Cold obsidian

There was no proper waking up. Kan’s consciousness was returning to him gradually, bit by bit: first the pain, then everything else. He touched his head and felt something warm and sticky in his hair. Blood? As he opened his eyes and raised himself upon an elbow to look around be found himself in the middle of the battlefield, most of which was hidden from his eyes in the darkness, but the sounds – cries of pain and clashing of steel – said it all.

Nobody seemed to notice Kan yet, considering him being just another corpse. Vlada almost tripped over him on her way to her next opponent. Then, still half stunned from his injury, Kan spent several immensely long moments watching his “damsel in distress” fight alone against a group of five swordsmen, her new katana in her right hand and a satellite sword in her left. She was methodical, keeping her opponents huddled together so they would constantly get in each other’s way, giving them no chance to use the advantage in numbers they had. Slowly, it sank in: the pretty girl Kangassk wanted so badly to protect was a much better fighter than he was.

The pulsing pain in Kan’s head twisted his perception in a nauseating way, muting sounds and turning everything in a blur. It felt a lot like being drunk. Kangassk had been drunk once, on his master’s famous cactus juice. It felt so bad he swore never to touch alcohol again. The most rational thing to do for a warrior in such a condition was to stay on the ground, pretending to be a corpse, yet Kan made himself stand up, draw a sword, and join the battle.

He must have looked ferocious, a screaming, drunken warrior with mad eyes and bloody head. Indeed, the group of little, non-human bandits he targeted fled in fear before him at first. They regained their courage pretty quickly, though. Soon, Kangassk had been surrounded and was fighting for his life. It didn’t take him long to realize he was doomed. Back home, he was so proud of the fighting skills he learned against his mother’s wishes, so eager to test them one day in the outer world! Here, they meant little, so very little…

Luck was on Kan’s side that night, though. Someone blew a horn behind the dunes signalling the bandits to wrap up the raid. They changed formation, surrounding a single heavy laden dunewalker, and retreated into the darkness they had come out from. Nobody tried to pursue them. The stolen dunewalker’s cries faded away soon. Dunewalkers are simple beasts, affectionate enough to feel sad about being taken away from their owners, but too stupid to fight on their side.

Non-human slingers standing on top of the dunes on both sides of the road were the last to retreat. Kangassk half expected to get another stone to the head from them as a parting gift, but nothing happened. After they were gone, it was a quiet velvety night again, the sea of undisturbed pitch black ink under a gorgeous starry sky.

There are two ways to gather honey. You can kill the bees with smoke, then open the hive and take everything. There will be no honey for you next year, though. Or you can take little, leaving enough for the bees to survive winter. This way you can have a new pot of honey every year. The bandits’ leaders weren’t stupid. They took what they could and let the caravan go.

The caravan stood still. There were scared dunewalkers to be calmed down, the wounded to be tended to, the dead to be buried. Grim, exhausted people moved around the makeshift camp in utter silence.

As Kangassk’s adrenalin rush ended his pain and horror caught up with him. Feeling sick and shaking, he fell to his knees. That was when he accidentally took a closer look at one of the bandits defeated by Vlada…

“Are you okay, Kan?” asked Vlada squatting down next to him.

“Yeah…” he exhaled and pointed at the dead men, “Do you know who they are?”

“Who?”

“Freaks," answered Kan, bitter grief in his voice, “like me. This one is even from the same city as I am. I see my ancestors’ features in him. Must’ve been treated like shit every day… ran away… became a bandit… His life could’ve been so different if he just weren’t ugly…”

Vlada put her hand on Kan’s shoulders in silence.

Finally, Kangassk got himself together. He stood up and wiped the blood from his new sword, a katana similar to the one Vlada bought in Aren-castell, but made by the master, not his stupid runaway apprentice. Kan turned his face away from the dead “freaks”. Desperately wanting to change the subject, he approached one of the goggle-eyed non-human bandits he had killed and touched the little furry body with the nose of his boot.

“I’ve never seen these creatures before,” he said.

“Maskaks.” Vlada shrugged. “There are lots of them in the North. No idea how they got here, though.”

“…So you’ve been to the North?” Kangassk kept questioning Vlada while she was bandaging his injured head.

“Yes. Many times,” she answered.

“What is it like?”

“Cold. Windy. Snowy in winter. You’ll like it there.”

“Oh, I read about snow! It’s frozen water. They say it’s beautiful…” Kan stopped dead mid sentence. “Wait! Are we going to the North?”

“Maybe, later. Right now we have to pay a visit to one special little region in No Man’s Land, then we’ll see. Now, off with the questions!” she said in a strict tone. “The caravan is departing soon. Get up onto the saddle, lean against the dunewalker’s hunch, and have some sleep. I’ll make sure you won’t fall. Go.”

“North…” whispered Kangassk, tired and drowsy. “Magical North…”

Gentle rocking of the saddle lulled him to sleep. On the very verge of the sleepy oblivion he felt Vlada’s little hands on his waist, carefully holding him so he wouldn’t be afraid of falling down.

Another day and a half passed. The caravan followed the road in complete silence, everyone tense, alert, and constantly looking around. Kangassk was no exception. His injured head hurt mercilessly, and the very thought that he might get a hit with a stone again made him furious, so staying awake wasn’t a problem. Also, he was prepared this time, bow, arrows, and all. No wonder a maskak who was unlucky enough to peek at the caravan above the dune, got an arrow to the eye.

“Yeah! Get it, sucker!” Kangassk growled victoriously.

“Good job!” Vlada clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got the scout. There won’t be a second raid now.”

“Who knows?” There suddenly was a doubt in Kan’s voice. “Maybe he wasn’t alone.”

“Even so, they will know we are alert and ready, not an easy prey at all. They won’t risk it.”

A merchant riding a dunewalker in front of Vlada and Kangassk turned his face to them and nodded in approval.

Indeed, there was no second raid.

The dunes grew smaller and smaller with every hour. Soon, the ancient cobblestones of the road were clearly visible again, their sand-repelling runes heavily worn by wind and time, but still working their magic. The feeling of being watched, hunted, gradually faded. People began to talk again. Vlada explained to her companion how the road magic worked and shared some stories from her life as a Wanderer. With all the dangers behind them the journey became quite pleasant again; the time flew.

By the next morning they had entered Border. The town was small, but well defended, both from the ever-advancing sands and possible bandit raids. Unlike the rest of Kuldagan population, Borderers didn’t bother with preserving the ancestors’ purity, so there wasn’t a single pair of identical faces in the crowd. They also were diurnal people, busy during the day, sleeping at night, just like the rest of the world behind the Mountain Ring. Kangassk was shocked at the diversity of faces, at the bubbling, noisy day life, at the coolness of the air which was so different there, close to the mountains… Needless to say, he looked hilarious in his endless shocked excitement. Vlada couldn’t help smiling every time she looked at him.

Local inns went by the word “dlar” as well, but, having many storeys connected by winding staircases, resembled little towers. Vlada rented a whole storey on top of one such tower. There were three rooms there: one for her, one for Kangassk; the third room stayed empty for the sake of the perfect peace and quiet she wanted after the journey.

Kangassk had hoped to sleep through the day as he did most of his life, but Vlada didn’t allow it. His objections ignored, the wounded guy was dragged to the nearest healer to have his head treated properly. Since using magic is too dangerous so close to No Man’s Land, the healer treated him with some nasty smelling ointment and a decoction of burngrass root, which felt precisely like what its name implied: burning mercilessly. After Kan’s head had been treated and bandaged Vlada took him to the market to buy some armour. To his surprise, they passed by all the heavily laden stalls displaying chainmails, breastplates, helmets, and all kinds of exotic items. Vlada spoke to the local weapons dealer directly and asked him for kevlar. The old master had just snarled at first, but then changed his mind and brought her a couple of thick lined cloaks, time worn, dusty, and discoloured by the sun. The price the old man asked for them made Kangassk’s jaw drop. Vlada paid it in full, not even bothering to haggle.

Vlada tried her luck again, asking for a gun, but no, the old man didn’t have one.

“No one goes into the Burnt Region anymore,” he said. “Everyone goes around. It adds two weeks to the journey, but, hey, you’ll arrive in one piece, so that’s worth it.”

The kevlar armor he sold them was some kind of family legacy from the gold rush times, hence the high price.

“Maybe we should go around as well?” Kangassk asked Vlada that evening at dinner, meek hope in his voice.

“No,” she replied.

“Why? Just why!” Kan threw his hands up in indignation.

“Because I’m in a hurry.”

“To do what?”

“Hmm…” Vlada hummed, contemplating. “Okay. Let’s say, I’m going to the Dead Region to redeem my good name and help an old friend… You can stay here, Kan. It’s a free town. No one will ever see you as a freak here. Live your life. Be happy.”

“No! I’m not letting you go to the Burnt Region alone!” Kangassk crossed his hands on his chest, his lips set stubbornly, his eyes bright and angry again.

For a few seconds the only sound breaking the awkward silence was his furious breathing.

“You are not too bad as a fighter,” said Vlada out of nowhere.

“Beginner’s luck…” Kan exhaled with a hissing noise and scratched his bandaged head. “It was my first real fight, actually…”

“I’ll teach you. We’ll have time during the journey,” she promised.

Chapter 2. I wish I had a gun

Chargas step lightly on their soft, padded paws. Dry autumn leaves may rustle under their feet, their claws may click once in a while on a stony road, but when they walk on grass you can not hear them at all because your human hearing is not sharp enough for something so subtle.

Two charga riders followed a well-trodden trade road up to the crossroads where they turned north. The narrow path they chose was a remnant of the gold rush times. Back then, when thousands of people travelled that way, their heavy boots had worn the ground down to the rock. Like an old scar, the forgotten, overgrown path was still visible through the young green undergrowth. It didn’t snake around the hills and trees, it boldly went straight through every obstacle in its way, be it a meadow or a forest. Close to the obscure border of the Burnt Region the path emerged from under the grassy carpet of weeds and flowers and headed up, turning into a wide two-track road littered with innumerable shell cases that still glinted in the dust. Gold rush times were rough times…

“What’s in the Burnt Region now?” Kangassk asked Vlada. “Is it abandoned, since no one seems to go there any more?”

“Don’t get your hopes high.” Vlada shook her head. “Yes, it’s mostly a wasteland now, but people still live there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Kan said with a lot of confidence.

Sasler was cleaning his rifle, carefully wiping every little lens in a clever device attached to its barrel. The very device that made him the most feared man in the Burnt Region: a scope.

Finally, satisfied with his work, he replaced the lid of the black case protecting the delicate lenses. When fully assembled, the scope resembled a bulging, unblinking insect eye.

As usual, before setting off for the hunt Sasler peeked into his house and waved goodbye to his wife and little son. This simple ritual was extremely important to him, for many reasons.

In the dense pine woods these hills were covered with the sunlight reached the ground in patches. Sasler avoided stepping on them, he preferred to stay in shadows where he felt more comfortable.

The weather was fine, not a single cloud in the sky. Sasler chose a comfy spot at the edge of the cliff in the shade between two blackberry bushes. He could see the whole meadow from there. All he needed now was to wait for some hungry animal to show up.

His bulge-eyed rifle lay next to him, its “eye” covered with cloth. Comfortably sprawled on the grass, Sasler waited for his prey. In such beautiful weather he could see further than usual, as far as the old road.

The old road… someone was there, heading into the heart of the Burnt Region…

“The old road goes up into the mountains,” Vlada explained. “People used to wash gold there, in the icy-cold springs, and build houses around them. Most little villages are abandoned now, but some people have stayed. I doubt they would like to see us, though. That’s why we’d better make a little detour through the forest.”

Kangassk sighed pensively and scratched his charga behind the ear. The mighty beast answered the stroke with a loud purr.

Sasler didn’t care about the old road, but he did care about his forest. Those two had just left the road and entered his territory! He grabbed his rifle, ripped the cloth off the scope, and took a closer look at the intruders.

He was glad he hadn't rushed to pull the trigger. The strangers looked very much like old Crogan's bandits, kevlar cloaks and all. It took him a whole minute to realize they weren't a part of the gang.

These two carried no guns with them, just three swords and a short bow. Plus, their chargas were heavily laden, obviously for travelling purposes.

Fools. Two young fools either seeking adventures or trying to make a shortcut through the Burnt Region despite all the warnings they no doubt got. Or, maybe, they are not fools at all, but in fact, someone much worse than Crogan’s thugs are…

Sasler tarried, balancing in indecision. The riders, two tiny black specks on the yellowish-green grassy carpet of the valley, were slowly moving in his direction. He couldn’t just kill them, not while them being innocent young fools was still a possibility. He needed more info. Having noted where they had entered the forest Sasler left the cliff. He decided to follow and watch those two, closely.

Sasler’s family was used to him being absent from home for days when he hunted, so he was in no hurry. He kept his distance, he stayed in shadows, he observed his targets from the higher ground.

From time to time he removed the cloth from the scope and took a closer look at the strangers. The scope’s high-power lens, a technological marvel no less wonderful than magic, allowed him to see their faces if he wanted and learn what they talked about. During the decades of hunting Crogan’s thugs, Sasler became quite good at lip-reading. This alone made him a threat to be feared enough to stay away from his forest. He was a local dark legend, an evil spirit reading people’s minds, striking from nowhere, unseen, unreachable, too precise to be human. Unknown to the outer world, the lonely hunter with a scope on his rifle kept Crogan's gang away from the south road and the towns it led to.

Sasler’s family knew his secret, but nobody else did. Crogan, who was way too religious for a bandit, saw the “ghost shooter” as a punishment from gods, always wondering what would they punish him for. Didn’t he pray often enough? Weren’t his sacrifices generous?

Old Crogan had killed a lot of people during his lifetime, loved a good torture too. If you had asked him whether he remembered a boy he had tortured to death for pure fun in his youth he’d just say, “Which one?” for there were many. Sasler did remember, though. The boy was his firstborn son…

“No, these two are neither Crogan’s thugs nor some other threat,” concluded Sasler by the end of the day.

The strangers, a girl and a boy, had young, honest faces. They smiled and laughed often, making jokes and sharing stories as they walked. Sasler himself couldn’t help an occasional chuckle while lip-reading their conversations.

“Adventurers,” he thought, “Young and stupid, brave and defenceless… The boy looks a bit like my late son. He must be about the same age… Sure, I’ll let them pass through my lands, but what then? What will happen when they enter Crogan’s territory?” Sasler squinted. He didn’t like the choice he faced. His family, wife and little son waiting for him at home, were on his mind, they always were, but now his late boy was too.

“No! No, damn it!” he whispered angrily waving the dark thoughts away. “I’ll look after the kids. I’ll keep them safe if I can.”

The evening came, gentle and breezy, so unlike the harsh desert nights Kangassk knew. It was time to camp, to everyone’s joy, chargas included. The beasts got tired too. Once freed from their burden they got themselves busy stripping the young trees from bark which was obviously a treat for them. Chargas are omnivorous, so they could go hunting if they wanted. These two weren’t in the mood for the hunt, though.

Vlada sent Kangassk to gather brushwood. By the time he had returned she had built a proper fire pit, with a little cauldron hanging on a hook above the neat ring of stones. The cauldron was filled with water, bits of salted meat and dried bread – the simplest wayfarer food. All that was missing was fire.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire here?” asked Kangassk who felt uneasy in the forest. “What if somebody finds us?”

“I think it’s quite safe,” Vlada assured him. “As far as I know, the local bandits avoid this forest. They believe it to be haunted or something…”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kangassk gulped. “Then I’d better build the fire right away. At least I’ll feel safer.”

He didn’t even look at the tinderbox. Most likely he didn’t even know what a tinderbox was. Why would a Kuldagan dweller even need such a thing to make a fire? They have dragonlighters for that.

Kan promptly fished the dragonlighter out of his pocket. The pocket dragon was squeaking, clawing at his jacket, and trying to squirm out of his grasp. The little thing had just eaten all the tasty crumbles Kan poured into the pocket, so it was too full and sleepy to work, no wonder it was fighting back.

“See, this is a lighter,” said Kangassk, showing the dragon to Vlada. “Just squeeze it in your hand and – whoosh! – you have fire.”

Then he did squeeze the little dragon in his hand and moved its snout above the brushwood. The branches were a bit damp, so it took them some time to catch fire.

“See!” said Kan, clearly proud of himself. “Lighters are cool! We…”

There came a thin farting sound… Kan stopped dead mid-sentence, swore, and opened his hand. There was a grey foul-smelling spot on his palm.

“You little shit!” he roared.

Vlada had several minutes of good laugh as she watched Kangassk chase the rebellious dragon in the tall grass. The nimble little creature apparently had a lot of fun as well. After its owner had tired himself out and dropped the chase it quietly returned to its nest in the jacket.

It took way longer for Vlada to calm down. She burst out laughing every time she looked at Kangassk.

“He either has a rear valve defect like half of the lighters have or maybe he’s just an uppish beast…” Kan tried to explain, so hilariously embarrassed it only made Vlada’s fits of laughter worse.

Sasler didn’t quite understand what had just happened down there but seeing the kids laugh he couldn’t help but smile himself. He wished he could warn them somehow.

The young adventurers went to sleep without leaving a lookout. They trusted their chargas to keep them safe. The beasts had keen hearing and could see in the dark as well as cats do. On top of all that they were huge, sharp-toothed, long-clawed, and insanely fast. The kids carelessly used them as fluffy pillows at the moment, but if Sasler had attempted to approach the camp the beasts would be at his throat in no time. Approaching the kids in the daytime was a no go as well. This way he’d have to deal with the nervous young archer as well as chargas.

That night Sasler went to sleep with a heavy heart.

Riding a charga is like riding a wind. Kan read about the nomads who lived on the edge of the civilized parts of Omnis and rode the tall beasts with cloven feet. The nomads’ legs bent in as a result of so much harsh riding, their backs suffered as well. No charga rider ever faced such problems. Chargas run as lightly as they walk.

The day went well. Nobody bothered the travellers, the ancient woods didn’t slow chargas much. Kangassk, a desert dweller to the bone as he was, finally put up with the forest. It didn’t seem so “haunted” in the bright sunlight, after all. Also, Vlada’s unruffled composure reassured him every time his fears tried to return.

Twice they stopped to rest and eat during the day, on the third stop they made a camp. Kan volunteered to make a fire again. This time the pocket dragon did his job without accidents. Soon, the tired company was chilling out after a long day, waiting for the soup to boil in the cauldron. Vlada’s charga was busy grooming her spotted coat, very cat-like. Kan’s charga curled up by the fire. As for the tired people, they watched the sun slowly sink beyond the forest, each filling the silence with their own thoughts.

After the simple, but filling supper Kangassk fished a book out of his backpack and leaned against his charga’s furry side to read.

“I see you with this book every time we camp,” said Vlada cheerfully, “What is it about?”

“This is the Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land,” he replied with a hint of pride in his voice and demonstrated the dusty cover to Vlada. The title was barely visible there.

Vlada nodded respectfully. Kangassk couldn’t help wondering whether the young warrior could read at all, but dropped the thought quickly for he had no desire to make a fool of himself by underestimating her again.

Suddenly inspired, Kan decided to go not for a summary, but a real paragraph instead. He started reading, his confidence fading with every page. After having read five of them he had to admit he had gravely overestimated himself. The text looked as alien to him as if it had been written in a foreign language.

“Why would someone write like that?” He spat out a curse. “You must really hate your students to torture them so.”

With a deep sigh, Kangassk gave up. He turned over a few pages and found the summary translating the muddy paragraph into a proper human speech.

“…It took the worldholders thousands of years to refine the magical system of Omnis. The problem with stabilizing the magic field emerged right after the creation of Hora Tenebris, the central generator of magic in the young world. Many living creatures are capable of stabilizing magic on their own, but humankind does not possess that ability. Since unstable magic was impossible to control, humans needed an artificial stabilizing system.

The prototype stabilizing system consisting of dozens of small stabilizers equally distributed across the continent turned out to be ineffective and dangerous. The catastrophe that followed its test is described on page 568 of “The Sources of Magic”, vol. 21).

The next system was based on two high-capacity stabilizers: ember Hora Solaris and moonstone Hora Lunaris. Each of them had an effective radius half of that of Hora Tenebris. They were placed on the opposite sides of the continent to equalize each other and provide a stable magic field for humankind to use.

The area where their zones of influence intersect and cancel each other is known as No Man’s Land, an anomalous, unstable magic region.”