Page 19

Chapter Eighteen

Korik

“So we’re out a lot of supplies,” Varen said brusquely, not meeting Korik’s eyes. A cold, distant calm had settled over the elf. He pulled his rucksack off his back. “Only whatever was in our bags. I’ve got my bedroll, a bit of bread, and not much else that will be useful. You?”

Korik blinked slowly, still struggling to gather his thoughts. The teleportation had been disorienting and drained a worrying amount of his magic, which had only been further depleted to heal Varen. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, somehow both heavy and floating; and exhaustion dragged on his joints, even though it was still early in the day.

But they were clearly not out of danger—wherever they ended up was not where Varen had meant to send them. So he shook his head to try to clear his thoughts, then pulled off his rucksack.

“My own bedroll,” he said flatly, opening the bag. “An extra blanket... My extra clothes and a waterskin. Some rope, some cheese, a bag of cured meat. A piece of soap. Some herbs.”

“I have an extra blanket, too,” Varen said, rummaging through his bag. “Between that and your rope, I think we could set up a tent if we really need one, but it wouldn’t be ideal.”

Korik noticed how the elf’s hands shook as he dug through his pack. “I’ll start a campfire,” he said, turning away. “So we can keep warm.”

“Alright,” he heard Varen agree faintly, but he was already walking away into the woods to gather firewood.

As he walked in a careful circuit around where Varen remained, it was becoming more and more clear that they were on a mountain. He was starting to recognize some plants and trees from when he traveled with his clan as a child; they had not been a mountain clan, but had passed through the northern mountain range to deliver supplies to one such clan, though he couldn’t recall exactly when.

This was looking much like that. If he remembered correctly—and it had been long enough since then that he couldn’t say for sure if he did—those were the Krag Gabriz mountains: the range stretched across the northernmost edge of the orc homeland where it met the cold sea; all the way into Aefraya where its narrow northern border crept up against orc lands, like the point of a crescent moon; then down into the human nation of Autreth. Mountain clans lived in the range, but as winter approached, many would now be traveling south to avoid the harshest of the weather.

If this was Krag Gabriz, then they needed to descend the mountain as soon as possible, before the first snowfall. They were lucky there was no snow on the ground now, but that could change at any time. They were woefully ill-prepared for such a journey, and if they were caught in a blizzard before they could get down the mountain, he doubted they would survive.

But the first thing they needed was a fire so they could safely rest. The day would be wasted, but Varen couldn’t travel in his condition; and Korik couldn’t heal him any further until he’d had the chance to rest and replenish some of his magic. Maybe by sunset he would have enough to make a cursory scouting trip of their surroundings through the eyes of nearby birds, then heal Varen further in the morning so they could set out as soon as possible.

No snow had fallen yet, so the sticks he gathered were dry and would light easily—a small blessing considering their dire situation. When his arms were full, he retraced his steps back to where Varen was still waiting. The elf had started organizing his belongings while Korik was gathering wood, and everything was now set out in careful piles around him.

He glanced up at Korik as he approached, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him. From the way he was mumbling faintly to himself, as he looked at everything he’d emptied from his bag, he was calculating how many days they might have left before they ran out of food—exactly what Korik was trying not to think about.

Silently, Korik set up a campfire with the wood he’d gathered. The stones they’d picked up in their travels to keep warm, and to create a border for their fires, had been in one of the saddlebags. As he got up to gather more, he realized with dismay they now had no cooking tools or utensils either, so anything they would need to cook would have to be placed directly over the fire. It was a shame. He’d become accustomed to a cup of hot, strong coffee in the early mornings when they prepared to set out, and it would have been especially welcome in the cold they would soon be facing.

But it couldn’t be helped. He had just enough magic left to spark the tinder, which quickly grew into a crackling campfire. Only then did Varen finally break the silence between them.

“We’re, ah... Not exactly in a great position here.”

Korik couldn’t stop himself from snorting in response. “No, we aren’t.”

But Varen’s expression remained grim. “I don’t know exactly where we are, but it certainly feels much colder here. And it’s only going to get colder the longer we’re stuck here.”

“I know where we are,” Korik replied. Varen looked up at him, bewildered. He added anxiously, “Well... I think I know roughly where we are. I’ll be able to confirm tomorrow. But I think we’re in the Krag Gabriz mountains, though exactly where, I couldn’t say.”

Varen stared at him for a long moment in silence, his expression entirely unreadable to Korik. But it was a far cry from his usual confident, smug grin, which Korik would have much preferred.

“Krag Gabriz,” Varen repeated. “We’re near Solitude, then.”

“Is that an elven city?” Korik asked. He didn’t recognize the name; but if it were a city near the northern border, it very well might be in the foothills of the range, between the mountains and the northern coast on the elven side.

“Hardly,” Varen said, still looking ashen. “There used to be a village, but now it’s just an outpost. The most isolated one. I did some training there when I was younger. The mountains are called the Frozen Tears in elvish. I spent several weeks in the wilderness alone, but it was in the summer... The winters here are harsher than most.”

“Yes,” Korik agreed. “The mountain clans here are the most remote, and even they rarely stay on the mountain during winter.”

“Then we need to get off the mountain sooner rather than later,” Varen said, his voice shaking. “We have nothing, no supplies for regular camping, much less those needed in this kind of weather—”

“Stop,” Korik growled. Varen fell silent, though it was more out of surprise than obedience, Korik thought. “It isn’t snowing now. You’re injured, and I’m exhausted. We will not die from one night on the mountain, even if we don’t have all the gear we need.”

Varen’s expression hardened. For a moment, Korik thought he might snap something back at Korik in anger; but after a beat, the tension seemed to leave his brows, and the elf looked away, shaking his head.

“You’re right, of course,” he sighed, then rubbed his face with both hands. “Still. Not a great position to be in.”

“Better than the one we came from,” Korik muttered, turning away to look at the fire.

“I don’t know why we ended up here , though,” Varen continued. “I haven’t been to Solitude in decades. I was aiming for Drol Kuggradh. Why here?”

“I know nothing of teleportation,” Korik said. In all honesty, he hadn’t known it was even possible. Judging from how it had drained both Varen’s and his magic to get them here, he doubted it was something the vast majority of mages could accomplish. Nerves tightened his stomach, as he remembered Varen saying it was Alwyn who had given him the rune that allowed him to teleport at all—had the elf tricked him, knowing Varen would use it to transport the both of them?

“You said Alwyn gave you that stone?” he asked.

“Yes. I thought the same thing as you,” Varen said. “I wonder if he did this purposely to try to kill us. But I don’t think that’s the case.”

“He didn’t trust me. He thought I was working for the rebel orcs,” Korik protested. Still, Varen shook his head.

“Yes, but he gave this to me when we were alone, just before we parted ways. He wanted it to be a secret. He told me to use it as an emergency exit if his suspicions were true, and I had to get away from you. So I doubt he would have given it to me under such pretenses if he was secretly hoping you’d get caught up in it, too. Plus, this was before we were given our mission from King Ruven, so... Unless he’s a clairvoyant and an assassin, I think this was more my own error than some nefarious plan on his part.”

Korik hadn’t been entirely convinced; but Varen so rarely talked disparagingly of his own abilities that this must have been his true feelings, or he wouldn’t have said it otherwise. When Varen glanced up at him, he grimaced, as if reading Korik’s thoughts. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Korik muttered, looking away. He could feel heat rising in his face, which only made him more embarrassed.

“Like you’re shocked I could ever imply that I made a mistake.”

“I am shocked you’d imply you made a mistake,” he replied flatly. To his relief, Varen laughed. Tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying in his shoulders drained away at the sound.

“I suppose it is rather shocking,” Varen sighed. He leaned back, grimacing as he laid down in a more comfortable position. He’d somehow set up his bedroll while Korik was gone. “Best enjoy rubbing it in my face while you can.”

Despite the gravity of their situation, and the joking manner Varen said it, some small part of Korik protested at the suggestion. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

Varen’s teasing expression softened. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.”

“I don’t want to.”

The elf was silent for a moment, then said softly, “That’s kind of you.”

Korik didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t think it was especially kind; but maybe Varen had been expecting him to tease and poke at him, the same way Varen teased and poked at everyone and everything else. That wasn’t in Korik’s nature, though an occasional joke wasn’t off the table.

“Get some rest,” he said simply, deflecting. “If your body can heal itself as much as possible, that'll be less work for me to do tomorrow.”

Varen chuckled. “Yes, sir,” he sighed. That somehow made even more heat rush into Korik’s face, which he did his best to ignore.

Though he needed to rest, too, Korik didn’t want to waste the precious daylight they had. So once Varen was settled, Korik took stock of both their belongings, trying to think of everything they lacked that he could feasibly find or create.

Varen’s waterskin had been on his horse, so they had only the one between them, which would go quickly. Once he had replenished some magic, refilling it would be a tedious, but simple task. He could condense some water from the air, or draw it up from deep within the earth if there was no stream or river nearby; so while it was pressing, it wasn’t urgent. They had a few days’ worth of rations; if Korik could forage, and Varen could hunt, they could stretch what they had further. They would have to build their own shelter if the elements proved too difficult; so he set out again to find more branches to create a lean-to that they could rest under.

It had been a long time since Korik had lived in the wilderness, traveling with a clan; but as he made a mental list of what they needed while he walked through the trees, more and more of his memories of that period of his life came back to him. He remembered what was safe to eat in the mountains, what had medicinal uses, and what should be avoided entirely. He remembered weaving branches together to make strong panels to bolster their tents, so that they held up better against snowfall and could be cleared more easily. He remembered piling their bedrolls with dry leaves to help insulate them better against the cold. He remembered his father meticulously drying every piece of clothing that had grown damp with the day's travel, using his magic to force the moisture out. When Korik had shown signs of magical ability, too, that had been one of the firsts tasks his father had assigned him: wet clothes could kill.

Korik gathered branches and leaves, and a few more round rocks, to feed the fire and create a shelter in case it started to snow—already thinking of how he would insulate their blankets if he couldn’t muster the magic to heat the stones in the way Varen had shown him. When his bag and his arms were full, he went back to the camp and set to work, weaving together the branches he’d picked up. The elf watched him silently at first, but after a while, when Korik glanced back over at him, he’d fallen asleep.

The sight was a relief, knowing how much he needed the rest; but then he noticed that Varen’s hands still trembled where they lay on his belly, which seemed strange. It was cool, certainly, but not so cold that it would set him shivering, especially in the layers they both wore.

Korik had noticed a slight tremor in Varen’s hand earlier, too, but had thought it was just nerves. Now he was less sure, which worried him. But he didn’t want to interrupt his sleep either—and his breathing was even, his brow relaxed—so he left the other man alone for now. Still, he glanced over every so often to see if anything about him changed.

Varen slept, while Korik finished the first panel of branches, decided it was too small, and set out again to gather more to make another. He went a different direction this time and came across a berry bush with a few lingering red clusters that he recognized as edible, which he meticulously harvested into his rucksack.

When he arrived back at the camp, Varen had woken, but his hands still trembled as he sat up in his bedroll.

“How do you feel?” Korik asked, frowning with concern as he set down his new pile of branches. The elf grimaced.

“Worse,” he admitted, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “I feel shaky. And my head hurts.”

Korik’s frown deepened, as neither of those were typical reactions to being shot with an arrow. Was there something else happening? Maybe an allergy—but, no, Varen had mentioned that he’d been in these mountains before. Unless there was something here specifically that he’d never encountered before, but it seemed unlikely. Was he just tired from the teleportation draining him?

“My leg hurts worse, too,” Varen groaned as he placed a hand on his thigh. His touch was light, but he grimaced at the motion.

“Let me see,” Korik said, immediately kneeling beside him. The wound had been mostly closed; but he had been acting quickly, and his magic was already nearly depleted, so it was possible that part of it might not have healed with the rest. Varen turned slightly so Korik could better see the wound through the torn fabric of his trousers; despite Korik’s healing, the small puncture now looked red and inflamed.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. He must not have healed it correctly and allowed for infection to set in. Or—his stomach dropped at the thought—the arrows might have been tipped in poison, and his recklessness had trapped it within the flesh rather than expelled it.

He pressed his hand to Varen’s forehead, ignoring the way the elf stiffened in response. His skin was damp with sweat, but was warm beneath Korik’s hand—fever was setting in.

Where was the arrow? He remembered pulling it out, only to toss it to the side so he could use both his hands to send his magic into the wound. He looked around frantically, searching for the discarded bolt.

“It’s there,” Varen said, reading his intention. He pointed past the trees where they had set up camp, and Korik spotted the speckled brown fletching of the arrow, where it had fallen into a pile of dry pine needles.

Korik stood and retrieved it, examining the tip closely. He was familiar enough with the style of orc arrows to recognize a bolt intended to deliver poison, and this did not look like that: no grooves in the head for liquid to cling to, or reservoir near the point. So poison, while possible, seemed less likely, which was a miniscule relief.

But the arrow had been sitting in the dirt for hours, and the only liquid that might have once been on it was dried blood. He couldn’t completely rule it out.

“Was it poisoned?” Varen asked, worry tinging his voice.

“I don’t think so,” Korik replied, shaking his head, but he still brought the arrow with him when he came to kneel beside Varen again. He’d been acting rashly when keeping a measured head was the most important part of healing in a crisis. He would not make the same mistake again. “Are you feeling any other symptoms than pain? Nausea, numbness?”

Varen shook his head. “I feel cold. The wound hurts, and my head aches. But that’s all.”

“You have a fever,” Korik sighed, looking at the wound again. Poisons would often leave signs of their rot traveling up the veins; this only had redness and swelling. “So the cold and shaking is likely from that, and the headache too. I don’t think we can completely rule out poison, but a simple infection is more likely.”

Varen groaned, leaning back onto his bedroll. “I hope you’re right.”

Korik was silent. He closed his eyes, trying to summon any lingering scrap of magic from the well of power within him; but nothing responded to his call. He was utterly empty. He could try to pull latent magic from the earth, but that was nearly impossible without his own initial spark to start the siphon. If he tried to rest for an hour, maybe then he could try; but it would leave him exhausted the next day, surely...

“ I can feel you thinking,” Varen sighed, pulling him from his worry. “Stop it. Infection won’t kill me overnight. Or at least, most won’t. I think. If I have to be uncomfortable tonight for you to heal me tomorrow, I can power through.” He paused, then opened one eye to peer at Korik. “You can heal this tomorrow, right?”

Despite his words, the elf’s lips quirked up in a tiny smirk, which made Korik let out a sigh of relief.

“I... Well, yes,” he said, standing. “Most likely, yes. I’ll look through the herbs I have to see if I can at least make you feel more comfortable.”

“Appreciate it,” Varen sighed, closing his eyes again. Korik watched him in concern for a moment longer, then busied himself with sorting through his stash of herbs.