• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1614 0

The air was brittle with cold, and the snow crunched and squeaked under his boots as he climbed. But Fyodor was at home with the harsh climate. This was his land, and he had spent all of his nineteen winters within its borders. Rashemen was written in the broad, chiseled planes of his face, the straight dark hair the color of bare-limbed trees, and his winter-pale skin. Fyodor was a strong man, stocky and just a bit short of six feet. He was also a simple man; he traveled clad in layers of warm, sturdy peasant clothes and a practical cloak of dark wool. His only weapons were a blunt, roughly hammered sword of some dark metal and a three-foot cudgel fashioned from light, rock-hard driftwood. He used the driftwood club now as a staff, plunging it into the snow again and again as he hauled himself up the hill.

At last Fyodor reached the summit. He stood for a long moment, looking out over his land. Lake Ashane and the surrounding countryside lay before him, clearly visible despite the clouds that huddled over the mountaintop. To his north stretched the deep, ancient Ashenwood. Huge swaths of land lay barren, for in recent months hundreds of trees had fallen to the axes of the Tuigan barbarians. The invaders had razed large tracts of the forest to build ships for their ill-fated crossing. Fyodor shook his head in mute grief at the sight of yet another scar upon the land.

The Tuigan barbarians had swept through his beloved Rashemen, leaving pain and destruction everywhere. He had fought them, and he would be fighting still but for the command of the Witches who ruled the land. Fyodor had proven his valor in battle and had been sent away with honor. Even so, he had been sent away.

Fyodor accepted his fate without rancor, for none knew better than he the danger he posed to those around him. He would no doubt fight for Rashemen again, but he dared not do so until he had mastered the enemy within. Just the sight of the long-cold battlefield below him sent a familiar, dangerous heat through Fyodor"s veins.

So the young man turned away from the blighted landscape and faced the task ahead. A stone tower crowned the hill; he gave it a quick glance and slogged off through the snow in search of an ancient well. Behind the tower he found a simple, circular stone wall and knew at once he had found the source of this place's unique power.

He dropped to one knee to honor the ancient, mysterious spirit who dwelt on this distant hillside. The tower had been built on this place of power several hundred years before. The Witches' magic was more potent here, and a small circle of them could protect the western boundaries of their land- From here the dreaded Witch boats were launched against any who ventured onto Lake Ashane. Unmanned and armed with powerful magic, the Witch boats attacked all who dared set sail upon the lake. With the help of the place-spirit, the Witches could even summon water wraiths: creatures of steam who had a scalding touch, and whose breath was hot enough to melt elvish steel. Fyodor had heard these stories from birth, and now he was about to see such wonders for himself.

Fyodor knelt by the well and brushed away some of the snow. He scraped together a handful of ice-encrusted soil and held it tightly in his hand. As he had hoped-and as he had feared-the memory of what had happened came to him.

He saw a circle of women, black-robed and masked, their fingertips touching lightly as they chanted, melding their magic into one powerful spell. He watched in awe as the Witches summoned their legendary defenses against the Tuigan invaders.

Unlike the powerful women who ruled Rashemen, or the Old Ones who taught gifted men to craft wondrous magical items, Fyodor knew no magic except for that which burned in his veins and sped his sword in battle. But he did have a trace of the Sight, as did many of his people. It was an unreliable gift, as hard to command as a dream, and it often seemed to Fyodor that insights came to him just often enough to be annoying. Yet in places like this, places of power, events both wondrous and