artificial peace while others cower in their burrows praying that this breathless tranquility is nothing more than a lapse and not an inhale of preparation." He sighed, "I know too much for peaceful nights or untroubled days, yet far from enough to safeguard us as I would wish. Winsyria recedes; his power is no longer used as it was. Many consider it a weakening, but it is not; a bargain has been struck, and I cannot see its laws." The High-Warden paused, considering his next words. "All paths hence are shadowed; I do not know which road is best." He shrugged, sighing to release more frustration. "I think we are all pawns for now, and until I discover more, we shall remain thus. The question is: Who's controlling us?"
At these last words, a shiver ran through Maern's blood. He leaned back, setting aside his repast and clasping the tea mug for warmth. His mind wandered the roads of queries and doubts, guessing at players he could not conceive.
Hours passed before Maern surfaced from his thoughts. Of the once vibrant fire, only embers glowed in the hearth. Night had fallen outside, calling the Wolf away to its eternal song. The High-Warden stood before the hearth, dressed in flickering light and watching the embers, his bronze eyes veiled with internal shadows.
Maern stood, reaching for his glass sword laid to rest beside his seat. He felt a need within him; a summons from The North, a silent reminder that his labors were incomplete. The derangers patrolled the trackless North, searching for whatever foreign monsters managed to slip past Adriat. They gave little heed to the affairs of kingdoms and empires, of armies or warlords. They guarded the land while lesser men guard their children.
Maern looked to the High-Warden. "You will be needed in Antiark."
"I know, I can hear their pleas whispering, the dead accusing and the living bitter; I cannot help either. I have my own task waiting. When it is done, I will lend my strength to Antiark." The High-Warden stirred the fire, giving himself time to reflect. "I fear that the New Order is a diversion. I fear this war shall reach its wretched fingers into our heartland up to the walls of Antiark. I fear those who call The North home shall trade tranquility for power and tainted gold."
"You speak of the Weshac." Maern donned his sword, preparing for the overdue departure.
"Yes. Their latest pretense of a king is dead. Even if he was not, the laws governing their race are fragile. The New Order will find an easy alliance with the outcasts. Those Weshac hunger for power with which to broker their return and fulfill their long desired revenge."
The High-Warden turned from the embers and walked to a shadowed corner. Extending a hand into the veiling shroud, he removed twin swords. Even after three hundred years, no one had seen them unsheathed or knew their potential. The High-Warden mimicked his blades, existing as a mystery of leashed power and unknown origins.
He inspected the weapons, all the more terrible for their beauty. They belonged to him from a time lost to memory, and, throughout that time, they had rarely seen the light. They were Talwars, as long from pommel to tip as the average man stands. Though they were heavier than a normal man could wield, the High-Warden held them with ease. A full two inches in width at the spine and six inches of blade at the base; the weapons curved, expanding to a near foot before tapering to a point. Maern shivered, a sense of foreboding darkening his heart.
"Will you serve, High-Warden?" This question revealed Maern's purpose: a task given to him by Lord Antiark. The query itself was merely decorum, a petition of the High-Warden in days of war: In the years of peace, none shall have greater power than the High-Warden, though he shall not reign. In times of war, none shall have greater power than the Lord of Antiark, though the Lord of Antiark has no command over the High-Warden unless the High-Warden submits to his commands."This passage declares the High-Warden subordinate to none, unless he submits to Lord Antiark during times of war.
The High-Warden of Winsyria served a single purpose: a guard against the greatest supernatural forces the Mortal Kingdoms harbored. The Lord of Antiark was the sentinel against the mortal tyrants who rise and fall reaping the profits of war. Lord Antiark and the High-Warden existed as the most powerful forces in The North, barring the Winter Court.
"No, Maern, I will not serve." Maern bowed, expecting nothing else after listening to the High-Warden.
"What are the tasks you mentioned?" He queried, intending to convey Lord Antiark's offer of assistance, yet no answer came. The High-Warden, at last, looked up, his eyes cold with fury; a fury that inflamed with every black boot that tread the soil of his home.
"Though already beset, The North is better served by the prevention of any other foe seeking spoils. These are tasks neither the derangers, nor Lord Antiark should interfere with. You still have time, though, so rest, and resume your obligations in the morning. Cherish this peace, for it will be hard to find in the days ahead." The High-Warden gestured to a mattress in another corner.
The deranger hesitated before accepting. His fatigue, masked while he conversed with the High-Warden, returned in full, defying his attempts to ignore it. Wrapping himself in the woolen blankets, he watched through heavy lids as the High-Warden brushed one callused hand across an ornate pommel. Maern closed his eyes, accepting this gift of tranquility and trusting the High-Warden of Winsyria to accomplish the necessary tasks.
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Returning to the fire and pulling the intricate scabbards encasing the Talwars across his shoulders, the High-Warden released a breath. The Talwars knew the hour of their first song neared, the scent of that forthcoming moment lay draped across the air, teasing him with phantom sounds and laden whispers.
He commenced his last preparations for departure, first adding fuel to the hearth, then laying out the last meat and bread for when Maern awoke. Finally, glancing to ensure nothing was displaced, he exited into the wrathful storm.
He could feel The North's wrath swelling up to embrace him. It desired to unleash itself on the intruders, to ravage them until nothing remained. Interlaced with that rage, however, he felt its elemental, instinctive fear, and almost wept for it. The North knew the gods would come with their fire and their oppression, seeking to crush it, to shackle it to their Pantheon, nothing more than a broken wolfhound kept for amusement and display. It was his task to prevent this, to defy the gods.
Feeling their rage reverberating through the earth, he looked toward the Rhawn Mountains, intimidating with their razor peaks and cruel with their storms of ice and snow. To him, their fury deafened the screaming winds, a rage that went unheard by almost anyone else. The earth trembled and the heavens thundered, threatening to split; and they would split, they would shatter if ever he relinquished The North.
His skin prickled, aggravated by the energy latent on the air. The North was gathering its strength. Whether he wished it or not, this land would destroy itself before yielding to the Pantheon.
The High-Warden, knowing his every stride took him farther down a road of no return, stepped forward. He knew he would never return to this sanctuary, his home for the three hundred years of his Burdening. Turning south, he began his journey to Antiark.
Throughout the eternal memory of immortals, the Rhawn have stood in The North, an impenetrable barrier guarding the land. As he stepped onto their black roots, snaking along and beneath the snow, the winds died, and the ever-shrouding mist engulfed him. The High-Warden greeted the Rhawn Mountains, laying callused hands on the primordial rock. They slept now, dreamless in their protective vigil and wrathful in their slumber. Still, they answered him, rising from their memories at the touch of an old friend. He soothed their troubled thoughts with a whispered promise, calming their dangerous ire.
He journeyed toward the numberless peaks, a twilight surrounding him and mists filling his every stride. Despite his solitude, he was never alone; the Rhawn Mountains always accompanied him. He heard the wind just beyond his reach; saw the trees thrashing in shared fury while their leaves of gold, burgundy, and emerald fluttered helplessly. He completed the journey of weeks in hours; the Rhawn opening cre
vices for him, and the mist bending distance to hasten his pace until he reached one of the Rhawn's many summits where The North's tapestry opened before him in all its beauty.
Twelve cities rose across the country of men within The North. They began with Adriat where it stood in Winter's Gate, reclining on the banks of the Annuir'Hyme and guarding the only aperture in the Rhawn's perfect continuity. It was the City of War, and the only entrance into The North men dared take because only fools travel the Northern seas.
The High-Warden looked to the four horizons, soliciting knowledge of current events from The North. The wind answered his summons, carrying images of all that transpired. He saw longships with wolf-prows rising and falling over the waves searching for a river flowing inland. He saw a serpent of iron and men slithering across the earth pursued by another of lighter skin. The High-Warden released the wind; the hour grew late. The New Order had succeeded in circumventing Winter's Gate through deception and a sacrifice of hired soldiers. They raced toward Antiark, pursued by Lord Adriat's legions.
The High-Warden of Winsyria allowed himself one last glance, a final farewell to what he relinquished. Then he turned and descended the mountain toward Antiark