“What do ye see?” The Dwarf peered out around the boulder at the distant, obscured silhouette of the wagon. Four indistinct figures circled the cart—mercenaries, Gorm knew. The hired swords had met the cart on the road to Scoria on the first night out of the city, and the next morning they had taken an unexpected turn off the road and into the barren, rocky fields of the Shade.
“They’re moving again,” Kaitha said. “They stopped to wedge a rock in a gap in the road, but—”
The wagon lurched. All four mercenaries dove to the ground. The world held its breath for a moment, waiting for the cart to erupt in a fiery bloom. When the barrels within failed to conflagrate, the heroes took the opportunity to dart into a cleft in the stone ahead of them.
“Guess they didn’t set that rock right,” Gorm said, his lips twitching up into a smile. Few Dwarves could completely suppress their hereditary smugness when Human stonework failed.
“They can’t go much farther,” the ranger said as they crouched down. “We’re almost to the foot of the mountain, and it’d be suicide to haul those barrels up the north face of Mount Wynspar.”
“There’s some who say it’s suicide to pass through the Winter’s Shade, but that didn’t stop ’em,” said Gorm.
While the southern slope of Mount Wynspar housed the most diverse and vibrant city in the Freedlands, its northern crag had watched over a wasteland for ages. The Winter’s Shade was gray and desolate, abandoned by even the carrion flies. The Sixth Age explorer Weevil Half-Burrow once claimed the blighted area was defined by the mountain’s shadow on the winter solstice, and the name had worked its way into popular legend.
Or perhaps shoved its way in; popular legend grew quite crowded around the Shade. It had been decades since any foolhardy farmers had tried to work the gray, dead soil, but local mythology was full of tales of crops that bled and fruit trees that screamed and burst into flames a year after they were grown. Heroes sometimes crossed over the cursed land in an effort to shave time off a quest, and every year or so a party taking the shortcut would go missing without a trace.
“Plenty of people survive the Shade,” Kaitha’s quiet reassurance sounded like it was intended as much for herself as for Gorm. “At least there’s no monsters.”
“I can deal with monsters,” he said. “A good axe will solve just about any monster problem. Not so for creepy old curses.”
The Elf wasn’t listening. “No game or birds, either. Or insects. Or plants…” She suppressed a shudder. “Well, they… they can’t go much farther.”
“Let’s hope not.” Gorm eyed the lengthening shadows of the stones and crags around them. “I don’t want to camp in these wastes again.”
The driver and his mercenary companions climbed over the wagon like ants over a fallen biscuit, inspecting each barrel for leaks. The three companions had little to do but stare into the gloom and wait for the painstaking review to run its course.
The Dwarf suppressed a chill. “My people say this place was cursed by the Sten in the War of Betrayal.”
“Oh? According to Elven legends, this is where Tandos struck Al’Thadan down,” said Kaitha.
Gorm’s brow furrowed as he tried to cram Elven theology into the confines of his worldview. “So… Al’Thadan’s blood made the land barren?”
Kaitha shrugged. “The mages say it was just the amount of power it takes to kill a god. To wipe a whole people from Arth and banish their pantheon from the weave. It twists the whole weave around it, and curses the place it punched through.”
“Low magic,” said Gorm, recalling his conversations with Jynn.
“Probably.” Kaitha gave a ragged sigh, the sort that usually precedes or follows a long cry. “It all just seems terribly sad to me. All that death… all those souls…”
The Dwarf gave her a sidelong glance. “Aye. The War of Betrayal was the worst of what Mankind can do to one another.”
“So far.” The Elf wrapped her cloak around her like a shawl and glanced back toward the imposing face of the mountain. “But people are full of surprises.”
“It is easy to think that your current understanding of trends can be used to predict things, but market forces have consistently shown that circumstances return to the mean,” Duine Poldo said. “And so I’d urge you to… to, ah.” It occurred to Poldo that the regular patting of stamps hitting paper had ceased. He glanced down.
Three of the Domovoy were taking Poldo’s dictation using the set of tiny lead stamps Poldo had made for them. Another kept the stamps well-inked with a brush and Poldo’s inkwell. All four stared up at him from the table that served as their makeshift desk at the back of The Wandering Monster, a roadside inn and tavern along the way from Waerth to Mistkeep.
“Is there a problem?” said Poldo.
Red Squirrel cleared his throat and chittered a curt reply.
“Condescending? Is it?” Poldo lifted the page and replaced his glasses. After reading for a few moments, he shook his head and crumpled the paper. “It is. Along with everything else I wrote,” he said, throwing the mangled letter next to several similar balls of paper.
The Wood Gnomes below sighed and grumbled under their breath as they pulled another sheet of paper out and re-stamped the now-familiar salutation, “My dear Mrs. Hrurk.”
Poldo sighed and looked out across the common room of the inn. What The Wandering Monster lacked in amenities, it made up for in grime. Still, it had a warm fire, cold grog, and a quiet corner by the window where Poldo could work. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m teaching an apprentice, but…”
One of the Wood Gnome’s squeaked.
“Well, of course I trust Mrs. Hrurk’s judgment.” He picked up the latest letter from the Gnoll and shook his head. “But these numbers that she sent make no sense. The Heroes’ Guild regulates how those shares are issued. It’s audited by the royal lord of accounts. Everyone knows this isn’t possible.”
He sighed and looked out the window next to him. The long shadows of the trees on the boulder outside the window told him the sun had almost finished setting. “I just need to tell Mrs. Hrurk what everyone knows without sounding like I’m teaching her the obvious.”
Red Squirrel piped up.
“Well, yes, I suppose it’s technically possible she’s correct, but given the controls in place, it’s exceedingly improbable.” A thought struck the Scribkin. “Maybe that’s how I should say it.”
The Wood Gnomes winced and shook their heads.
“Or not. This is very difficult to say.” Poldo sank back into his seat.
Another squeak.
“Look, I’m sure your compatriots did the math correctly, and I know she said she has checked it many times, but—” Poldo felt his ire rising a bit. “Listen, I think decades of experience in finance should count for something, shouldn’t they? Can we just take my word that the most trusted fund on Arth is not insolvent? Or shall we litigate the color of the sky next?”
Approaching footsteps interrupted the Wood Gnomes’ response. A slender Human in dark armor was headed toward Poldo’s corner of the tavern. The Domovoy grabbed their stamps and dove into the briefcase just before the dark figure addressed the Scribkin.
“Duine Poldo?” the woman said. She had the sort of dark, glassy eyes that said their owner has seen a lot of death, and the sort of twisted smile that added she had enjoyed it. The bolt end of a crossbow protruded from the gap in her long, black cloak. “At last we meet.”
