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 40-42 day of the year 879 from the Fall of the Triumvirate
The messenger falcon caught up with them on the third day of their journey. Before perching on one of the worn-out saddles removed from the horses, the tired bird circled the small temporary camp set up for the night at the edge of the forest. A few rough shelters, a single lean-to, and a dozen men huddled in a tight group. The waning sun gilded the falcon's wings and reflected in its dark, attentive eyes. The indignant falcon's screech was almost drowned in the rustling of leaves and the crackling of the fire.
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After reading the short message, Baron Sheikhard grimaced.
"Change of plans," he said to his men in a snappy voice and threw the crumpled paper into the fire. Red highlights danced in his short rufous beard. "We need to arrive in Sigrul at least five days early."
The swordsmen looked at each other, understanding each other without words, but only one dared to speak.
"My lord, I'm afraid that's impossible," Godwin, the baron's confidant and best fighter, was the only one allowed to argue with the lord. The tall and youthful man, according to the custom of the Northern Shoal, wore only a long moustache instead of a beard, which, however, did not suit him, and managed to dress equally nondescriptly both for balls and battlefields. "Even if we ride our horses from dawn to dusk, without any rest, the most we can carry off is a day or two."
The Baron gave him a heavy, intense look that clearly did not bode well. Gloomy shadows rested beneath his deep-set eyes.
"There is another way."
The brief surprise was replaced by a disgruntled murmur.
"My lord! The SnakeSea has long ceased to be navigable! And at this time of year, crossing it is suicide!"
But the baron had already grasped the nettle. Now, nothing could deter him.
***
Despite nature's celebration of spring's arrival, the SnakeSea remained a bastion of winter. Cold, grey hues were accompanied by icy winds and treacherously slick sands. The waves didn't rustle but rather hissed, aggressively assaulting the shoreline. This place harbored numerous monsters, which seemed fitting. Not to mention the peculiar aroma, where the scent of damp sand and fish scales mingled with a subtle sulfurous stench.
Even the stubborn Sheikhard had to concede that the prospect of spending several days in these waters didn't please him in the least. The gaze of his cold eyes glided the restless water's surface, and his hands involuntarily clenched into fists.
The small old wharf, built before the fall of the Triumvirate, had deteriorated into a state of disrepair. Only the stone foundation remained, while the floorboards had rotted away, becoming nothing more than debris. Their place was taken by all sorts of rubbish that the repairmen must have had at hand. But the fact that it was there gave hope that this place was still used. As did the mid-sized ship anchored at the very far end.
