Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 34: Pondering over Porridge

Regis couldn't tell if it was morning or evening in this damned country anymore, but he was hungry, and everyone else was asleep, and damn it all he might as well do it himself.

So he sat up and made breakfast. Got a fire going with a couple of sticks and rocks, smiling happily as the flames rose high in the makeshift pit. He nudged the embers with his poker till they were glowing hot before propping up the cooking pot on the tripod. Took a lot of snow to get enough water boiling, scooping scum off the top as it started to roil.

Say one thing for Regis, say he's a man of simple pleasures. He reached into his sack and pulled out a few handfuls of oats, a couple sticks of cinnamon, and a pinch of sugar he'd hidden away for times like this. Been a long time since he'd had a decent meal, and nothing beat the taste of good sugared porridge.

The oats took to the boiled water well, giving off a delicious nutty aroma intertwined with the deep richness of the spice. Regis took in a deep breath and puffed his cheeks out with delight. Nox had taught him how to make this back in Austerland.

He'd shown him how to strip the bark off the cinnamon tree, how to dry it, prepare it for cooking. He'd shown him a lot of things, like how to boil the sweetness out of beets, or how to squeeze the juice from a sugar cane, or how to cheat at cards.

Regis sighed, realized he'd been holding his breath. Thinking about Nox was the last thing he needed right now. There were more urgent matters to think about. Namely, what the seven hells he was even still doing here? Ever since he'd arrived in Danic on his stupid quest for vengeance, it had been one blunder after another.

Copperhaven was still a burned out hovel, his brother ruled the land with an iron fist, and his last loyal friend had now turned himself into a psychotic martyr, hellbent on catapulting the people into another bloody civil war.

Regis rubbed at his temples, feeling a familiar ache behind his eyes. "I hate magick. No offense to you Magus, but I'm really getting sick of tired of the stuff." No one said anything save for the mindless babble of the fire, not that he expected anyone to answer.

What in the seven hells was he still doing here?

The question came back to him like a slap in the face. He'd died a near handful of times trying to find his brother, and there was no telling how many more times he'd have to just to get there..

And then there was the Captain to think about. The ever looming presence biting at the backside of his mind. He hadn't seen him so far, but there'd been a moment back in Middlefort when the backs of his hands started to itch.

You don't live long enough as Regis had to ignore such premonitions. The Captain had been close, but the battle had likely separated them. Where he was now, it was difficult to say, but he doubted it was far.

And then there was the mess Regis was currently tangled up in. He remembered what Loken had said about Fenris. How he was destined to kill King Erik. The idea alone made his mouth taste sour. After his time with the Aulderman, he was sick and tired of prophecy.

But even still, Regis considered, it didn't make the Wyrd boy's words any less true. The sun had appeared over Middlefort, after all. Willed into existence by Olaf himself. Had he truly called up Aurora's divine will, or had the man been touched by the Goddess in some way?

Who can say.

The water was starting to boil over, so Regis kicked a few sticks out of the fire and stomped them down. The porridge settled, the oats looking nearly done. Just a little more time, and they would be perfect. Nothing tastes worse than undercooked porridge.

There was no way to completely trust Loken, Regis considered. The boy had a familiar innocence that reminded him greatly of Brand, but if you look past the lambskin tunic, you'd easily see the wolf beneath. He wore only a thin blue robe and nothing else, and yet his fingers and toes were never blue with cold or black with frostbite, his skin forever painted the color of morning snow. Even worse, you never could see his breath even in the most bitter of nights. As if his insides were made of solid ice.