Chapter 129


    Icebreaker


    The rangers followed the trail north from Westmark, the signs of the rakmen retreat still fresh, even after over a week. Broken branches, crushed snow, the faintest traces of blackened blood. Rowan kept pace with them, despite his injury, moving with the ease of someone who’d been taught well. His father had drilled those skills into him and his brother. Baroc, the ocelix, often darted ahead, a shadow among the trees, silent as death.


    When they stopped for the night, Rowan busied himself setting up camp, hands working on muscle memory. He was no stranger to this life. He’d picked up a few mushrooms and herbs on the trail too that he placed next to the provisions to be cooked up that night.


    Rusk wandered over, his boots crunching softly in the snow. “You’ve got the knack for all of this. Have to admit, it’s a relief. Nothing worse than some green lad from the south tagging along, dragging his feet like dead weight.” he remarked, watching Rowan work with a nod of approval.


    Rowan smirked thinking about Daegan in those first days on the road out of Rubastre, Rowan’d thought that about him. The lad surprised me though. Daegan was the kind of man that when you showed him something once, it stuck with him forever. He picked up new skills and tasks like he was born to them.


    “My father used to bring me and my brother up past Nortara,” Rowan said, not looking up. “Wanted us to learn the Old Ways.”


    “Aye, you’re a true northerner then,” Rusk noted, squatting down beside the fire they were building.


    “He was,” Rowan corrected. “I’m just what’s left.”


    “The Hunter, aye,” Rusk mused. “I know the song. Truth be told, I thought it was just that—a song—until I heard you and your brother were in Westmark.”


    Rowan smirked, though there was little warmth in it. “It’s mostly just a song, but... aye, he was from Jok.”


    Rusk let out a low hum of approval. “Most of the boys here are descendants of the Jok people too. Your kin make good rangers.”


    “Upbringing, I guess,” Rowan replied, tightening a rope. He didn’t mind talking about his father. Unlike Tanlor, Rowan had made peace with their fathers lies long ago. But still he wasn’t in the mood to discuss it.


    “Maybe…” Rusk studied him for a moment, as if weighing something. “But I think it’s something more. Something in your blood, gives you a connection to this place. Your kind always seem to fit here, more natural than the rest of us outsiders.”


    Rowan shrugged, not quite knowing how to respond. There was something about this land that spoke to him, something deep in his bones. But whatever it was, he wasn’t about to start waxing lyrical about it. This wasn’t the time.


    “I’m always looking for new rangers,” Rusk stated with no small measure of suggestion, “think on it.” He patted Rowan’s shoulder and then was off to listen to the reports.


    Baroc returned with the rangers who’d been scouting ahead, their faces calm, enough of a sign to give Rowan enough to guess at their report—nothing yet. No sign of the rakmen then. Looked like they’d pushed back to Aryle, just as expected. Baroc settled by the fire, accepting the respectful nods from the other rangers. They treated him like something sacred, which was odd to Rowan. He hadn’t realised how much the rangers of the western woods revered the ocelix.


    “Urushak idek mahan ocelix,” Rowan said, inclining his head. Respect and welcome fire, ocelix. Rusk had given him the phrase earlier, said it was one of the highest greetings in Old Esterin. Rowan figured it was time he showed Baroc the deference he deserved—especially after hearing the stories from the other rangers. Some of them caught out by rak war parties only to be saved by an ocelix, fast and deadly as a black panther in the trees. Others—as Rusk had implied—lost in the high passes, led back to safer trails. Rowan had listened, amazed.


    “Thank,” Baroc rumbled, his voice so deep it took Rowan a second to realise he’d responded in Common Tongue.


    “You can speak common?” Rowan asked, eyebrows raised.


    “Learn,” Baroc growled. “Listen.”


    Impressive. After only a few weeks travelling with men since Twin Garde, Baroc had picked up enough of their language to hold his own.


    “Ferrax,” Baroc growled. “Follows.”


    Rowan paused mid-motion, his hands tightening around the strap he’d been fastening to his pack. “Aye,” he said, thinking back to the camp. “Since the camp.”


    Baroc pointed at him, the massive paw oddly deliberate. “Rowan.”


    “Yes, I’m Rowan.”


    Baroc shook his head—an oddly human gesture from a creature whose face looked more like a lion than anything else. “Follow Rowan.”


    Rowan stared. “The ferrax… is following me?”


    Baroc nodded again, his golden eyes gleaming in the firelight, expression unreadable.


    “Why?” Rowan asked, incredulous.


    A peculiar look crossed Baroc’s face, one Rowan couldn’t quite place. Was that a grimace? Or a smile?


    “Tusharaak muheen,” Baroc offered, spreading his paws in what might’ve been an approximation of a shrug.


    “You’re not sure?” Rowan ventured, trying to interpret the ocelix’s body language.


    Baroc shook his head again, slow and measured. There was a loose rope nearby, fallen from a tent support. Baroc picked it up, draped it over a rock, then brought his fist down hard, snapping it clean in two. He looked up and pointed directly at Rowan.


    “I freed it,” Rowan muttered, nodding as he pieced it together.


    “Ferrax knows. Ferrax watches,” Baroc intoned, his voice heavy with meaning, as if there was more beneath the words.


    Rusk came back to the fire, offering a respectful nod to Baroc before settling down beside him. The two exchanged words in Old Esterin, their voices low, flowing in that ancient tongue. Rowan listened, catching pieces of their conversation but never quite enough to follow along properly. Others joined the fire too, those not on first watch, sitting in a circle, boots crunching against the frosted ground, huddling close to the warmth.


    After a stretch of silence, Rusk glanced up at the group, his gaze sweeping over them. “We’ll swing west tomorrow,” he said. “Escort Baroc to Fellim’s Pass.” A murmur of agreement rippled through the men. "Aye, I know,” Rusk cut them off before they could protest. “We’ll be more exposed on the mountainside, but from there we can get a better survey of the forest from higher ground. If the rakmen are moving in the numbers the Reldoni prince claims, they won’t be able to hide the fires from that many camps. We''ll follow Fellim’s Pass up to the peak of Old Man’s Finger. With a bit of luck with the weather, we’ll see clear across to Aryle itself.”


    Rowan frowned. “And if there are rakmen in the pass?”


    “True enough we’ve crossed paths with a few up in the mountains, but never in any great numbers. We can handle a handful.”


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    Rowan nodded, though his mind lingered on the thought. A few rak? He wasn’t worried about that either. But the camp he’d been held in? Over fifty of the creatures. Rak war parties that large? Unheard of. Times were changing, and if the others didn’t see it yet, Rowan sure as hell did.


    A couple of weeks ago, Rowan wouldn’t have even thought about stepping on Rusk’s toes. Command was command, after all. His grandfather, Bodh Garron, had drilled it into him and Tanlor since they were boys: Biting against the chain only makes it chink. When orders are given, you shut your mouth and follow them. That was Bodh’s way with him and Tanlor at least. His eldest grandson, Boern—Rowan’s cousin and now Duke of Garron—had never quite gotten the same speech.


    But Rowan couldn’t keep quiet now. He had no interest in ending up back in chains at some rak camp. And he certainly wasn’t keen on dying under a rak blade.


    “Are there places in the pass where the rak could ambush us?” Rowan asked, his eyes on Rusk. “With the higher ground, they’d see us coming long before we’d have a chance to spot them.”


    Rusk grunted, rubbing at his jaw. “Aye, there’s a few places like that. Steep climbs, tight turns. But don’t worry, we’ll be sending the fastest ahead to scout. Baroc’s already volunteered to go, and the other scouts will check those spots.”


    Rowan nodded. It was standard practice, but it still sat uneasy with him. Sending their best scouts ahead left them exposed.


    “What about setting hidden lookouts with them?” Rowan suggested. “The best archers, in case they need to fall back. Keep the pressure off.”


    Rusk’s eyebrows lifted. “Aye, not a bad idea at all.”


    “How many among us are runewielders?” Rowan asked, his eyes flicking over the group. Every man carried a bow and sword, but Rowan wanted to know if there were any hidden talents beneath all the steel.


    “I’ve got a topaz,” Rusk grunted, “I’m no grenadier mind, more for practicality, than nothing else.”


    “Scont’s… well, dunno what you’d call him in runewielding terms. He’s got a waterstone,” Rusk added, nodding toward Scont, who sat across the fire.


    “A wavecaller?” He studied Scont with surprise, he didn’t exactly fit the image of one. “I’m surprised you’re not making your fortune on a merchant ship. You’d earn a fair more coin out on the waves than freezing your arse off up here.”


    Wavecallers were in high demand—commanders of the seas, bending water to their will. They weren’t exceptionally rare but their services were still in high demand. Even ones who didn’t like being at sea earned ten times what a soldier could by manning a seawall to protect towns against storm tides.


    “Ugh,” Scont muttered, running a hand through his tangled dark hair. “I ain’t no proper wavecaller. It was my ma’s stone. She tried teaching me for years but… water’s just not my thing.”


    Rowan raised an eyebrow. “So… what is your thing, exactly?”


    Scont gave a sheepish shrug. “Ice. I can work ice.”


    “Icebreaker, get it?” Moz, another ranger—cleaner cut than the rest, sporting only a moustache—chimed in with a smug grin.


    Rowan ignored the pun, intrigued. “I’ve never heard of anyone manipulating ice with a waterstone before.”


    Scont shrugged again. “Maybe they never got the chance. Most wavecallers stick to the sea, yeah? But up here, surrounded by snow and ice… I figured it out after getting stationed at Westmark.”


    “Why didn’t you sell the stone if you couldn’t work it properly?”


    “‘Cause it was my ma’s,” he said matter-of-factly and Rowan supposed that needed no further explanation.


    “So what exactly can you do with it?” Rowan leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.


    A confident grin spread across Scont’s face as he stood, taking a few steps back from the fire. He raised his hand, eyes narrowing in focus. It hadn’t snowed in days, but this far north, a dusting of snow clung to the ground and trees. The white flakes began to shift, drawn toward Scont as if he were the centre of a whirlpool.


    "Don’t flake under pressure now," Moz said, chuckling to himself.


    The movement quickened, the snow rushing in a flurry, swirling above his palm where it began to compact.


    Rowan watched as the ice twisted and took form. Scont flicked his wrist, and the ice shaped itself into something that resembled an icicle... or a blade.


    An iceblade.


    Rowan realised it was not so different from how he conjured stonespears with his aradium. The blade hovered above Scont the Scout’s hand, wobbling slightly as his face tightened in concentration. Then, with a sudden motion, Scont thrust his hand forward. The gesture was unnecessary—Rowan knew many runewielders needed a physical action to help guide their edir—but it did the trick.


    The iceblade shot off into the trees, zipping through the air like a crossbow bolt. Faster than a stonespear.


    “Impressive,” Rowan admitted, nodding.


    Scont grimaced as he sat back down by the fire. “It shatters on impact against anything hard. But if I make ‘em sharp enough, they’ll cut into a rak. My aim’s gettin’ better too.”


    “That it is, lad,” Rusk said, clapping him on the shoulder with a nod of encouragement. “You keep at it.”


    "Just don’t freeze up when you’re facing up against a rak with one of them, yeah?" Moz offered.


    Rusk groaned, shaking his head. "Gods, Moz, enough with the bloody puns…. Although, as much as I hate to admit with Moz, he’s got a point, lad," he turned back to Scont, his tone more serious now. "Wait till you know for sure you can pull that off in the thick of a fight. No point risking your neck on a flashy stunt when an arrow will do the job just as well."


    Rowan nodded agreement, though there was a bit more to it than that. Judgement in battle came down to using the right tool at the right time, sure. Most often, that meant the bow or the blade. But when those options failed? When you were out of arrows? When steel couldn’t save you? That’s when you''d better hope you’d trained yourself to rely on that edge, to draw on your runestone with certainty. Rowan had learned that lesson the hard way, time and again. His aradium had saved him more times than he could count. And Tanlor? He practically lived by his topaz in battle.


    The thing about runestones? They were your last line of defence—and a damn powerful one if you knew how to wield them right. Rowan glanced at Scont, who looked eager, if a bit green. He''d need a quiet word with him later, away from the others. No point talking about it here and now. That kind of advice was best given one-on-one.


    "Where do the ocelix live?" Scont asked after a stretch of silence. "I know they’re up in the high passes but… do they have a village or something?"


    Baroc’s gaze shifted to Scont, his keen eyes fixed on the young ranger. Rowan didn’t think the ocelix was worried, more likely just figuring out the meaning behind the question.


    Rusk turned to Baroc, offering a clearer version. "Haro ranshiik,” he said, then, “home—a place your people gather?"


    Baroc’s eyes flicked back to Scont, his voice a low rumble. "Where Sky meet Earth."


    "Right," Scont muttered, clearly not understanding but respectful enough not to push it further.


    ***


    The scent of rakmen was thick in the air.


    Baroc could smell it as clearly as he could the earth underfoot. The main force of the creatures had moved north more than a week ago, the stench they left behind fading with the days. But something fresher lingered, carried on the wind from all directions, warning him. He had tried to explain this to Rusk—the leader of the rangers—but he wasn’t sure the man had truly grasped what it meant.


    These pale ones, as Baroc called them, were an oddity to him. He was an ocelix from the Shadow Peaks, lands far to the north, beyond what the Rubanians once called Jok. Baroc’s people had kin that lived closer to this place. The mountains to the west of here, in the sacred mountain of Korvethra—where the Sky meets the Earth. Baroc’s chieftain had once called it the Edge of the World, a place of great importance to his people. Baroc had never been there himself, but he had always felt its pull.


    In truth, this was the furthest south Baroc had ever travelled. He’d been captured by the rakmen and then freed by the pale ones. He’d had an obligation to them. A debt owed to aid them in rescuing their companions. That debt was now paid and he was now closer to the sacred mountain Korvethra than he was before. The threads of the great fates always leading him unseen.


    It had surprised him, though, how much these pale ones of Westmark knew of his kind. They spoke the correct greetings, offered respect, and knew of the ocelix. It strengthened his belief that he was indeed close to Korvethra.


    Dawn was breaking, painting the mountains in the distance in deep shades of blue and grey. But none of the peaks stirred anything within him. It wasn’t yet the mountain. The real peak, he believed, would tower beyond them, somewhere past the high passes the pale ones spoke of.


    And then he caught a scent, faint but distinct—something only an ocelix could recognise. Like a clear wind passing through trees at sunset. A sacred beast. A ferrax. The very same one the pale one, Rowan, had freed.


    Baroc was becoming more certain with each passing day; the ferrax was following Rowan. Chosen him. That was unheard of, in Baroc’s lifetime or any of his people’s stories. But the signs were there, unmistakable.


    Rowan slept not far from Baroc, his face half-covered by the red of his hair. Rua, the red ones, were said to have been born under lucky stars among Baroc’s people.


    Baroc’s eyes flicked back to the mountains, then to the sleeping pale one. The ferrax had chosen Rowan. Of this, Baroc was certain.


    But the bond is far from sealed. To do that, they would need to journey to Korvethra, to the sacred mountain. Only the elders there would know the ancient rites to forge the bond of souls.


    Baroc knew it was his task to convince Rowan to follow him all the way. The fates had guided him for this purpose, of this he was now certain.