skies were grey and covered in heavy clouds, and it snowed for most of the day. Kaj decided to peek out the window, but he never caught sight of either of the two, and the snow and chill that had conquered the outside were not exactly a welcome vista. Then, suddenly, he saw a cloaked figure advancing rapidly in the storm. It was Clarice.
The elf knocked on the door, which Kaj promptly opened.
“You’ll let me in, right?” she asked, trembling.
“Of course! Warm yourself by the fire,” he said, surprised.
“Good grief, it’s a tempest out there!” she said, rubbing her hands.
“And not knowing where else to go, you ventured here,” he said dryly.
“Just as it appears.” The elf looked at him and smiled, then concentrated again on warming her hands by the fire, taking off her cloak and placing it on the chair, before putting her gloves on the table.
“Did you come to tell me about the big bad storm outside?” asked Kaj, still a bit bitter.
“I came here to give you this.” She pulled out a crumpled letter. “It’s been in my pocket for too long, so it’s a bit worse for wear. When I found the medallion, I went back to Nidath to look into matters…”
Kaj took the parchment, and when he opened it, he realized it was a letter from the elven king, Yenven Hushblade. Skimming, he reached the point where Yenven wished Clarice success in her search for the medallion’s rightful owner (even if he didn’t approve of her sheer fixation). Kaj looked up at her, and the nalnir stared at him, waiting for some sign. Kaj handed her back the letter, after which a disappointed expression dawned on her face.
“That’s it? That’s your reaction? How about a little curiosity? I don’t know why you’re so hostile, but I won’t let you destroy the dreams of everyone who wants to go home, and who’s fighting to realize that dream,” said Clarice. For a moment, she seemed not to know what to do, but then she put on her gloves and cloak back on, and pulled up her hood. “Your journey to the Whitetrunk made an impression on me, but apparently I’d deluded myself…”
“What does that mean?”
“You demonstrated excellent battle skills, but you seem to lack everything else.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Clarice,” he protested. “You have no right to judge me.”
The elf’s expression turned resigned. “The medallion you wear around your neck is why I’m here. It’s the answer to everything,” she explained. “You have a day to decide, after which I’ll be leaving.”
With that, she opened the door and set forth back into the snowstorm. Rage burned inside her—she had risked her life and had had to give assurances to a man she didn’t even know at the time to continue her research, and now she had to fight again, mustering all her strength not to abandon the village and return to her travels. She was almost starting to curse the day she’d found that mysterious medallion.
She headed for the tavern, as she knew she’d find Oloice there. The dwarf was sitting at a table by the sidelines, enjoying a plate of hot soup and a nice mug of ale. From time to time, he looked up to regard the distrusting elves from under his bushy eyebrows, without ever removing his head from the plate. When Clarice entered, the dwarf picked up from her expression that things had gone awry.
After the elf left, Kaj sat staring at the wall in front. He closed his eyes for a moment. He gripped the medallion tight in one hand; his curiosity was getting to him. What if she’s right? he thought. Clarice’s words had piqued his curiosity more than he wished to admit. He drank mead until he felt sufficiently drunk, then he got up staggering, laying himself to bed and drifting off to sleep in no time.
Far from Fenan, in the winding Spur Valley, the wagon of Supreme Necromancer Lyrus trundled toward the fort that was constructed next to the temple erected by the Fellowship of the Veil, incorporating it. His bony and wrinkled hand pulled lightly at the heavy fabric that obscured the interior of the carriage, to work out how long the journey would last. All that was visible from inside the small opening was his probing, evil red eye, which scanned the landscape for a while before the curtain closed again. The slopes of the Rugged Range were barren and steep, expanses of grass interspersed with screes and large boulders that had rolled down due to winter avalanches and summer landslides. The vast spruce woods that had reigned undisturbed until two years prior had been razed to the ground due to the battlefields’ rapacious demand for wood. The ancient path in Spur Valley had been enlarged and paved by tulvaren soldiers to allow for the constant and speedy passage of troops and wagons. The road’s shape was reminiscent of a river, which at times flowed straight and at times meandered in fairly broad bights.
A few curves in the road ahead, the creaking of the heavy gate at the walls could be heard. The wagon, pulled by mighty horses, entered and proceeded quickly to the fort’s central corps. The great hall was lit only by torches and candles, as sunlight reached the interior. Lyrus was finally able to exit the wagon. The tulvar was very old, and was rumored to have far surpassed the 150-year mark. He was also very tall, with a bony body that made him appear slender, white hair, and fiery red eyes that seemed all the brighter compared to his dark attire.
“Welcome back, Supreme Necromancer,” said one of the Fellowship mages, visibly nervous.
The old man waved his hand and everyone moved aside. Stepping slowly, and accompanied by his long cane and the tinkling of his heavy, crystal-studded silver belt, he headed toward the corridor that accessed the temple. Upon reaching the portal, a stooped and slender being approached him, covered by a light cotton garment that had been mended and stained several times. The collar at his neck was the symbol of his condition, and he limped on his bare feet. It was Snort, Lyrus’s personal uggar, to whom he entrusted the belt and cane.
“You know that dallying in this way is not good for you, my lord,” said the mage shrilly.
“Have you prepared everything?” asked Lyrus.
“Of course, as you commanded.”
The old man went to the portal and neared the circle of crystals that kept it stable. He folded up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his arm and the crystals he had set into his flesh. Then he stretched out his hand, and lightning flashed toward it. The crystals began to shine, and as their light strengthened, the elderly necromancer regained his strength.
“Wretch!” Lyrus shouted. “Bring the sacrifice.”
The uggar appeared, tugging an elven corpse by the rope around its neck. Arriving at the necromancer, he tied the rope to an iron ring planted in the floor.
“I Snort,” said Snort, pointing to himself. He handed the elderly tulvar a crystal chalice and oval metal plate containing an assortment of particular ingredients. Lyrus ignored that statement, regarding him contemptuously.
“The ceremonial dagger,” he ordered.
Snort obeyed, and handed him the dagger.
“Now get out of my sight,” said Lyrus.
Snort bowed precariously low before the necromancer, who, with a wave of his hand, judged the uggar’s presence superfluous. And so Snort dragged his feet out of the room.
Nobody could witness the ritual, and the tulvars outside the door, together with Snort, could only tremble and hope they would never end up in Lyrus’s hands. The ritual ended after a few hours, and the necromancer
