Chapter Sixty-Five: Alvado

Lucas and Vaid entered the ravine once more. On the evening of the seventh day, they encountered a squad of ten Icelandic soldiers there. All ten soldiers were killed by them. Before leaving the ravine, they did their best to erase any traces of their presence. The soldiers’ bodies were buried in the forest outside the ravine; the corpse of the ice bear, being far too massive to conceal, was pushed down the slope along with its cart, left to tumble amid the jagged mountainside and thick pines.

From the soldiers’ belongings, they took nothing but the light swords and bows. The full suits of plate armor, though valuable, were of no use to them; neither could find a man strong enough to wear armor weighing dozens of kilos and still move with ease. Vaid and Lucas had no desire to don such encumbrances. Vaid disliked anything that restricted his freedom of movement—the armor would fix his joints, preventing him from using the advantages of a skeleton when needed. For Lucas, too, armor was purely defensive, and wearing it would only slow his reflexes. Besides, against a necromancer, plate armor was hardly impervious. Rather than burdening themselves, they chose to move as they were most accustomed.

The two passed cautiously through the ravine—a commonly used route from Alvador into the Streamside Forest. Once beyond, they would reach the road, where Icelandic soldiers might be found. They kept close to the mountainside; fortunately, Vaid sensed no living presence nearby. Winter in Tania was lethally cold—no soldier would willingly keep watch so far from camp at night. The place was already some distance from Alvador; no sentry would ever be posted so far out. That squad had come here only to hunt the ice bear—had not Quasimodo ordered them, they would never have ventured so far afield.

Until they reached the Prague River and the streets of Alvador, there was no need for undue anxiety. The shadows of the mountain pines completely cloaked their tracks—even the night owls above could not see what moved below the forest canopy.

Yet, as they emerged from the ravine, Lucas could not help but pause. Before him lay the road descending the mountain. The ravine was about an hour’s walk from Alvador, mostly downhill, and from the cliff edge, the valley’s scenery was laid out beneath the moonlight.

Moonbeams silvered the waters of the Prague River; the Icelandic warships loomed tall, more than a dozen vessels, large and small, anchored like mountains on either side of the stone arch bridge. Gazing out, Lucas saw the houses of Alvador as tiny as pebbles, the warships and gray-pavilioned tents of the Icelanders appearing minuscule—so small it seemed he could pluck them up with a hand.

The war camp’s tents sprawled around Alvador. Sentries could be seen atop the ships’ masts, and even at midnight, fires burned—perhaps a band of Icelanders drinking and roasting meat by the flames. Fires dotted both riverbanks.

The scent of war pressed close. Though this was a familiar place, his own homeland, it had been seized by outsiders; that sudden sense of alienation jarred Lucas deeply.

“This way, Sir Vaid,” Lucas beckoned. “The path down the mountain is iced over—mind your step, lest you slip.” He forced down the stone of discomfort in his chest and led Vaid onward.

Vaid followed quietly. In his mind, he counted the days—this was the night of the eighth day. On the seventh day at dusk, they had encountered the Icelandic soldiers in the ravine, hiding that night in the dwarves’ secret cave. On the morning of the eighth day, he had discovered the dwarves’ secret, after which Lucas had napped in a corner until just recently. He had one more day—tomorrow would be the ninth day. At dawn of the tenth, he would return to the wasteland; thus, tonight’s time was not pressing.

If they delayed one more day, things would become troublesome—by tomorrow night, he might have only part of an evening left. That was why he chose to set out on the eighth night, ensuring at least a day of leeway for their mission.

Quasimodo Vick, a fifth-circle necromancer, was far too formidable to confront directly. Fortunately, their task was not to kill him, only to recover the Mist Stone. Stealth and speed, not combat, were paramount on this journey.

Vaid excelled at moving unseen in darkness, and the two sped along the mountain path. They crossed paths with another night owl, but reached the foot of the mountain without incident.

They came to the edge of Alvador’s main road, concealed behind the shadow of an old stone house. The little town, unfenced by walls, lay almost within reach. It stood on the riverbank—the Prague River ran beside the houses, broader and swifter here than the tributaries of the Streamside Forest. By eye, the river spanned a hundred meters, its ceaseless rush echoing; Lucas could feel the river wind, taste the muddy tang of water.

This was one of the narrower stretches of the Prague River—its mouth, it was said, was a full kilometer wide, and elsewhere it ran two or three hundred meters across—a true great river.

An ancient stone arch bridge spanned the banks. Before the Icelanders occupied the town, Alvador’s guards had stood at both ends each day, collecting tolls and goods taxes from merchants, adventurers, and travelers passing through. Simple pedestrians paid only a few copper coins; merchants were taxed by the weight of their wares and the number of carts and horses.

But now both bridge and road were held by the Icelanders, with sentries posted even at night. As Lucas and Vaid drew closer, they saw gangplanks stretching from warship decks to the shore, and even at this late hour, men hauled supplies ashore—bundles of bows and arrows, crates of rations. Icelandic torches lined both riverbanks, the supplies of war being steadily unloaded. It seemed they were intent on turning the town into a logistical base.

Within the Icelanders’ zone, no undead hounds were visible. Yet on the cobbled road leading into Alvador, a pack of undead hounds stood guard at the entrance.

The Icelandic soldiers’ camp was far from the undead hounds; even though Quasimodo had joined their ranks as a commander, the soldiers evidently preferred not to be near a necromancer. Whether this was good or ill was unclear—while it meant the number of Icelanders in town would not be great, it also confirmed that Quasimodo Vick, the necromancer, must be somewhere within Alvador.

Those undead hounds were his sentinels, guarding his stronghold. Should anyone enter without his leave, those hideous creatures would tear the intruder to pieces.