walked down the hall.

The Sun Trolls died slower than the rest, but they could not resist the Light.

Imara stood among their smoking corpses, her armor still cherry red. Superheated air met frozen storm winds and boiled around her in a furious cyclone, but that faded as her armor did. Soon she stood in the snow, weapons unbloodied and armor a dull, listless gray.

Another group, more rabid than the last. He’s getting desperate.

A grim pleasure rippled across her chest, tingling across her core before fading away. She could almost taste the end of her hunt, and the great rewards she was promised. The Gnome had sent fewer and fewer clutches of Trolls at her as the days rolled on, and each time she killed them, she came that much closer to catching him. Imara sat down, the melted stone already hardened into a wavy slag.

“Light guide me,” she said, her voice even and untouched by the strain of her fight. Pure. “Unveil my path.”

Within her core, where the Light pooled like a captured sun, Imara grasped at the rays. They spun, rings within rings, dripping gold upon her hands like molten metal but she held on. She pulled them, dominated them, and she saw.

A dusty-brown beam flecked with purple hoved into view. Imara reached for it, but it skipped away, just beyond her grasp. As slippery as its bearer, the beam could not be held still or contained no matter her Willpower. The Light washed against it all, fading the beam from view, but she preserved. The Pathless’ power was great, so much more than her own, but Imara would master herself. She must.

She reached.

There. He is there. A dull satisfaction pulsed in her middle. I can see—

Something else was there. Another beam.

Once she noticed it, Imara wondered how she’d ever missed its presence. It loomed large, bigger than the Gnome’s trace by several orders of magnitude. It pulsed, red-gold and blue-white tangled around a core of deepest darkness.

Anathema…

The word was whispered into her Mind, but it resonated with her core until it filled up her entire world.

Trackless One, she sent, breathlessly. What is this?

Danger.

Danger? Has one of the Dwarven champions made a move?

No. You Must Tread Carefully, Child. A Finger Is Upon The Scale Of Fate.

The Pathless couldn’t see the future, the potency of His own Light clouded His vision. This is what she had been taught. However, things that affected Fate, as He called it, had a resonance in the Light.

He Is Near…

Who is, Trackless One?

The Fiend.

A thrill of excitement ran through Imara, tingling down her spine and down every limb. Her heartbeat sped up, and her mouth went dry. Word had spread of that man, though no one told her of him directly save for that Henaari Windcaller. She’d had to learn mostly from fearful whispers among the faithful. He is powerful?

There was a profound silence, as the Fiend’s beam filled the entirety of Imara’s vision. It swelled, becoming the horizon. The sky itself. The red-gold and blue-white split, opening to reveal the yawning shadow. An endless…nothing.

Something inside her quailed, and she called upon the Light.

Golden radiance answered, welling up from within her. From without, as well. Light banished the dark, occluding her senses and the beam of this…Fiend.

Her fear faded. Vanished. Until she was calm and empty once again.

Child. Find The Gnome. Beware The Fiend.

I do not fear, she sent. It wasn’t a lie. Her fear had gone, utterly. I will conquer all for you, Pathless.

Time Is Short. Trust In The Light.

Always.

She opened her eyes and stood, gauging the angle of the risen moons. Night had fallen during her communion, and the storm had not abated. Winds whipped and snow swirled between her and her goal.

“The Light will return, and it will cleanse this place,” she said. The words were a ritual, one the Hierophant had taught her to embody. The dawn always arrived, she would say. Let us meet it with open arms.

Imara strode into the squall.

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