in Fenan, Kaj woke up late that same morning, feeling like his head was about to burst. He looked out a window and saw that it had stopped snowing. The sun timidly peeked out from behind the clouds, its bright rays blinding him for a second. He washed his face, and as he dried off, he found himself staring at his old trunk, which he hadn’t opened since he’d gotten back to Fenan. He needed to do it if he wanted to follow Clarice, as everything he needed was in there. He threw the towel on the bed, bent down in front of the trunk, and slowly opened its lid. As soon as he saw its contents, his heart skipped a beat. They were mementoes of times past—and they were all he’d managed to recover from his prior home. The first thing he picked up was his old diary. His hands trembled, and he struggled to hold back tears. He remembered every single word. He opened it, and saw that period of his life flash before his eyes. A few pages in, he found the portrait. She was so beautiful. He’d drawn her while she was reading. She’d loved to read, he thought. He felt lost; the pain tore through his heart as he relived that terrible scene. Blood everywhere, as she lay pale on the ground. He found himself sitting on the floor with his diary in hand, and his shirt wet with tears. He wiped his eyes and pulled a bag out of the trunk. Inside it, there were still a few coins he’d kept for remembrance’s sake, and a white scroll. His father taught him all the secrets a good blacksmith should know, like how to fight and how to forge swords. Kaj used to assist him in everything, and on the day of the assault on Lochbis, he had been bargaining for ore elsewhere. The last object in the trunk was his sword, which he had forged himself. It was his pride. Kaj grabbed the hilt and pulled it out of its sheath—it was perfectly oiled, clean, and shiny. He saw his reflection on the blade, and, locking eyes with himself, he realized that he wasn’t the man he once was. He got up and started getting dressed. He picked up his old leather armor, leg protectors, bracelets, tunic, gloves, and boots. He was amazed that everything still fit him perfectly. He tucked the sheath into his belt, and with another belt, he secured the sword in place. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and took everything that could prove useful before finally fastening his cloak. In that moment, he felt invigorated.
The blanket of snow had rendered the village silent and deserted. Kaj arrived at the sanctuary and knocked on its door. He heard approaching footsteps, and sure enough, the door opened. It was Clarice.
With a nod, she let him in. “You’ll have to buy me a drink, Oloice,” she said, satisfied.
“I’ll be damned! I hate to admit it, but you were right,” said Oloice, to his chagrin.
“I’m always right!” she replied.
“I have to apologize to both of you. I wasn’t at my finest,” said Kaj.
“Then have your a nice mug of beer and let’s put all of the misunderstandings to rest,” proposed Oloice, as he approached to pat Kaj on the arm.
“Thank you, Oloice, but not now…” said Kaj, to a stupefied Oloice.
“You must be joking,” he replied.
“I already drank too much last night. Offer it to Clarice,” he suggested.
“Ha! If I indulged in drink every time Oloice offered, I’d be a wreck!”
“Why do you think I travel with an elf? More alcohol for me!” quipped the dwarf contentedly. “You’re such party poopers, the both of you!”
Clarice smiled, shaking her head. Then she turned serious: “We’re leaving tomorrow. I think you should go tell Cilna. She cares about you a great deal.”
Kaj nodded. “She’s like a sister to me. I owe her an explanation. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.”
Night descended upon the village, and with it, silence. Kaj was lying on his cot. The gloomy and rhythmic hooting of an owl marked the passage of time, and the man imagined that it was Vesid (or “Ebarul,” as the elves called her), the evanescent goddess of foresight and wisdom. Humans invoked Vesid in order to find their way again, and if the goddess deemed them worthy, she would light the way with her lantern.
Clarice was looking out the window, toward the west. The conversation she’d had with Oloice a few days back came to mind. The dwarf had expressed his doubts about Kaj, but instead of sowing doubt in her, he’d just convinced her that she’d done well to keep searching. She was the one who found the medallion and the glimmer it emitted; now that it was around Kaj’s neck, it had to mean he was a descendant of Aidan III’s lineage, just like in the manuscripts at Nidath she’d read. She was worried about the journey ahead—there was a lot of snow, and they would certainly have to make frequent stops in order to avoid freezing.
“Can I bother you?” said Kaj, giving her a start.
“It’s no bother,” said the elf, motioning for the man to come closer.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No. My mind’s racing,” she admitted.
“What are you thinking about?”
“A lot and nothing at the same time. Though I think you deserve to know something about me…” The elf stopped for a moment, waiting for his response.
“Do tell. I’m listening.”
“As I’ve told you, I come from the Red Rises, and my family used to produce and sell fermented juice. Until, one night, Djazrem slavers came to the region and looted the village. In all the turmoil, I lost sight of my parents, and so they captured me to sell me along with the other children…”
She stopped, alarmed by the odd noises coming from outside. She promptly hushed Kaj, who’d been about to comment on her story.
Kaj’s eyes asked her what was going on.
“Don’t you hear?” she said under her breath.
Kaj strained his ears, and suddenly, he heard quick and heavy footsteps on the wooden bridge. They leaned out the window, and saw the dancing flames of a number of torches. One look was all it took to have them gripping their own arms.
“Oloice! Wake up!” shouted Clarice, hitting the dwarf so hard she almost pushed him off the bed.
“What’s going on!?” he exclaimed, shocked.
“They’re attacking the village! Orcs!” Kaj yelled, at the door.
Oloice took up his axe and dashed out of the sanctuary. “Why here?”
The elf shook her head. “No idea!”
Both followed Oloice into the fray and traded blows with the orcs. There were around twenty in all; only rarely were orcs seen in such numbers beyond the Slumbering Peaks. Some were short, and some were tall, but all were brawny, with large swords, hefty spiked clubs and two-headed axes in hand. Their characteristic greenish skin was leathery, and they proudly sported ritual scars and war paints on their wrinkled snouts. Their clothes were smelly and dirty, made from parts of armor sewn together, combined with fur, wool, and chain mail. They wore trophies such as teeth, ears or fingers around their necks. The stench was unbearable.
The enemy had entered some houses, using torches to set fires. The furnishings of those homes burned, and the flames flared up, affecting the support beams of the rooves. The stones they were composed of split due to the contrast between the heat of the blaze and the icy air exterior. Kaj looked around and saw the tavern burning. The contents of the barrels of beer and mead fed the conflagration, and the bottles of booze burst. On the other hand, the thatched rooves were resisting the flames thanks to the melting
