Although the last magician on the continent of Agoling was burned by the Inquisition eight hundred years ago, its inhabitants still encounter manifestations of supernatural powers from time to time.
For Deirdre Drien, the daughter of Baron Drien, th...
The 405th day of the year 859 of the Fall of the Triumvirate
The gray snow fell on the shoulders of the tired riders like the ashes of a burned magician.
The clatter of hooves on the frozen ground sounded dull and lifeless. The single chimes of chainmail, armor, and iron parts of the harness, and the creaking of the carriage axles merged into one endless din.
The gloomy darkened forest stretched to the left. To the right, in the distance, the SnakeSea languished, loud and restless even during this time of year. The whisper created by the waves intertwined with the peaceful rustle of pine needles, giving rise to an unpleasant low hum that made its way almost to the bones, echoing somewhere in the recesses of the skull.
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When the outline of the Watchtower appeared in the distance against the dim sky, already beginning to crumble but still looking imposing and threatening, the captain of the guard breathed a sigh of relief. And then he immediately composed himself. It often happens that something awful takes place just when you are sure that the worst is over.
Although more than eight hundred years had passed since the sighting of the last living magician, many of Sigrul's inhabitants still believed that in the ShadyForest, at the foot of Dukh'Ud'Dah mountain, they might encounter someone from this cursed tribe. Even robbers dared not risk ambushing anyone there.
To avoid inviting trouble, captain Garh An Gright shook his head, driving unwanted thoughts out into the icy cold. Then tapped his fingers three times on his chest, where a protective amulet was hidden under the thick leather of his jacket and chainmail collar.
The gray walls, made of large, rough-hewn stones, were slowly approaching. The roof of the Watchtower, with its time-worn, sagging tiles, was barely covered by a thin layer of snow.
The captain put his hand anxiously on the hilt of his sword, but forced himself to relax his grip. He didn't want them to go into a spasm. He wasn't getting any younger, and the cold air wasn't good for his joints. The snow in his short beard was thickly mixed with grey hair, forming a lush mass.
The man looked around, sent a somber glance at the large, bulky carriage that creaked along the almost overgrown and broken road. Baron Drien had been travelling to the cursed Freeyed Dor too often over the past year, but the journey used to take much less time. Riders used to simply fly past the ShadyForest and gave their horses rest on the plain, or on the Seaboard if they were returning home. Now, as the baron was accompanied by his children, a carriage was indispensable.
"If only a boy was travelling with us," came a voice from the left. It sounded irritated, but muffled. Even the recent arrivals knew about the baron's bad temper. "We could have avoided dragging this miserable, rattling wagon".
Garh An Gright turned to his new assistant, the latest addition to the Drien family's personal guard. The boy looked as if he was frozen to the bone. He sat in the saddle, ruffled as an angry bird wrapped in a black coat.
