II
It was the latest snowfall he had ever experienced, but the southern reaches of Tourant were well known for late season storms.
Sylvain du Lune D'or gazed idly out over the western reaches of the city of Montcalm, watching a light flurry of snow fall over his holdings and collect on the thatched roofs of the city's wood and stone homes. The skies overhead were obscured by the bank of leaden clouds that had brought the late snow, but even now the afternoon sun fought to break through the shroud. A freak squall this late into spring could cause problems with the upcoming planting season, but the people of southern Tourant had grown accustomed to such trials. If a simple late storm was all he needed to concern himself with in the coming year, Sylvain would consider himself lucky.
The Marquis of Montcalm turned away from the window of his audience hall, blowing lightly on his hands as he turned to the large fireplace that dominated the north wall. Such a beautiful view of Montcalm and the countryside came at a price; the Marquis du Lune D'or's meeting hall was at the mercy of the weather, and even now the noble's breath steamed up from his mouth and nose as he moved to the fire's warmth. Just inside the two west facing windows, small piles of snow accumulated on the stone floor of the room, slowly beginning to melt from the heat of the fire on the north wall. During the cold winter months, audiences would be conducted in a better insulated and more central room in his keep, but the noble truly appreciated the vista afforded by the room's windows. As the marquis warmed himself for a moment at the cheery fire, the door to the audience hall opened behind him.
"Milord, may I present Mistress Talia of the Arcanists' Guild," the marquis' seneschal stated, bowing as he moved to the side of the door. The young woman that entered was only vaguely familiar to the marquis of Montcalm from a handful of research inquiries. Mistress Talia was a slightly built young woman, standing no more than an inch or two above five feet and only a couple of years past her twentieth winter, with long blond hair braided down the back of her deep blue and gold robes.
"Welcome, Mistress Talia," Sylvain stated amiably, meeting the young woman's deep brown eyes. The noble gestured to the bare room, and smiled faintly. "I apologize for not being able to offer you a seat, but most of the furniture is still in storage."
"That's perfectly all right, milord," Talia said with a faintly bashful smile of her own as she curtsied to the marquis. His duties completed, the seneschal bowed again, and left the room. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."
"Winter is somewhat boring," Sylvain said. "And with these late snows, the rigors of spring will have to wait another week."
"That was what I wished to speak to you about," Talia said, taking a step further into the room. The young woman shivered slightly as a stiff breeze blew into the chamber, pulling her cloak closer about her shoulders.
"If you wish, we can move this meeting to a warmer room," Sylvain offered, quickly noting his guest's discomfort. Talia smiled as she shook her head.
"No, this is fine," the young mage said. "Actually, it makes my point. It is a very late season snow, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Sylvain agreed, motioning for the mage to come closer to the fire. Talia quickly moved next to the hearth, taking a moment to absorb some of the heat. "Late season snows are not completely uncommon out of the Khairathi Mountains, however."
"Do you know that this is the latest snow ever recorded?" Talia asked, looking up to the taller marquis. Sylvain shook his head, confused by the young woman's line of reason.
"Records have only been kept for the past fifty or sixty years," the marquis said. "And the mountains do as they please, at times. At any rate, a simple flurry is nothing to be alarmed about."
"A simple flurry, no," Talia conceded. "But it has come to our attention that the snows are much heavier to the south and west."
"As would be expected," Sylvain concluded.
"Milord, I suspect that these storms are not natural in nature," Talia said abruptly. Sylvain met her serious gaze for a long moment.
"This is the view of the Arcanists' Guild?" the marquis inquired, growing more concerned.
"It… is my view," Talia admitted. "I have done extensive research into the weather of the area, and-"
"But the Arcanists' Guild as a whole sees nothing out of the ordinary with this flurry," Sylvain cut in. Talia stopped for a moment, a truly worried expression coming to her face.
"Well… they have not done the research that I have," Talia explained nervously. Sylvain's green eyes narrowed slightly. "But I'm sure if they did, they would have come to the same conclusion," the mage added quickly, trying to win the marquis' support.
"Talia, you are a scholar, correct?" Sylvain inquired, appraising the young woman's obvious discomfort in the cold. Talia said nothing as she looked to the fire. "And you are from the north as well, correct? You only came here four years ago?" the marquis pressed. Again Talia remained silent, conceding the point to the marquis. "It is only natural for one who is not used to such a long winter to become disturbed by a late season storm.
"I am from Stith," the young mage acknowledged. "But the research that I have done-"
"I don't mean to doubt the usefulness of your research," Sylvain cut in. "But not a single logger, farmer, scout, or hunter, all people with years of practical experience with this territory's weather, have mentioned even the slightest concern over this freak storm."
"But, milord, I just know there's something wrong with this storm," Talia countered, practically pleading with the marquis. "I am convinced that there is something more to this than the whims of the mountains or whatever you call it!"
"Do you have a starting point?" the noble inquired, clasping his hands behind his back. Talia seemed taken off guard by the question.
"I… beg you pardon?" the mage asked in reply.
"A starting point," Sylvain reiterated. "A logical beginning to your exploration. Someone with the cause and the power to summon up a late season storm against the entire southwestern portion of Tourant. The lands to the southwest of Montcalm are indeed vast, and are composed of thick forests of pine and spruce interspersed by rugged hills that lead to the Khairathi Mountains. There are hundreds, or possibly thousands, of miles of territory to cover."
"Well, I…" Talia trailed off. The marquis had expected as much from the young scholar; even if she did have a valid point about the weather, she had no idea of the sheer expanse of terrain before her.
"What makes you so certain that this is an unnatural storm?" Sylvain inquired, pushing the young scholar even further.
"Well, the beginning of spring almost always sees a shift in the winds from the west to the northeast," Talia answered, regaining some of her lost confidence. "This brings warmer air in off of the Tern Sea, and pushes the cold weather back into the mountains. With these late storms we've been having, I was curious if the wind was still coming in off of the sea. I found that it was, but for some reason, this year it isn't pushing the cold back into the mountains."
"Weather is a very fickle thing," Sylvain said. "Perhaps this year the winds out of the mountains are stronger."
"But why?" Talia asked. "Why this year, and not any other? I have charts and research showing that the winds from the coast are actually slightly stronger than they have been in recent years. I think something is deliberately pushing storms down out of the mountains, against the prevailing seasonal winds."
"But you don't know what," Sylvain concluded, holding back his skepticism about the young scholar's theory.
"That's why I want to go into the mountains," Talia explained. "I can't discover anything more than I already have from here. The only way to prove or disprove my theory is to actually travel southwest and examine the situation firsthand. After all, the hobgoblins of Trzebin and the frost giants of the southern peaks are only a few of the groups that would benefit from our losses, and it is certainly not outside of either group's power to do such a thing."
"But without anything solid to move upon, I can't simply commit troops to wandering around the mountains," Sylvain explained. The marquis hesitated for a moment, seeing the desperation in the mage's eyes, then turned to the window. "However, you are free to conduct your own investigations," the marquis continued. "I have very little to offer in the way of support for such an endeavor, but I can provide you with a mount and some sturdy clothing that would be more suited to the weather. Anything else, you will have to acquire on your own."
"May I request the services of a guide, as well?" Talia asked. Sylvain leaned on the windowsill for a moment, looking down to the snow covered courtyard below.
"Most of my scouts are either in the field or preparing for the spring raids to the north," the marquis explained. "The orcs will be coming down out of the mountains from the northwest. If this weather has affected them as it has us, they will be even more determined than usual."
"You have… no one?" Talia concluded. Sylvain was about to turn back to his guest, but watched as a single rider entered the courtyard through the west gate, heavily wrapped in a mottled brown and white cloak as he guided his huge mount to the stables beyond. Maybe there was one man he could spare…
"I can offer but one guide," Sylvain finally conceded, turning back to the mage. Talia breathed out a sigh of relief. "He is a good man, talented in woodlore, but don't expect him to be very good company."
"As long as he can get me there, he's good enough," Talia said. "When can I meet this man?"
"He should be at the stables now," Sylvain replied. "His name is Crispin of Woodline. Look for a mottled brown and white cloak; that will be him. I will leave it to the two of you to decide upon the details of your expedition. If he resists the idea, and he likely will, have him speak to me."
"Thank you, milord," Talia said, curtsying quickly. Sylvain simply nodded as the young mage hurried from the meeting hall and rushed to the staircase. The marquis simply watched the doorway where she had disappeared for a moment, then turned back to the fire with a shake of his head.
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Any time she said anything about the cold weather, someone had to mention that she was from Stith.
Talia stepped out of the main doors of the Marquis du Lune D'or's keep, stopping for a moment in the open courtyard as she pulled her heavy woolen cloak tightly around her. Stith had never been so cold; the currents of the Tern Sea brought warmer weather to the coastal city, fighting off the icy winds that gusted down out of the mountains. During her four years in Montcalm, the young mage had barely been able to adjust to the bitter winters, but the Arcanists' Guild held few opportunities for someone of her age and inexperience in the north. When southern Tourant failed to warm with the onset of spring, Talia had been the only one to notice the difference enough to look into the matter. The Marquis du Lune D'or, like her colleagues in the Guild, had simply assumed that the northerner was making a big deal over a minor inconsistency in the weather.
Bracing herself against a sudden, frigid gust of wind from the west, Talia set out through the half inch deep snow in the courtyard, making her way to the stables that clustered around the northwest corner of the keep. The stables themselves were little more than thatched roofs protecting the mounts from the worst of the weather, supported by heavy oaken timbers over a patch of partially frozen mud. A large, foul smelling fire of dung, straw, and wood burned brightly in the center of the stables, providing some small amount of warmth for the stable hands and horses. While the snow was beginning to accumulate in most of the courtyard, a ring of mud and ice surrounded the stables for almost a dozen yards in each direction, denoting the high traffic area around the stables. Carefully Talia made her way across the mud to the stables, sighing in resignation as her heavy suede boots sank almost to the ankles in the mire and the hem of her dress quickly acquired a thick glaze of icy sludge. As she reached the entrance to the stables, one of the hands looked up from his grooming duties to appraise the well dressed newcomer.
"Help ya?" the young hand asked, barely breaking stride as he continued to comb out a black war horse's mane. The boy was no older than fourteen, rail thin and filthy, but held a faintly eager charm in his eyes as he swiftly looked over the mage.
"I'm looking for a man named Crispin of Woodline," Talia replied, smiling faintly as she tried to ignore the stench of the fire burning only a few feet away. "The Marquis du Lune D'or said that I could find him here. He wears a mottled brown and white-"
"Whatcha want Crispin for?" the youth interrupted, genuinely surprised by her line of inquiry.
"I need a guide to the southwest," Talia answered after a faint hesitation. The youth almost laughed in her face, but quickly reined in his mirth.
"Over that way," the stable hand answered with a broad, gap toothed smile. He pointed to the far side of the stable, where Talia could just barely see a mottled cloak moving around a chestnut colored steed. Talia paused another moment, wondering about the boy's amusement with the situation, but suddenly noticed that the man was turning to leave the stables. Quickly the young mage pushed her way past the stable hands near the fire and hurried through the narrow walkway after the man, trying to catch him before he could disappear anywhere else in the keep.
"Crispin! Crispin of Woodline!" the young mage called out, trying to get the man's attention as she rushed around a corner. "I have to talk to-"
Talia's call ended abruptly as she slipped on the muddy ground and tumbled into a vacant stall, bouncing off of the timber fence and falling into a greasy slick of mud, straw, and manure. For a long moment the mage simply remained on the ground, gingerly wiping some of the mud from her chin with one filthy hand and listening to the surprised and amused chuckles of the stable hands.
"You were looking for me?"
The voice was a low, rumbling, and almost unfriendly bass, completely unfamiliar to the young mage. Slowly Talia rolled onto her back and propped herself up on her elbows, trying to keep the color from her cheeks as she looked up at the speaker. The man standing over her resembled nothing so much as a bear; his faintly tall, powerful frame was bundled in furs and his heavy, mottled woolen cloak, not quite hiding the hand axe and long sword belted to his waist. His long, coarse black hair cascaded down over his shoulders and partially obscured his weathered, unshaven features and sharp hazel eyes, but Talia's attention was drawn almost instantly to a series of wicked scars that drew three white lines from his right temple to the base of his neck.
"You're… Crispin of Woodline?" Talia asked, hoping that he was not the man that the marquis had mentioned. While the scouts and rangers of southern Tourant were not known for social graces, many of them seemed at least a little more approachable than the stern man standing over her.
"I am," the woodsman replied simply, leaning forward and extending a hand to help the young mage to her feet. As she took hold of his thickly callused hand, she could see more scars, this time most likely from the jaws and teeth of some animal, pocking the skin of his wrist and forearm. Crispin of Woodline hauled the young woman to her feet with no apparent effort, then took a step back to appraise the mage once more. "You all right?"
"Except for my pride," Talia answered, smiling a little bit as she tried one last time to remove some of the filth from her now ruined clothes. A couple of the stable hands chuckled slightly at her joke, but Crispin simply nodded. "Thanks for your help."
"What did you want?" Crispin inquired, moving the conversation forward without any further regard for the young woman's condition. Talia hesitated for a second, taken aback slightly by the man's brusque attitude.
"Well, I need a guide for an expedition to the southwest," the young mage finally explained. "The Marquis du Lune D'or told me that you would be available for such a journey."
"Why would you want to head southwest?" Crispin asked, appraising the mage.
"I think that these late storms might not be natural," Talia answered, bracing for the inevitable skepticism. As she expected, Crispin turned a thoroughly cynical expression to her.
"We're in southwestern Tourant," the ranger pointed out. "We get cold weather late into spring every year."
"But not this late," Talia countered. Crispin sighed and turned to leave, but the mage stayed at his side. "Never in the recorded history of this region has snow fallen this late in the spring!"
"Three years ago we had flurries weeks past this," Crispin informed the mage as he walked out of the stables.
"But not a storm with any intensity!" Talia retorted, hurrying to keep up with her guide. "This storm is not normal!"
"Then what is it?" Crispin asked, stopping and turning on the mage as only a few yards before he reached the gates.
"I'm… not sure," Talia answered. "But it isn't normal, and I think that there might be something going on in the mountains."
"Like what?" Crispin pressed, still skeptical.
"I don't know," Talia admitted. "I haven't had enough time or field study to determine the cause."
"That's because it's just a freak storm," Crispin explained, turning again and continuing to the gates of the keep. Still Talia refused to relent, chasing after the ranger once more.
"It could be hobgoblin shamans!" the mage exclaimed as she caught up to the man. "It could be frost giants! It could be a cult of winter! I can't find out until I get into the mountains, you idiot!"
"I'm not the one covered in mud and manure," Crispin observed as he walked through the heavy gates and into the streets of Montcalm.
"I slipped!" Talia reminded him, growing furious with the man's stubborn demeanor. "Would you stop walking away from me for just a minute?"
Crispin stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, simply staring down the street ahead of him for a long moment.
"Go home, girl," the ranger said, turning to her. "There's nothing out there but a late storm and a few irritable loggers and farmers."
"I'm going out there," Talia said evenly. "And so are you, for that matter. If you don't think so, you can speak to the Marquis du Lune D'or about the matter."
"I can speak to the Marquis du Lune D'or about the matter," Crispin repeated, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the mage. Without another word, the ranger turned and stalked back through the snow, heading for the marquis's keep.
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"I expected you to be back even sooner."
"Milord," Crispin spat out, practically charging into the audience hall. The Marquis du Lune D'or stood next to the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned to the irate ranger. "What the hell is that… that kid out there babbling about?"
"She thinks there's a threat to our southwest," Sylvain replied simply. "She says that the storms we've been experiencing of late are not natural, and she would like to try to find the cause of the storms."
"Yeah, I heard all of that," Crispin informed the marquis. "She also said you were going to have me guide her out into the mountains."
"I did," Sylvain confirmed.
"Milord, it's a freak squall!" Crispin practically shouted. "There's nothing more to it! We're in southern Tourant!"
"It's the latest storm we've had in recorded history," Sylvain added. Crispin's jaw dropped open as he stared at the marquis, too stunned to speak. "Apparently, Mistress Talia of the Arcanists' Guild has a lot of time on her hands to read through bizarre historical facts."
"You don't really think there's an actual threat out there, do you?" Crispin asked, astonished.
"For the love of Pelor, no!" Sylvain replied. "She's been reading too many books. Take her out there for a couple of weeks, show her some snow drifts and loggers' camps, and bring her home."
"But why bother at all?" Crispin demanded. "Just tell the girl that she's wrong and send her back to the Arcanists' Guild! Are you trying to punish me?"
"I should be, after the fiasco last fall with the mapmakers," Sylvain replied. "If you hadn't gotten them so pissed off that they walked off the job three weeks before the first snow, I might have been able to send Talia out into the southwest with an accurate map. And I don't want to hear any of your arguments about how inept they were at woodlore. As it stands, you know the southwest better than anyone else I have."
"You could send Thierry or Neuville," Crispin pointed out. "I trained both of them. They know almost as much about the southwest as I do, especially since the border towns have moved even closer to the mountains. I've seen thirty winters comer and go, and never have I heard such a stupid idea. Besides, either of them would go along just to be around that girl."
"But you're a better tracker and fighter than either one of them by far," Sylvain said. "And, on the extremely off chance that Talia managed to stumble upon some new plot from the goblins in Trzebin, you'd be able to pick up on it. I need to at least make the Arcanists' Guild think I respect them."
"Trzebin is over two hundred miles to the north," Crispin reminded the marquis. "They would have far more of an interest in raiding Argent or Mardan."
"I wouldn't put it past Krysztof," Sylvain said. "He'd be willing to help some of his fellow goblins, if they wanted to try and capture the southern frontier. And if we end up fighting the orcs over dwindling food supplies, he only stands to gain, in arms sales to the orcs if nothing else."
"It's a stretch," Crispin stated. "A real stretch. And Krysztof thinks the goblins down here are inbred morons."
"I know," Sylvain agreed. "But I have to at least act nice to the Arcanists' Guild right now. They have a very influential presence in the territory, and putting them on my bad side over some misled scholar is the last thing I need. All you need to do is make sure she gets back alive, and I'll be happy. I can't afford bad relations because I didn't stop a girl from freezing to death on some delusional quest. With my luck, they'd have the king toss me off my land and strip my title from me."
"So I'm stuck with her, is what you're saying," Crispin concluded, growing faintly dismal at the prospect. Sylvain nodded.
"That's right," the marquis confirmed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Have a good time."
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"Everything straightened out?"
"Shut up," Crispin grumbled, not even bothering to look at Talia as he pushed his way out of the keep and into the snowy courtyard once more. He could think of nothing he wanted more than a day or two of rest in a warm bed, especially after four weeks of tracking an exceptionally stealthy band of brigands through the northern stretches of the Marquis du Lune D'or's territory. As the ranger stomped through the snow for the courtyard gates, Talia once again took up alongside of him.
"Look, I know that not many people are taking me seriously, but at least give me a chance," Talia said, following along as Crispin made his way into Montcalm. "Maybe we won't find anything out there, and that would be fine by me. I don't really want to find some hobgoblin high priest or frost giant out there, but this way, if there is one out there and they are trying to control the weather, then at least we'll know before things get too out of hand."
"That's very noble of you," Crispin muttered as he followed one of the thoroughfares to the western edge of town.
"At least try not to sound so miserable," Talia said, trying to goad the ranger into a better mood. "I mean, it'll only be a couple of weeks, and then you can go back to doing… well, whatever it is that you do."
"Don't you want to go home and get changed into something clean?" Crispin asked, finally turning to the mage. Talia looked down at her muddy clothing, then back to the ranger.
"Well, yes, but I wanted to see where you would be later," the young mage answered. "After all, I want to see what you know about the southwest, in case you have any ideas-"
"The only idea I have right now involves a lot of ale and a long, deep sleep in a vaguely warm bed," Crispin interrupted. "Tomorrow evening, maybe I'd be interested in helping you develop your idiot quest, but tonight, I'm drinking."
"Well, okay," Talia said, although she seemed reluctant at best to let the ranger out of her sight. "Well, where should I meet you tomorrow night?"
"The Western Sun, sometime around sunset," Crispin answered, still disgusted with his newest job. "In the meantime, you better find yourself some good clothes. Those robes might be fine for wandering about Montcalm, but you'll freeze to death in short order if you try heading into the deep forest wearing that."