Chapter Forty-Six point Seven: A Cold Distraction

  The slow, lethargic crunch of Selriph’s footfall came to a stop as he paused near a sizable, sudden increase in elevation—a ledge that could not be traversed on foot alone.

  However, conveniently, there were a few rocks nearby, ones easily manipulated into place to provide a more surmountable gradient to traverse over.

  The runaway mage extended his palm as he willed the brown, terramantic energy into being, the image of the simultaneously phaneritic and aphanitic texture of earth in his mind.

  Then he felt a sting on his left cheek.

  In that instance, his mind was distracted by another image: what had occurred in the cave he had just left behind.

  What the…!

  The brown energy sputtered as Selriph felt an unexpected tug on the reins. Nightwind’s eyes disappeared from his periphery as the black gulper horse turned back—towards the instantly recognisable crunch of paws on stone and frost.

  The youth stood in place as he directed his words to the only thing that could be approaching him. “I am surprised … I thought you’d actually stay with that Elf…”

  Selriph’s words, like icy whispers, rode the wind as he kept his back turned to the source of the noise, drifting towards the mountains and faintly echoing off the snow-covered landscape.

  Then, he turned to the sight of the dire wolf trotting up the slope, leaping gracefully from rock to rock—a natural scaffold heralding the wolf’s ascent. Its eyes locked onto Selriph, almost in haste—having made the journey from the cave where Oagat’s vault lay to where his companion had wandered to—toward the mountains.

  As the features on the wolf’s face came into view, Selriph swore he could almost trace lines of disappointment and resignation, although more than likely, it was a combination of both.

  Or it was just the boy’s mind trying to ascribe meaning to the wolf’s current, unexpected appearance.

  After all, it had not immediately followed Selriph out of the cave twenty minutes prior.

  The sun’s rays cast an orange silhouette over the setting sky in the west, its light cutting through the grey, almost black, ominous clouds rolling in. The oncoming lour cast a darkened, misty shadow over the evergreen Danwen Woods.

  Of course, a storm had made its appearance now. Can’t even head back that way.

  Selriph looked off into the distance. Emmett passed by his periphery, now stood by the appraising youth’s side, looking at the same sight as him:

  The clouds above rolled across the sky, kneaded like soft dough. Headed eastwards towards their current position.

  The runaway mage shook his head, an imperceptible sigh escaping his mouth, the only indicator being the misty exhale as he turned his head back towards the mountains. His gaze landed beyond the naturally occurring mantelshelf, to the top of the slope they were traversing towards, what looked like a rocky alcove about another hour’s or two ascent from their position.

  Before Selriph’s legs responded to his innate will to continue his trek, his conscious mind flashed with images of a similar rocky shelter that he had made camp with the twins the previous night—this was the only alternative that gave pause to his unbridled, counterintuitive trek towards the mountains.

  Selriph closed his eyes. The cold, stinging frost in his nostrils extinguished the subsequent image of the mountain pass and the mines, all related to the folly that had just occurred.

  Maybe there is a chance those clouds won’t roll over here… but it’s better to put some distance.

  His legs resumed their mountain-bound trek—via a slight detour, around the sheer slope, muscles barely convinced to do so from the edge of doubt.

  His voice was soft, hesitant, and lacking conviction.

  The folly, “C’mon, Emmett, let’s get to shelter before we get caught in that..”

  Of course, that wasn’t the only impetus for his chosen vector of travel.

  As Selriph and his two animal companions trekked their way deeper into the snowline, the mild incline turned steeper as they made their way in a general southeasterly direction.

  By the time they had arrived at its threshold of their intended destination, the sky above had turned a deep blue, and the last rays of light had nearly faded from the sky.

  The boy trudged through the knee-deep snow. His orange flame was the only buffer against the cold that his inner garments were scarcely sufficient to ward off.

  He appraised the alcove. It dwarfed the frost troll’s home—if the creature even understood such a concept—with more than enough room to house a dire wolf and a horse.

  However, this also meant that its entrance, which faced the northwest, stood well over two metres tall, invited the whipping winds which created a low, mournful howl in the cavern.

  The storm brewed outside, snow stirred in the building gale, each flake swirling and dancing like fallen leaves on a blustery day in Caer Eldralis.

  Of course, this would not be an issue for the boy who wielded terramancy; all he had to do was erect a wall of earth. Then, start a fire and wait out the storm.

  Regrettably, a problem presented itself—atypical of the boy’s nature.

  He had not thought of gathering more timber before he began this puzzling trek into the mountains.

  Why did I do this? We should have just used the frost troll’s cave, headed back towards the mines…

  His chastisement invited an image cut through his mind—an event that took place in those tunnels. Her casual conjuration of a rock during the first night he became acquainted with her.

  A jerk ran down his spine, blotting away any budding recollection of the fireside talk with the twins, with the grieving, golden-haired elf.

  Forget that, we can make do … the storm will probably arrive in an hour.

  Selriph looked at his hand, willing arcane energy to well into it, the ocean blue a meagre comfort to his blurred mind.

  “I can do this…” his voice, barely a whisper.

  Nightwind tilted her head at the boy’s attempt at self-affirmation. Then, the horse inhaled, seemingly steeling herself for the expectant sight of terramancy from the boy, something she had witnessed the previous night—if the horse was even capable of such anticipation of routine.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Yet, the familiar brown hue of terramancy did not materialise. Not to any noticeable degree anyhow. All that came into form was a faint wisp of brown, along with a sharp tsk from the youth.

  Then, he knelt at his bag, rummaging through its contents, only to pull out the weathered Tome of Arcane Foundations.

  The boy’s fingers gently grasp the edges of the tome, like the priest would for the gospel during the morning Sarfnus services—the sixth and final day of the week.

  Page by page, flipped through Selriph’s eyes, arcane spells, past the pages of pyromancy, electromancy, terramancy.

  Then it stopped, landing on a page that would have made the twins twist in confusion—if they were still present.

  The page bore the unfamiliar art of ice magic—his eyes glanced at the text he had read a dozen times in the absence of physical application—illuminated by the red-orange flame in his right hand.

  In his left hand, an orb came to life, blue arcane energy–neutral, without elemental attribution. The vision flashed in his mind—the frosty breeze, the texture of the snow that he had trampled through, the ice that hung from the ceiling.

  Solid—like earth, but crystalline, almost lattice-like in structure.

  The arcane orb responded to the vision in his head, the neutral blue turning brighter, a cyan hue beginning to sprout at its wedges, before travelling to the core of the mystical palm-sized orb.

  Selriph’d mind brought him back to the sensation he experienced during the elemental attunement exercise on his last day with Vickthar.

  The cyan-blue orb flickered in his hand once more—Cryomancy.

  Good enough now…

  The arcane orb descended into his palm, the bottom surface breaking as a molten light wrapped itself around Selriph’s hand. Its soft, cyan glow carried a fresh coolness, a direct contrast to the warmth emanating from the pyromancy cantrip in his right.

  Since the magical energies will allow me to see… I can do this.

  Selriph closed his fist, the orange hue in his vision puttering out, the crystalline lattice flashed once more in his head as cyan energy welled from his core, travelling up his right hand—where flame had cackled seconds ago, now replaced by a cyan hue.

  He then paced towards the exit. The wind buffeted against his frame, the sting of coldness pierced through the small tears in his garments, and his cloak billowed behind him.

  Then, his fingers curled into claws.

  Gentle wisps of cryomancy floated towards the white mosaic, unbothered by the approaching breeze.

  The fabric of energy, like silk, brushed against the snow, and at that instant, Selriph took a deep breath and strained, starting to move his hands in a shovelling gesture.

  The hardened snow on the ground loosened, bidden by the cryomantic energies, gathering into a pile with each motion, equal parts elegant and laboured, a paradoxical sight.

  First, a mound formed, then into a half-meter-high wall, the base growing in size to accommodate the growing weight of coarse snow on it.

  The heap of frost grew with every action, this undefined mass building into the semblance of a meter-high wind barrier. With the opening of the alcove beginning to seal, thanks to the boy’s cryomancy.

  Then, the windbreak grew to a metre and a half—just halfway to the ceiling—with each addition to its volume, the wind’s low howl gradually rose in pitch.

  His pants of exertion echoed through the icy walls, his mind focused solely on the image in his head, his body burning with exertion—an impregnable fortress of cold focus to any wayward thoughts of anger, regret, and shame. The twisted face of the grief-stricken elf and her haunting sobs were driven to the deepest recesses of the youth’s mind.

  Finally, his work ended, not due to fatigue, but from the absence of any more snow nearby; the wall was close to two meters high, and the air in the cave was almost motionless, save for the high-pitched howl coming through the gap above.

  The cyan glow disappeared as he conjured a small flame in his hands, his fingers frozen and stiff, as if he had been physically handling the snow with his bare hands.

  Once more, he went to his pack and sat; the adrenaline wearing off, his teeth clattering, and his body trembling. Eyes traced to the parchments—Oagat’s notes. He placed them in front of him, bringing the flames to them, setting them ablaze.

  All the meticulously scribed knowledge would face fiery oblivion, except for one: a topographical map of the nearby mountains — something which he hoped he wouldn’t need to use.

  But for now, he stared as the black, charred mustiness of parchment came into his nostrils, soothing the boy. Only when the blanket of warmth quelled the shivering in his body did he turn to the matter at hand:

  Were there any remaining ways to get over the Greyspire Mountains?

  The moving, mocking shadows were a helpful distraction from the painful emotions caused by the events of the day. For with every unnatural flicker of shadow—caused by the dancing arcane flame in his hands, mixed with the youth’s movements — stymied such thoughts.

  The tangy scent of the dried meat stuck to his hands as he surveyed his rations; enough sustenance for the next few days at least. Enough to wait out the howling storm, which seemed to serve as a sardonic reprimand to the boy’s decision to head into the mountains in the first place.

  Now he was trapped in a snowstorm that might never end.

  Calm down; in the worst case, we can melt the snow with pyromancy for hydration; we can go without food for a while, and the storm will abate at some point.

  Then, Selriph’s attention went to the well-organised stacks of coins, glistening with condensation from the cold.

  His funds would be enough for a few nights in decent lodgings, but they would be stretched thin if the stablehand demanded a high price for lodging the dire wolf, assuming any horsekeeper on the road to Solvelis would accept such a notion.

  The boy, however, was getting ahead of himself, for he still had the same predicament looming over him; he had to find a means to cross the mountains.

  Should I just head back to the mines and try to clear out the cave-in by myself…?

  Selriph’s eyes flashed over to the tome; sketches of earthen constructs, pillars, mounds, and cone-like projectiles, the standard repertoire for cantrip and first-tier terramantic study.

  He turned the pages again, searching with his eyes for anything overlooked during the past ten nights of reading the book.

  Nothing more advanced could be gleaned within its bindings, as would be expected of a tome of Arcane Foundations.

  The twins said that this text was standard for Ventharians who had magical aspirations in a Mage’s College—part of their first-year curriculum.

  A jolt ran through Selriph’s spine as he flinched his head, a protest to the image of the twins and the fireside conversation like a parasite in his mind.

  No! Focus on what we need to do; don’t think about them…

  Selriph closed his eyes as he willed his breathing to slow, his thoughts clearing like the holy servants purifying the tainted sewage of Caer Eldralis—an image that was far better than the mangled remains of the male elf and the scathing outburst.

  Selriph stared at his empty, non-flame-wielding hand, his mind frozen in contemplation…

  Should I try it…? In theory, I could dual cast, one hand clearing the rubble, the other holding up and stabilising the walls of the mines … Even if it takes me days, I’d eventually get to the other side…

  He shook his head, this time in gentle consolation, for he realised a major flaw in this course of action; something that he had not considered when he had decided on it in the first place.

  No… even if I could do that, the authorities would eventually find out that someone wielding terramancy cleared through the cave-in.

  And if that is the case…

  His mind flashed to the confrontation at the warehouse, how Inquisitor Dreth knew of their entry into the city, how they knew it was him.

  Then came the face of the eyepatch-adorned facade of Inquisitor Varos.

  If that arcane-smelling inquisitor is still alive, he might detect the residual trace of my magic even if days or weeks go by. They will know I headed east.

  Of course, the pensive youth knew that this teetered well into the realm of over-paranoid consideration; it was far more likely that Selriph would have made the crossing to Nalthrys well before any wayward wanderer would chance upon the miraculously cleared GreySpire mines.

  Either that or the boy would perish on his journey to the border. After all, fate was nothing but unkind to him.

  No, in reality, the magic-and wit-endowed youth could eventually clear the cave-in himself, with trial and error, and conjured pillars acting as supports; it would take him a week at most to do so.

  The active dismissal of the first option was caused by one thing: the implications of the unwanted complication he’d been suppressing until this very moment.

  Ever since the debacle that transpired a few hours ago, every moment he had tried to will the usual image of thick, rough, stiff, brown tapestry into his mind, the image of gore and the face that bore the bereaved wail replaced it.

  When that happened, the terramantic energy—so practised, so learned—since the day he found comfort in it in the Shera woods; bearing so much utility during his arduous journey so far.

  The very thing he needed to make the simplest, the most sensible option work.

  Would simply sputter and fade.