as possible. I warn you; however, this is not an exact science. The Founders fashioned the gate to go to Trondheim but the way was changed when King Ragnar founded Ostheim. The way has not been changed since and we certainly don’t want to end up in the central square of that fallen city! This is akin to jumping off a horse in mid gallop and trying to land on a denarius!”
Alexandrus flew through on his carpet, followed by the mastodon and its driver and after that the two hundred men. Tarion fell in at the rear.
He’d been through gates before and this was no different. There was always a moment of darkness and disorientation and then everything cleared. This time everything cleared quickly—the cold did that. It was frigid. A driving wind pelted him with stinging snow and it was soon apparent just how unprepared he was for the mountains of Norrland. Ahead, through the blowing snow, Tarion could make out the dim shapes of bearskin-clad men. They disappeared rapidly into the glooms. Hurriedly, he trudged through the snow to catch up, falling into step behind the last man. He didn’t know where they were and it didn’t really matter. Tarion was out of his element now. Doubt crept back into his mind followed closely by guilt.
What have I done? For the first time in my life, I’ve left the path of duty. How can that possibly lead to a good end? Ah well, there’s no turning back now. Take one-step at a time Tarion; put one boot in front of the other.
All through the afternoon, the company climbed a pass. The snow was deep, but they made good time. The mastodon blazed the trail. Tarion had it easy, walking at the end of the line on packed snow. They soon passed out of the blowing snow and clouds into a dazzling bright world atop the mountains. The wind died to a moaning sigh and the sun came out. Ice crystals swirled in the sunlight, glittering like fairy dust, tinkling against the rocks like thousands of tiny bells. The civilized world seemed far away indeed.
Afternoon faded away into evening and with the last light of day, they reached the summit of the pass. On a small knob of a hill, the company stopped for a short rest. Hrolf, the driver of the mastodon and the leader of the company, rode around them and shouted, “We’ve another four hours of marching. Fill your bellies and rest. We move out in an hour!”
Tarion trudged toward a small pine tree, missing the Praetorian tent his men usually set up for him. He cursed the thought for what it was: weakness. When he reached the tree, he had the idea of hewing down a branch for a makeshift bed in the snow, but too late, he noticed Alexandrus hunched beneath the branches writing in a journal and mumbling to himself.
“It’s been an age—an entire age—yet still there’s no sign of the curse breaking!” The wizard looked up and saw him. The brass goggles hid his features, yet Alexandrus’s manner changed immediately. “Hello, what in the world are you doing here in the wilderness Praetorian? I thought you were getting married to the empress!”
“ I suppose I got cold feet!” Tarion replied with a bitter chuckle. He entered the makeshift shelter and sat down. “Little did I realize that my feet would be frozen instead!”
“So the Prophecy has come true; the Wanderer has returned,” Alexandrus muttered. After a long sigh he admitted, “As learned as I am, I was beginning to doubt.”
“Don’t stop doubting Alexandrus, he’s here but he needs finding,” Tarion informed him. “That’s why I’m here. The signs point to Trondheim; at least that’s what Freya says.”
Alexandrus’s expression hardened, and he said grimly, “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you are going to find him, you must first survive the night. That’s something none of us have done in the last age. In fact, we’ve only a few moments. As soon as the sun has gone below the limb of the sea it starts.”
“What starts,”
Alexandrus flew through on his carpet, followed by the mastodon and its driver and after that the two hundred men. Tarion fell in at the rear.
He’d been through gates before and this was no different. There was always a moment of darkness and disorientation and then everything cleared. This time everything cleared quickly—the cold did that. It was frigid. A driving wind pelted him with stinging snow and it was soon apparent just how unprepared he was for the mountains of Norrland. Ahead, through the blowing snow, Tarion could make out the dim shapes of bearskin-clad men. They disappeared rapidly into the glooms. Hurriedly, he trudged through the snow to catch up, falling into step behind the last man. He didn’t know where they were and it didn’t really matter. Tarion was out of his element now. Doubt crept back into his mind followed closely by guilt.
What have I done? For the first time in my life, I’ve left the path of duty. How can that possibly lead to a good end? Ah well, there’s no turning back now. Take one-step at a time Tarion; put one boot in front of the other.
All through the afternoon, the company climbed a pass. The snow was deep, but they made good time. The mastodon blazed the trail. Tarion had it easy, walking at the end of the line on packed snow. They soon passed out of the blowing snow and clouds into a dazzling bright world atop the mountains. The wind died to a moaning sigh and the sun came out. Ice crystals swirled in the sunlight, glittering like fairy dust, tinkling against the rocks like thousands of tiny bells. The civilized world seemed far away indeed.
Afternoon faded away into evening and with the last light of day, they reached the summit of the pass. On a small knob of a hill, the company stopped for a short rest. Hrolf, the driver of the mastodon and the leader of the company, rode around them and shouted, “We’ve another four hours of marching. Fill your bellies and rest. We move out in an hour!”
Tarion trudged toward a small pine tree, missing the Praetorian tent his men usually set up for him. He cursed the thought for what it was: weakness. When he reached the tree, he had the idea of hewing down a branch for a makeshift bed in the snow, but too late, he noticed Alexandrus hunched beneath the branches writing in a journal and mumbling to himself.
“It’s been an age—an entire age—yet still there’s no sign of the curse breaking!” The wizard looked up and saw him. The brass goggles hid his features, yet Alexandrus’s manner changed immediately. “Hello, what in the world are you doing here in the wilderness Praetorian? I thought you were getting married to the empress!”
“ I suppose I got cold feet!” Tarion replied with a bitter chuckle. He entered the makeshift shelter and sat down. “Little did I realize that my feet would be frozen instead!”
“So the Prophecy has come true; the Wanderer has returned,” Alexandrus muttered. After a long sigh he admitted, “As learned as I am, I was beginning to doubt.”
“Don’t stop doubting Alexandrus, he’s here but he needs finding,” Tarion informed him. “That’s why I’m here. The signs point to Trondheim; at least that’s what Freya says.”
Alexandrus’s expression hardened, and he said grimly, “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you are going to find him, you must first survive the night. That’s something none of us have done in the last age. In fact, we’ve only a few moments. As soon as the sun has gone below the limb of the sea it starts.”
“What starts,”
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