Cold obsidian

Kan felt dizzy upon realizing who were the two mages in front of him; who was the pretty girl he’d wished to stay with that night in Tammar; who was the morose guy he’d yelled at not a long time ago…

“What now, Sereg?” Kan heard.

The conversation had been going without him for some time. The worldholders, their recent bitterness gone, sat at the black stone side by side, holding their hands like a couple of enamoured kids and discussing their next move. The tired chargas, curled up in a ball, slept by their feet; the Dead Region remained silent. Not a single living soul in the whole world had noticed Kangassk’s “eureka!” moment.

“Let’s go to my Tower,” said the Grey Inquisitor. “I failed to track the thief while the trail had still been hot, so I guess it’s time for a proper investigation now. I hope we’ll learn something together.”

“May I take Kangassk with me?” asked Vlada the Warrior in exactly same tone a child uses to ask her mother whether she can keep some dirty, scrawny stray kitten. She even added: “Please, Sereg…”

“Oh, all right, for goodness sake…” the mighty mage yielded.

Yes, he allowed her to keep the kitten. Exactly that… Kangassk barely restrained himself from dropping a snarky comment about the situation.

They woke the chargas up. Since there were only two chargas but three people now, everyone travelled on foot. They had at least three days of slow walking in front of them according to the map. Maps don’t take a ton of minor obstacles into account, though, so in reality, journeys always take longer.

They didn’t come very far that day, just far enough to make a camp where it would be absolutely safe from sylphs. Kangassk, however tired he was, had a lot of questions but kept them to himself for the moment. The worldholders spoke quite freely when they thought he wasn’t paying attention and their talk was worth listening to.

Vlada mentioned that “Chasm” again, the shortcut Sereg used to get to the Dead Region quickly, and suggested using it to return to the Grey Tower. The stern northern lord turned pale as she said that.

“No way!” he refused. “You have no idea what’s going on there at the moment. The Jesters are raging. And the Stygian spiders… No, we’re not going back through the Chasm! Period.”

Two new words and a lot of new questions… Kangassk understood little but kept listening.

Their next day’s journey through the Dead Region was uneventful. The grey, monotonous landscape and the slow walking pace they were now moving at made all three people sleepy and grumpy. The gloomy mood didn’t affect the chargas, though: fully rested, unburdened, they frolicked around like little kittens; bags, packs, and rolls jumping at their furry backs as they played. The mighty beasts barely noticed them at all.

Kangassk kept observing the worldholders, the faint hope of seeing them perform a wonder or two still alive in his heart. Unfortunately, Vlada and Sereg didn’t even talk much that day. They walked side by side in meaningful silence, Sereg carefully matching his stride to Vlada’s pace, and looked no more majestic and powerful than Kangassk himself.

The further away they went from the crater the brighter the world looked. Soon, seeing tiny yellowish blades of grass sticking through the soft carpet of grey dust made Kangassk’s heart jump with joy. He had become very fond of everything green since he left Kuldaganian sands behind. Now, he even knelt down and gently stroked the sad tuft of wasteland plants with his palm, thinking of how he missed fields and forests he barely knew way more than anything related to his sandy motherland.

His hopes high again, he hurried to catch up with the rest of the group.

The grey day passed like a bad dream. That evening, they camped at a tiny islet of grassy turf at the edge of the Dead Region. There were meadows and trees visible in the distance, so the next day’s journey looked promising. But the night before it? Not so much…

They were out of firewood, so their supper was dry wayfarer rations and cold water, their only protection from cold were their cloaks. The chargas had to make do with wayfarer rations as well for there was no game to hunt and the local yellowish grass was not to their taste, the very grass Kangassk had kneeled to stroke several hours before.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Kan asked the chargas. “Sure, it’s not as green as you’d like but you can’t be so picky when…”

“Huh-huh, good luck making them eat moongrass, kid!” Sereg sniffed at him. It was the first time the ancient mage had noticed the Kuldaganian that day.

“What’s wrong with moongrass?” Kan asked, being as sincerely naive as he was curious.

“Moongrass is deadly,” explained Vlada, “it’s a kind of grass you need if you want to poison your arrows.”

“I had no idea…” Kan sighed and fell silent.

He kept himself busy with nibbling at the dry ration bar for a while and let his thoughts free to go whichever way they liked. They could go exploring all kind of dreams and fantasies but no, they chose to dwell on the past and make Kan’s mood spiral down into the greyest gloom as they did that.

“His bride gave him that stone,” Vlada had said yesterday, “he had no idea what it was…”

Kangassk nearly choked on his food. His loud, raspy cough that followed, was so cruel it made Vlada worry for his well being. The ancient worldholder sat beside the puny mortal and carefully patted him on the back.

“Vlada…” Kan uttered between coughs. “You said… cough… yesterd… cough… something about my bride and that… ss.. stone…”

“And?”

“So that… cough… little… cough… brat… is my future bride? ‘D… destinies cross’… You meant – this way?”

“True,” Vlada confirmed all his suspicions with one word and one nod. “Believe me, you disappointed her as well.”

“Why’s that?” Kan asked, so a

“Za

“I see,” said Kan gravely and spread his hands in a defeated gesture. “Not a mage, not a warrior, just a usual guy… Yeah, I get it now…”

Kangassk heard the second worldholder snort behind his back in an attempt to stifle a burst of laughter.

“Hey, cheer up! She gave you the stone, after all,” Vlada patted his back again. “She’s giving you a chance…”

“Hmph! Like I need a snotty brat for a bride!” with that being said – in the most spiteful and offended ma

The pocket dragon went for his evening walk to stretch his paws and wings a bit. He tried his luck at hunting for a while but the only game for him there were gnats – nasty critters, hard to catch, no fun to eat – so he switched to burning grass instead. The tiny dragonlighter must have felt mighty and powerful now, finally having something to defeat. The poisonous moongrass burned and shrivelled, blue smoke curled and danced around him as he spat his tiny bursts of fire back and forth.

“That’s the lovely grass for you,” Kangassk said to himself, all the gloomy thoughts and dark regrets summed up in one phrase. “And I even kneeled to stroke it, like a fool…”

He counted that day among the bad ones, made a wish so the next day would be better, rolled himself up into his cloak, leaned against his charga’s furry shoulder for a pillow, and went to sleep.