Chapter Sixty-Four: Departure

Lucas straightened his collar as he heard voices outside. It wasn’t just one or two people speaking; there were many, and the noise had grown almost boisterous.

“What’s happening?” Lucas asked nervously. “Could it be the Icelanders have discovered the entrance?”

“Don’t be so jumpy, Porter,” the dwarf replied. “While you were sleeping, Baldur and York explained to the others that His Lordship has agreed to journey to Alvador on our behalf.”

“If His Lordship can retrieve the Stone of Mist, then once the mist rises, we shall depart at once.”

“We’ve agreed to see him off, whether or not he returns as promised. We’ll be ready to leave—those are likely the others waking up.”

“I see…” Lucas bent down, pushed open the half-closed door, and stepped out of the study.

Sure enough, the villagers had awakened. Lucas saw fresh logs tossed onto the cauldron’s fire, its brighter flames illuminating the faces of the Tanians. Someone brought out freshly baked cookies—more than one tray. Before Lucas had even seen the first tray emerge from the oven, the wandering knight had already been busy there for some time. Tray after tray of cookies was placed on the stone table for anyone to take.

But no one reached for those fragrant treats. When the wandering knight, clad in battered gear, emerged from the storeroom, everyone fell silent. Their expressions were solemn and respectful—even the youngest children stood upright, gathered before the adults, their pure brown or sky-blue eyes gazing up at the knight’s iron helm.

The wandering knight had strapped on his two swords, but the longbow on his back had been replaced with a finer Icelandic war bow. Its arc was crescent-like, and black crow feathers protruded from the quiver beneath it, the fletchings as dark as ink.

He stood silently before the crowd, bow and arrows at his back, sword at his left hip, and a sheepskin satchel cinched at his right. Through the flap, one could see potion corks peeking out.

Aside from weapons and potions, he carried nothing else; the bulky deerskin pack had been set aside.

Lucas went to the corner, retrieved his spear, donned his gear, stowed his potions, and approached the knight.

“Sir Vidar, allow me to accompany you,” Lucas said with a nod. “Alvador is now overrun by necromancers and Icelanders, fraught with danger, yet I still remember the streets and the way down the mountain. I can ensure the journey is not delayed by unfamiliar paths.”

The wandering knight nodded. Lucas clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it to his chest.

“If my life is what it takes to see this quest through, then I will not shrink from death. My spear is at your command.”

Over a hundred pairs of eyes watched Lucas and the knight. It was time to depart. While Lucas spoke with the dwarf, a path to the surface had been cleared. Baldur led several youths down from the narrow opening, moving aside the debris that blocked it and shifting the blue stones away.

“The moon has reached a third of the night,” Baldur said. “May the goddess bless your journey, brave one.”

Vidar spoke little—indeed, he could not speak at all. He cast a final glance at the Tanians deep within the cave, and stepped forward.

The dwarf and Lucas followed close behind, the others parting to clear the way.

Vidar moved forward through the throng, and someone handed him an object.

It was a handkerchief embroidered with the Tania lily. Lucas had seen such scenes before: whenever knights or soldiers marched to war, the Tanians lining the streets would offer flowers. But now, with no flowers to be found, the handkerchief must suffice.

Vidar accepted it and tied it to the gleaming hilt of his sword.

He ascended the stone steps, moonlight spilling down from above, the biting winter wind rushing to meet him. Stepping over the last rock, he emerged onto the surface. Snow still blanketed the earth and forest alike, the white expanse cold and silent.

Lucas, Baldur, and old York followed him out of the cave.

“Old York may not have the courage to enter Alvador,” the elder said, “but he’ll wait for your return at a stream by the rift, together with Baldur. We’ll hide in the forest and keep watch there until noon.”

Vidar nodded. The four, with help from the young men below, sealed the entrance once more, then doused themselves from head to toe with ash potion, ensuring the earthy, woodsmoke-scented liquid covered them completely.

“Follow me, keep your heads low, stay in the shadows,” old York whispered.

Once they’d left the cave, the dwarf pricked up his ears, treading with utmost care.

The three followed the dwarf through the forest, across the snowy ground.

When they reached a clearing on a downward slope, old York suddenly stopped.

He turned back, raised a finger to his lips, and signaled everyone to freeze and remain silent.

He pointed to the sky above. Vidar looked up. A black shadow glided past the half-moon overhead—like a bird, circling high in the night.

The shape didn’t linger above them, soon flying off elsewhere.

“That’s one of Quasimodo’s night owls,” old York whispered. “Those once lively birds have been twisted by his magic into undead servitors. Beware these sentinels in the sky—always keep to the eaves and the shadow of trees.”

Everyone nodded, and the dwarf led the way again. When the moon stood overhead, they reached the rift where they’d last encountered Icelandic soldiers.

“Old York and Baldur can take you no further,” the dwarf said, pressing his lips together. “York truly dares not face Quasimodo again. Please forgive my cowardice.”

Vidar patted the dwarf’s shoulder and bowed slightly to him. The dwarf’s knowledge had been invaluable, and after hearing his story, Vidar felt no blame.

He did not think cowardice shameful; shame belonged to the necromancer, who’d abused the dwarf’s kindness and tricked him for gain.

“Your courage and kindness, York will never forget,” the dwarf said, sniffing. “And Porter—York believes that one day, your deeds will be sung by bards.”

“Thank you for your blessing,” Lucas replied with a smile.

Suddenly, Lucas remembered the bard he’d met as a child—silver-haired, pointed-eared, an elegant elven man whose eyes always seemed tinged with melancholy, never once smiling.

Where was that long-lived elf now? Perhaps still wandering somewhere. If one day, the elf heard the name Lucas Porter, would he remember the small child he’d met on the border of Tania all those years ago?

“Let me take the lead from here,” Lucas said.

He shook his head and stepped to the front. Though his hair and beard were still wild, he no longer looked like a vagrant. He was like a black pine standing alone on the snowy plain—unyielding and resolute.