Fulcrum, Book 2: The Revelation of Tygg Vana

By Niels van Eekelen

Cilley the troubadour arrives in Citadel Town to find unruly crowds trapped by the harsh winter and a prophet preaching rebellion -- all the ingredients she needs for a song that will ensure she is remembered forever.

Meanwhile, as Ahlin recovers from a terrible injury, Tygg rises rapidly through the ranks of the One Church, on an inexorable path towards a revelation that will change his and Ahlin's lives and faith beyond his wildest imaginings.

Book 2 in a series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Niels van Eekelen
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310233906

Niels van Eekelen

Niels van Eekelen is a translator, a job in which he has had the chance to mangle the words of such talented authors as George R.R. Martin, Joss Whedon, Neil Gaiman, Ronald D. Moore, Terry Goodkind and Michael J. Sullivan. Still not satisfied, his goal has always been to tell his own stories as novels and comics. Niels currently lives in Utrecht, the Netherlands with his loyal and vast collection of books and comics. Presuming the stacks haven't fallen over and crushed him yet.

Book preview

Book II:

THE REVELATION OF TYGG VANA

By Niels van Eekelen

Fulcrum, Book II: The Revelation of Tygg Vana

Niels van Eekelen

Copyright Niels van Eekelen 2015

Published by Telltale Productions at Smashwords

www.TelltaleProductions.nl

Fulcrum and all related characters and concepts are copyright (c) Niels van Eekelen, 2015. All rights reserved.

All text, maps and design by Niels van Eekelen

Cover photograph by Aleid van Eekelen-Benders

The Owl & the Oak symbol art by Paul Vromen ( www.paulvromen.com )

Proofread by Tanya Moons

VIII

THE COLD AND THE WARMTH

A song for the heart

A song for the soul

A song for your brothers

A song o’the heroes of old

Let me sing and on my voice carry you away

Come along with me and let your all hardships stay

– Lyrics from The Immortal Troubadour

CILLEY shivered.

In a way, it was reassuring—it was when your body stopped shivering that you really had to worry. Yeah, everything was still hunky-dory as long as she was shaking so hard she didn’t know which side she was falling over to.

Well, after being indecisive for a while, the blizzard seemed to have settled on blowing from her left, so odds were she would be falling over to her right. And that couldn’t be much longer now. Sight was down to a few steps in front of her, and aside from the shivering, Cilley was too numb to feel much of anything, so she could be certain of neither the road nor her sense of direction.

A sudden gust of wind managed to scoop snow up right underneath the hood she had made out of the blanket serving her as an extra cloak. She staggered to a halt for a moment before forcing herself to go on.

At least it had gotten marginally lighter a few hours ago. Lacking any sort of shelter, let alone warmth, Cilley had walked all through the night in a desperate attempt to reach the Citadel of the Almighty. This wasn’t the first time in her short years in this world that Cilley had feared for her life, but it might be the longest-lasting of those instances. Winter was a cruel foe, and it wouldn’t be much longer before one of them emerged victorious. Either she would reach the Citadel... or she would not.

For a moment, Cilley thought she heard hooves approaching, until she realized it was only her own teeth chattering. She would have laughed if her face hadn’t been too stiff.

The white of the snow and the swirling patterns of the wind formed a timeless tableau. Cilley couldn’t have said whether it was still morning or approaching night before anything changed—each foot in front of the other felt the same, only heavier.

Who goes there?

Her head snapped up, and for a moment as she looked around, seeking the source of the voice, Cilley wondered if she had imagined it. Then she spotted a dark shape moving somewhere in front of her—no, there were two of them.

...think you imagined... the wind blew in her direction. The shapes started to move away again.

Here! she shouted. A harmless troubadour, searching for hearts to warm and a fire to warm her! Her voice came out surprisingly clearly despite the chattering of her teeth. When she diligently did her vocal exercises, she had never imagined that this was what she’d need strong vocal chords for.

The shapes shifted as if they were turning around, and moments later turned into the welcome sight of two soldiers of the Protective Guard of the One Church, swaddled in thick wool from helmet to boot. Cilley smiled—they wouldn’t be out here in the middle of nowhere unless this was in actual fact the edge of nowhere, near the bridge to somewhere.

Suffering sainted ones! a muffled voice came from one of them. Hirtan! Give me a hand here! Cilley felt the pressure on her arms as the men arrived on either side of her, but the fact that they were pulling her along took a while to penetrate her brain. Luckily, her feet were a bit quicker on the uptake, and started moving before she could fall over.

The two soldiers led her into a stone structure—although it remained invisible underneath its layer of snow and Cilley didn’t see it until they were crowding through the doorway—and pushed her down onto a wobbly stool in front of an open fire—a stone hearth, she realized after a minute. A steaming cup appeared in her stiff fingers, and when she brought it to her lips, she tasted hot water with barely enough flavor to pass for tea if you’d never had any of the real stuff. It was Heavenly.

Cilley had no idea how long it took, but slowly the frost began to melt from her brain and her thoughts. She drained her cup and looked around for the first time, carefully clenching and unclenching her fingers to check if the frost had done any damage. So far, so good.

Four soldiers sat around a tiny table, playing cards, while a fifth stood with his back to her, on watch in front of the guardhouse’s sole window. It was hard to tell, swaddled up as they were, even inside, but Cilley guessed they were Skanda—they had those blocky facial features, and only pale Skanda skin showed the reddish glow of cold exposure so clearly, unlike that Arganian bronze. One of the card players glanced her way and caught her looking.

That was her cue. Cilley tried standing up, but quickly thought better of it and just raised her cup in a toast. My gratitude, Goodmen. I prayed for salvation, and the Almighty sent Their servants to guide me to safety.

Didn’t send us anywhere, one of them, a fairly handsome young lad, said as he pushed back his chair and brought over a pot to refill her cup. She eagerly held it out for him, her hands trembling only slightly. You were practically at our door. Good thing too, or we never would have spotted you in this storm.

You mad, woman? another one asked, probably their sergeant. What in the unholy name of the Pit were you doing out there?

Wasn’t... wasn’t by choice, I can assure you, she explained. Intended to go over the hills, but the snows caught me in the river basin.

And you’ve been out there all this time? The presumed sergeant sounded skeptical. As was his job, Cilley supposed. She drank more hot water before she replied, feeling the heat seep into her frozen bones.

A troubadour can usually find a night’s shelter in a village or on a farm. No more than a night, though—not when everyone fears the winter to come, and is counting their stores of food. You need someplace more populous for that.

The men nodded in understanding.

Are the gates... open? she asked when they didn’t take the hint.

Aye, it’s day, hard as it is to tell. And you’ll be going across the bridge and through them soon as you’re able. We’re not supposed to have civilians in here.

Well, thank you kindly for making the exception, Lieutenant, she said. It never hurt to exaggerate your estimation of a soldier’s rank. I owe you all a great debt. May the Almighty smile Their blessings upon you. Perhaps They can send some extra wood for your fire.

That got her some laughs, which gave her a good measure of the guys. A decent lot—dedicated, but not any of those humorless fanatics. She struck up a conversation, and some off-color jokes helped stretch the time before they finally sent her on her merry way.

Still it was sooner than Cilley preferred when she was bundling herself up again, preparing to face the undoubtedly bitterly cold winds on the long bridge that reached halfway across the River Eath to the