The Wight Chronicles - Summer: Pathfinder and the Wight of the Waters

by Sqoad

CH.03 - The Culling Grounds Insignia

--- Many Days Ago ---

When you had floated over the ocean for so many cycles you had lost count, on a vessel that barely qualified as a boat, you would have been forgiven to think death was inevitable. But the sailor feebly raised its head and spotted the endless mountain range spanning across the horizon, and prayed to the twenty three patrons - including the seven wicked ones.

"The Sky Curtain, at last!" the sailor cheered and climbed up on its two feet, having lied down on the floor for the most part.

The wind blew very lightly and a quick glance at the sail showed that it was not in the boat's favour. Not disappointed, nor overly concerned with this, the sailor took a deep breath and breathed at the sails, vocalising:

Blow winds.

The sails took wind that had not been there before, and carried the boat with great speed towards the mountain range ahead. The sailor gauged the distance, and the location, roughly estimating where the entrance was. Though it took a considerable while to arrive, the sailor was too distracted with optimistic thoughts to worry about the hunger and thirst that had ached over the last few cycles. At least the water had stopped falling from the sky; the snow did not fall out of nowhere in these oceans; and the sun could not reach into the small hut, nor would it return once the sailor passed to the other side of the mountain. The safety of shade would soon be upon the sailor.

The entrance was treacherous and secret, and the sailor was alone in finding it at the start of the venture that had brought the sailor so far from home. Keeping steady and using an oar to push away from the walls, the sailor skilfully manoeuvred through the passage, and was soon in home waters.

"Heaven Over the Azure," the sailor cried and looked to the blue lands in the horizon.

This was home where everything was different. Green leaves on trees was unheard of in this land, as was brown trunks. It was just as it was, and questions only further complicated the matter. The sailor sat down and sung in false tone, from lack of practise.

Leave and wind, our solemn oath, we sail beyond

the treacher-soul, the cold and heat, the whip's lash, we abscond.
Beyond and above--- the sky blue o'er our home---

for feel of flight---, the farers sing their song---

Brushing the water surface with the fingers, rippling the grizzled reflection.

Into the light, away from fright, the song is sung

and off we fare, as far we dare, below us shadows hung.
For us small, the way of all, the way is set

near and far, beyond that star, to treasures hold soon yet.
In unknown land--- touched with our own hand---

brazen fortune sky--- and we begin again---

It was clear the sailor had lost touch with its muse long ago, barely able to keep to a note, or remember the right lyrics (it seemed). But just as well, as singing had not saved the sailor all this time, nor would it have served a purpose.

Just then a ship came within frightful distance, seemingly without origin as it turned to meet side-by-side. It was a large vessel with many hatches for cannons, enough to perforate another vessel in a single run. On that ship's edge a tall figure leaned over and smiled.

"Fortune smile on us, a farfarer is within our midst!" the figure cheered, "come, board our vessel, behold its maiden voyage for yourself."

Not one to argue against an invitation likely to lead to food and drink, the sailor climbed aboard, struggling with the new design of ladder, comprised entirely out of rope.

"Tell me your name, farfarer, so that I, and my crew, may know you," the other sailor said extending a helpful hand.

"Valkon, son of Dusell, of the Commons District's Far Steppe, the Horse Acres," the sailor replied in characteristic archaic mode; but immediately regretted using a lengthy titular introduction as a farfarer should be divorced from their origins.

"A commoner, sure to have such a long, tedious name. I trust you do not introduce yourself like so at every encounter," the other sailor said, inadvertently belittling the implications of Valkon's noble birth, "I am Dal Vega," the other sailor continued, "and you know my name well."

In truth Valkon was unfamiliar with the name Dal Vega; but made an educated guess at weapons trade, considering Dal was the name of the patron of battle. Dal Vega, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the name Valkon, the patron of leadership. But with a surname came rank, and with a ship came power, so Dal was likely reckoning himself above Valkon and offered no due respect other than to the farfarer's trade.

"Tell us your story, farfarer, my crew will delight in it at this dreary time," Dal urged and called his deck hands over.

This was not what Valkon wanted. Yet, in hope of compensation, an offer was made: "I will, if you tell which story you would like to hear."

"Your most recent one, farfarer, so we may know why you..." Dal paused and gestured around Valkons head, "... look like a pouch-weaver spider's nest."

The crew, each one with a shaven face like Dal's, appeared eager. Valkon's face was hairy indeed - an impressive feat considering his kind, the children, barely grew any hair on their faces, unlike their wer counterparts. But this story was not one to tell the masses, certainly not a military child such as Dal. Before Valkon could begin to lie, however, another ship came into view, and Valkon dismayed at the sight of the make.

"Today is a day of matrimony," Valkon suggested to Dal, not certain, but worried.

"You remember the days well, farfarer. True. It is so. Now tell us, tell us of your journey," Dal urged again.

Valkon might have been penalised for failing to address this day, by virtue of class-versus-class injustice, but not this day. Taking a deep breath, Valkon uttered the first sentence that came to mind: "It is surely a story you will soon wish to..."

...forget.

Suddenly, as if the world itself along with all its smells and sounds had vanished, the whole crew stood dumbfounded at their spots. Valkon looked worriedly around the deck, trying to gauge the condition of the crew, but relaxed when Dal toppled over and fell to the floor without anyone reacting. Valkon hurried back down to the boat and prepared to sail away when, next to the small boat, a larger one more suited for speedy sailing appeared. It was, however, occupied.

"Farfarer," the occupant started and hooked the vessels together, "the dragons breath ire of me; I must subvert them. Tell me where their ilk can not reach."

Valkon knew time was short, but was eager to trade ship if possible: "I know of a place, far away, if you are willing to trade vessels."

The occupant did not pause before replying: "Vessels we may trade, but I keep my provisions."

"I say fair deal," Valkon replied, knowing well a ship sails faster without cargo.

The occupant, without a sense of urgency, began shifting its possessions over to the farfarer's boat. Valkon, who had no way of knowing how long the spell cast upon Dal and the crew would last, was getting progressively more anxious and began, by own initiative, to help organise the occupant's possessions into stacks in order to accelerate the trade.

And then Valkon noticed the horse. Strong and tall as a war horse should be, it was standing on the deck of the occupant's boat. Valkon hid the tears of anxiety and began to guide the horse over to the other vessel, and into the hut that was small for a child, but smaller still for a war horse.

"It is for an equine to stand in," Valkon informed as the horse laid down in its cramped lodging.

"To lay down in," the occupant said, sounding very unconvinced whilst stepping over to Valkon's boat.

"You know of recent events," Valkon presumed, "I wish to know of any transitions in the Far Steppe."

"The Commons District means nothing to me," the occupant riddled, "although the dock workers hinted at a change in the distribution of power. A House fell long ago."

"House Moss then, always the weak one they were," Valkon said in relief.

"I await your end of the bargain."

"I am House Alabaster. I make it a matter of urgency to learn of any transitions when I return from travel."

The occupant pointed to the horse and said: "That is an Alabaster war horse, I am sure you recognise."

Valkon looked at the horse again, but did not recognise it. It had the typical dark brown coat, and strong muscle that showed well in any light, but it also had a silvery mane, which one never saw an Alabaster horse boast. Indeed, they would be dark throughout.

"False, in honest, it looks different."

"So it does," the occupant said in agreement, "but I dare say the breeder passed it to me in person."

"That is good news," Valkon said, meaning that House Alabaster could not have been the House that fell.

"You still have not fulfilled your end of the bargain," the occupant said calmly.

Valkon looked at the occupant, who had just sat down and begun adjusting the helmet on a small casket by the hut. Armoured from head to toe in leather, chain and plate fitting for a fearsome fighter - likely a mercenary - and masked with a dragon's skull. The occupant further had a fine sword with a bone-crafted hilt, set with two small, round, black stones at his side, and curved knives at each hip. A stiletto sheathed in a leather pouch was mounted on the breast plate, akin to the old legend of poisoned blades used in death matches.

"A mercenary does not easily anger dragons so much as to need sheltering in faraway lands," Valkon pried, having almost forgotten about the earlier urgency to escape Dal and the crew.

The occupant met Valkon's eyes with its own silvery ones, a feature all children shared, revealing his deep contempt of the implied question. Valkon backed away to avoid eye contact, despite having missed seeing the look of other children's eyes.

"You placed those men under an obliviating influence. It will not last much longer," the occupant said and stood up again, revealing a light blue and silver trimmed surcoat bearing the Culling Grounds' insignia, "I await you to uphold your end of the bargain."

The Culling Grounds insignia, the winged silver equine with a fiery, golden mane - a fabled creature never before witnessed by child or wer - was adorned only by the loathers: the feared hunters of all things living. Valkon wanted to make an informed statement about the insignia, in line with what had been witnessed in this most recent of journeys, hoping to dissolve the loather's provoked contempt for him, but fret the consequences of delaying further.

"There," Valkon said and pointed, "you will sail through the Sky Curtain, through a crevice as wide as this boat can pass through. The dragons will not see you enter, and they never spy over the edge on the other side. Sail south-west for a two-of-ten (twenty) or more cycles and you will find land."

The loather drew breath.

Get off this boat.

Valkon felt a creeping sensation never felt before. Having frozen in snow, and swum in cold waters, this was as if the two had been combined and Valkon's limbs moved on their own. Valkon tried to dive into the water without willing, but was caught by the loather and thrown over to the other vessel.

"Loather! Beware when you get there!" Valkon tried after regaining the ability to speak, "In that land are strange things! Let nothing surprise you! Question not that which you do not understand!"

The loather looked patiently at Valkon whilst pushing the boats away from one another. "A fine religion," the loather complimented.

Valkon's new boat was now turning towards port whilst the loather blew upon the mast, sending the vessel away at tremendous speed as it cut through the waves without resistance. It was a true sailing vessel, but Valkon feared a mistake had been made. Loathers were cunning beings. Almost entirely carnivorous, and very secretive indeed. As for the insignia, the winged equine, Valkon wished having dared to speak of the sights that had been seen. But now the winds carried Valkon away, the loather was only a speck on the horizon, and they would never meet again.

Valkon sat up and pondered as the Commons District's waterfronts came into sight. The time away had surely warranted house arrest. It would not be a smooth returning. This would be a grim one.