Chapter 3

  Ivar’s essence flowed through Yvaheim itself, using the leylines to guide him eastward. These nodes were not artificial, but rather an organic development resulting from a millennia of wild god presence forming natural confluences of magic.

  Where magic rests, magic flows.

  Traveling the leylines was not without its risks. It required the complete dissipation of one’s own physical form before following the path through soil, wind and water. Staying the course required intense concentration. Failure to maintain focus would be…deadly.

  While many have ridden the leylines before him, Ivar’s swiftness had become something of local folklore. From Afisk’s domain in the east, to the far western port of Vestergatt, Ivar could make the journey in a single day. This swiftness was used to great effect by Bjorneldr, who would send Ivar to dote on her siblings under a thin veil of supposed business.

  Thus he had earned the name, ‘The Red Pilgrim.’

  He wrestled with the memories, brushing them off as he focused.

  It is easy to get distracted. To become the hawk, the mouse, the elder oak whose roots experience the passages of years like wind through its leaves. I can taste the aged loam of the deep earth, smell the snow of the mountain’s crown, hear the wind’s whistle as it whips through the forests and can feel the water’s current sheer through stone in the blink of a thousand years.

  He focused on the path ahead.

  *********************************************************************************************

  In a shimmer of light, Ivar became corporeal. He kept his eyes closed, dropping to his knees. He spread his hands along the ground, feeling tall blades of grass, sharp and thick, push through his fingers.

  I am here. This is real.

  He opened his eyes. He was standing in a ring of mushrooms in the center of a small grotto. The clearing opened to the great river Sti and Sindhome beyond. His heart sank at the sight of it.

  He hated this place.

  Sindhome was different from the rest of Yvaheim. The streets within were densely packed and filled with foreigners. It had long served as the economic and cultural capital of the country, owed much in part to the influence of said foreigners, but as it was Sindhome’s raw essence was unrecognizable in respect to the rest of the country.

  Over the years no shortage of criticism had been levied unto Afisk for his hands-off management of Sindhome, but he was far too beloved to have faced any consequential resistance. What Bjorneldr called negligence, ever distrustful of outsiders, Afisk considered worldliness.

  Ivar remembered Afisk’s own words. ‘It is enough for me that my people are happy. That they are thriving is a blessing. Would that I play the jailer, and withhold futures rightly earned? Nay, belike we live side by side and endeavor to forge the morrow, kind and bright!’

  “Well Afisk, I wonder where those thoughts have taken you.” Ivar traveled for some time, walking along the wild thrashing of the river, before coming to the city’s western bridge.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Sindhome was built upon an island in the middle of the river Sti. Bridges tied the city to the eastern and western banks, the only way in or out. What were once constructed out of wood had been replaced over the last decade by a monumental stone expanse. Now nearly as wide as the Sti itself, the bridges could handle traffic as high as any road.

  Ivar approached Sindhome, no longer alone as there people traveled all about him. Some moved with their carts and horses, some with their families, others alone. There was a brisk and industrial stink to it all, the cold and lonesome smell of splintered wood and oil mixing with the hot reek of weary travelers. They all funneled toward the gate.

  The gate was comprised of two cast-iron wheels with towers at each end. The wheels had alternating gaps and were rotated between, allowing for only a handful of people at a time. Sindhome guards managed the whole affair, their attire standing out.

  Exposure to outside smithing methods had yielded interesting results, as many were covered in metal plates far thicker than elsewhere in Yvaheim. Their armor was loud and heavy and foreign, a far cry from the pelts and mail he knew so well.

  As Ivar set foot upon the bridge, he noticed something peculiar. Adorning the gates, where used to fly the flag of the flying fish, teal and gold, flew something he did not recognize. It was a tall banner. Its colors were deep burgundy trimmed with gilded filigree. Upon it was a golden…X? The X was curved at the top and bottom, meeting in the middle at each end, symmetrical.

  I’ve seen that shape before, but where? An ominous wind blew, kicking up the strange and cryptic banners and flapping them loudly. This place is not safe. I will need to sneak inside.

  Ivar found a carriage being escorted by a single man. Coming to its side, he bowed his head underneath the wood and whispered an incantation. His runes briefly glowed and then vanished with the rest of his body under the glamour.

  Invisibility.

  He threw himself onto the carriage and waited.

  While glamours were by no means his specialty, he would never dare to take the image of another man, invisibility was rather basic. The key was to move slowly and keep noise to a minimum. One would be surprised how little a role sight played in stealth.

  They came to the gate. The man steering the carriage, sweating terribly, was clearly nervous. The guard, holding a quilled pen and a list on a wooden board, gave him an assuring smile.

  “Name?” He asked.

  “Olli Jarsson, sir.”

  A quick, audible scribble. “What brings you to Sindhome, Jarsson?”

  “Come to sell my goods at the market. Sugar, mostly, along with honey and jams.”

  The guard grinned, “Sugar you say! Gods, it’s been ages since I’ve last had something sweet. Which crates are they being held in?”

  “I-I-uh-” Olli stammered, “Most of them, sir-”

  The guard thumped the carriage with a boot. “Boys, crack open a couple of em and take a peek.”

  Ivar shuffled away from the crates and straddled the edge of the cart. A guardsmen smashed open a crate while Olli screamed in terror. Inside, mixed with the white sugar, were poorly hidden red berries brightly glistening.

  “Fiskburr,” hissed the auditor. “It was outlawed in Sindhome decades ago. Olli, you are charged with the smuggling of illegal substances. Hand over your reins, you’ll be coming with us.”

  Without warning a guard swung their ax into a wheel, smashing it, and causing the rest of the cart to capitulate. The sudden shock caused Ivar to slip, hitting the ground and knocking him out of his glamour.

  “What in the hell is this?! Drugs and people, Olli?”

  Olli, pale and confused, clearly about to faint, “I have no clue- I don’t even know- what-who?”

  Ivar, on his back upon the cold stone, looked up to find himself surrounded by blades.

  “Sir, this one’s a Vol.”

  The captain sauntered around the edge of the cart, taking a good look at Ivar. “Aye. Looks like it. Bring ‘em both to the Hollow, I’ll let the Companies know about the vivi.”

  A guard raised his ax.

  “Wait-” Ivar cried, swiftly silenced by a blow to the head.