Kellanved's Reach

Kellanved huffed. ‘I do not need help with easier targets, thank you very much.’

‘Whatever. You know what I mean. Throw them a bone.’

The little mage shot Dancer a glance. His mouth quivered. Dancer suppressed a snort, and they both broke out laughing. Kellanved poked Dancer with his walking stick. ‘That was a good one. I liked that one.’

Continuing onward, Kellanved led the way to a seemingly unremarkable heap of stones amid a desolation of wind-blasted ruins. ‘The nearest remnant of a gate that I know of,’ he announced.

‘Very good. Let’s go.’

The mage raised a hand for a pause. ‘In time, in time. Just a moment.’ He withdrew the stone fragment and held it up close to his eyes, squinting at it. While Dancer watched, the fellow spat upon the flint piece, rubbed it, squinted again through one eye, turned it this way and that.

Finally, his patience worn away, Dancer asked, ‘What in the Enchantress’s name are you doing?’

Kellanved peered up, distractedly. ‘Hmm? Tricky magical things beyond your ken – now be quiet.’

The mage continued to fuss over the object. He rubbed it between the palms of his hands, blew on it, muttered over it, seemed even to whisper to it. Dancer was about to walk off to sit down when all about them dust began to rise from the ground. It swirled upwards and coalesced towards the remnants of the ‘gate’, forming a sort of gyre.

‘A pressure differential,’ Kellanved observed. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’

Ever careful, Dancer drew two blades. He noted now that the dust was indeed disappearing over the footprint of the gate; it appeared to be falling into nothingness.

‘Try it,’ Kellanved invited.

Dancer pointed to himself. ‘Oh? I’m supposed to go first, am I?’

‘Do your part.’

‘My part?’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t think much of my part.’ Then something came to him. ‘I don’t have the spear-pointy thing.’

Kellanved mouthed a curse, his shoulders falling. ‘Fine! Very well. Together then.’

Dancer and the mage stepped on to the stone flags of the ruin’s threshold. The next instant Dancer gasped as if stabbed; he hugged himself, his breath pluming, teeth chattering, and saw they now stood amid blowing snow on a dark snow-covered landscape below thick black and grey clouds.

The little mage groaned into the savage wind. ‘Ye gods! I shall die!’

Dancer pointed behind: domed hide tents shuddered in the wind, their bases secured by rings of heavy stones. He steered a stiff and shivering Kellanved towards the nearest, pushed aside the heavy hide flap and shoved the mage in before him, then fell in himself.

It was dark within, and stank of rotten fish and animal fat – but it was exquisitely warm, and Dancer just lay panting, grateful, clenching his numb fingers.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark he made out the faces of three elders staring at them in open wonder round a small central hearth. One spoke, an old man, his wide, blunt face lined and seamed. Dancer did not understand the language.

His vision improved and he saw that the three wore crude hides, painted and sewn with beads and bones. Their hair was grey and long and hung in greased tangled lengths; he wondered if this was the source of the sour animal fat stink.

The eldest spoke again. Kellanved roused himself and sat up. He gestured, grasped Dancer’s shoulder, and asked the trio, ‘Do you understand me?’

The oldster grunted his assent. ‘You are not spirits?’

‘No,’ Kellanved answered. ‘We are men.’

‘You are strange men.’

Kellanved nodded. ‘Well … I suppose we are. Now, where are we?’

‘Our village is named the Place of the Booming Ice,’ said another, an old woman – or so Dancer thought. The three appeared quite identical.

Kellanved shot Dancer a look. ‘How very helpful.’

‘What do you want here?’ the woman asked.

‘We seek a throne, a seat, a place of authority – do you know of what I speak?’

The three eyed one another, uncertain. One said, ‘We will take you to our eldest.’ They rose, and Dancer was startled by how squat they were; squat but wide. They searched about the hut and produced hide blankets that they offered to him and Kellanved. Then the eldest pushed aside the flap and exited. Dancer and Kellanved followed, wrapped in their blankets.

Their guide led them into the driving snow. Through the blowing whiteness a huge looming bulk took shape. Because of the darkness Dancer couldn’t be certain of the scale, but it appeared gigantic. They entered an opening, broad and low, like a cave mouth, except that the stone was worked smooth and dressed.

They walked a tunnel, of sorts; very broad, with slim descending steps cut into the solid rock of the floor. Snow and dirty wet straw littered the channel. Light glowed ahead – the flickering amber of firelight. The tunnel ended at a large chamber, one so huge that Dancer had no idea of its dimensions, as the walls and ceiling were hidden in darkness. A meagre fire lay ahead; their guide headed for it.