The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice: A Tide of Sacred Ice, #1

By A. A. Saloen

A myth, a curse, a destiny of ice!

 

Magic has been stripped from society and exists only in folklore. The seasons are dead, the sun dimmed and the lakes frozen. Isolated and starving, the people of Little Creek are held underfoot by a usurper king. The druids, the guardians of peace, have been missing for more than half a millennium, and the proud snowlingers, the little ones under the mountain, have secluded themselves in their Snowcaves, leaving the world to its own fate.

Approaching middle age, Dórinn feels his life lacks significance. He has but one wish: to explore the forbidden world outside the Hammer Mountains. One day he sneaks into the sacred library to steal something. His elder and most trusted friend Róinn doesn't approve of his actions. But there's more to it. Dórinn has a plan, one that will undoubtedly get them both into serious trouble…

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. A. Saloen
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393707271

Book preview

The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice

Copyright © 2017 by Alexander Amit Saloen (Sæløen)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For permission requests, write to the publisher/author at the address below:

ALEXANDER AMIT SÆLØEN

Wolffs gate 14,

5006 BERGEN – NORWAY

Or e-mail: [e-mail]

First edition, published 2017

Cover design, made by the author himself at befunky.com

Ouroboros, CC0 copyright, edited by the author for cover.

Illustrations included are made by the author himself.

The Orphan

and

the Dragon of Ice

E:\Publication\Ouroboros.svg.png

A.A. Saloen

A Tide of Sacred Ice

A close up of text on a white surface Description automatically generated

Magic! Ubiquitous, yet only for the few,

Evanescent, like moist morning dew.

Difficult to master, easy to see,

Flowing from the root of every tree.

Evil! Ubiquitous, and not for the few,

Always present, like the deadliest flu.

Easy to master, difficult to tame,

Malice lurks within greatness and fame...

Prologue

The Gift

What has our world come to,

When summer skips autumn’s pride,

And fondly welcomes winter’s wrath?

What has our world come to,

When our trees abandon rusty leaves,

To uphold crystals along our path?

What has our world come to,

When the seasons no longer count as four?

‘Tis then we’ll rot, like cursed meat,

Be warned! A black heart opens the door.

T

he wind swept across the rolling hills towards the south. 

The clouds blackened and the fields froze. The low edge of a dark red cloak moved across the snow, following the deep footsteps of the wearer. He looked back one last time. The darkness was closing in on him, watching his every step. 

Seven days had passed since he left the Lake of Whispers. A storm had blown in from the Moonsea and forced him to seek cover longer than he had wanted. His silvery white garment and crimson cloak were quickly losing grace and colour. He was the youngest of the eight, who were known to take council under the green moon. This happened once every century, before the autumn or spring equinox. He gazed up. The moon had, during the storm, returned to its original state – pale white with a bluish taint.

A fieldfare landed on his wooden staff and started pecking away at the staff’s crown. The percussive sounds were easily interpreted.

‘I know, it’s changing, we’re all changing,’ said the wanderer.

Two black, pearly eyes looked down on him. The bird’s grey crown and brown back weren’t as colourful as they should be, and its dark wings and tail were a noticeable contrast to its pale plumage. A beam of fading sunlight struck briefly from above. In that moment, the bird’s chest gleamed like bronze, revealing the still warm and reddish colours unique to the fieldfare. The wanderer asked the bird where his brothers and sister had flown.

‘To the Silver Lakes, you say?’

That didn’t surprise him. The guardians were venturing into the far north and wouldn’t return in a long while. 

The fieldfare left, its short wings carrying it westwards.

Ahead of him, upon the next hilltop, yellow lights finally appeared. He had been waiting for that moment, and although he shunned public ale houses and taverns, they were at least good for one thing – a nice roaring fire. The rest was irrelevant.

When he finally made it to the door, he stopped to look at the wooden sign swinging from a pair of iron hooks above it.

Fast as a fox, slow as a snail,

Whatever you are, enter for ale!

He made sure the hood hid most of his face. This night was truly different. He threw a brief look over his shoulder, to the trees down the many slopes towards the north. No stars could be seen upon the heavens. Thinking of it, he hadn’t seen them since he last observed them from the Tower of Constellations, before the last green moon. He wished he wouldn’t have to enter the door in front of him. The laughter, the shouting, the quarrelling inside, he would take no part in it, but since this was the most important quest in millennia, there was no way around it. Another night in the wilderness would definitely lay claim to his life, thereby jeopardising all he had fought for and chosen to believe in.

He opened the door.

THE TAVERN OF THE NORTHERN hills of Little Creek was cramped with hunters. Their bows were placed in the darkest corner, along with the knives and daggers. They had been drinking since the storm started to howl past the windows and doors. The serving maids had been put upon, tables were bent out of shape, and perhaps worst of all – the mine host was running out of ale. Some were playing cards, some were chatting about the women they were going to ravish, and the rest were simply bored out of their minds.

The door opened with a loud creek. A man entered. He was dressed in worn clothes that had seen better days. Yet they spoke of lost wealth, implying a fallen nobleman. Covering most of his face was a dark hood. The candles in the wrought iron holders hanging from the ceiling gave it a scarlet hue. In his right hand he held a long staff with the root turned upwards, and in his belt hung a valuable bronze sword. A large book was in his left hand. The room became silent as he walked towards the fireplace. The atmosphere inside the alehouse was indescribable. Every single guest reeked.

The crowd returned to their activities as soon as they’d registered the newcomer. The host set the mugs he was cleaning away and approached the stranger.

‘Welcome! One bronze coin for a drink, two pieces of bronze for a meal, five pieces of bronze for a bed,’ he said, looking at the stranger with expectant eyes. From the look of his clothes, although muddy and filthy from the harsh weather, he still looked as if he had some coin. The stranger remained still, gazed into the flames, and did not reply.

‘Hey, ten pieces of silver for this wench!’ said one of the hunters.

The red cloaked man pretended he wasn’t listening and kept his focus on the blaze, ‘Just give me some bread, please,’ he said to the host and sat down on a chair by the fire.

Shortly thereafter, the host returned with some mouldy bread on a wooden platter. He apologised for the inconveniences as well as for the muggy loaf. The harvest had given poor seeds and little to grind.

The stranger placed the book upon a small table. Then, to the delight of the host, he gave him a silver coin and told him he wanted to be left alone. He leant back in the unexpectedly comfortable chair he was seated in and lit his pipe. The aroma of the rare, spiced tobacco made the worst malodour go away. 

The host bowed in gratitude and left him.

The hunter who had spoken a moment ago pushed aside the girl he had kept on his lap and stood up. His mates told him to sit back down, but he paid no attention. The host’s eyes followed the hunter’s arrogant gait over to the fireplace, where the stranger was eating. The hunt had been poor; why not try noble blood?

‘You there, reddie, get the hell up... I want to slit your throat before I rob you.’

The stranger glared into the fire, whispering words in an unknown language.

The host looked at the coin he had been given. The dragon symbol was not something he recognised, but the pure silver was more than he had ever held in his flabby hands. ‘Easy now – he’s just a stranger, we don’t want any trouble –’

‘Oh yeah? Why is he so silent, then? Wouldn’t you love a young wench right now? I can hold her down for you... Hey, I’m talking to you!’

The stranger closed his eyes. His whispers became louder, but not so much that they revealed his voice. Slowly, he placed his wooden platter aside and turned to face the hunter.

‘You’re shaking,’ he said with a cool, steady voice.

The hunter’s shoulders rose, his muscles tightened, and his suddenly cold breath stood from his mouth like smoke from a chimney. ‘What are you doing to me?’

‘I’m instructing the flames not to bless you with their warmth,’ said the stranger, turning to the fire again.

The hunter fell to his knees. The host tried to calm the men, but he was too late. They rushed over to the dark corner to grab their weapons. Seventeen blades were soon pointed at the stranger. No words were uttered, but the blades fell to the floor, hilts glowing as if they had been pulled out of a forge fire in a smithy. Warmth slowly returned to the veins of the hunter.

‘What the hell are you?!’ the host muttered, closing his hand around the silver coin.

‘One you should leave in peace,’ the stranger murmured. ‘Will you kindly arrange for a quiet room where I can rest until dawn?’

The night was unusually cold. Aladria was changing, and there was a reason for that. The people of the northern territories had forgotten the true lord of the north – the ice dragon. They neglected his values, and slowly he had disappeared from folklore and songs. But worst of all – they had never, not ever, honoured him for protecting Aladria from the flames of the fire dragons. Instead, he was seen as a threat to their existence. The people wiped away every memory of him from their books, tales, and teachings. They banished him from their lives, which left them free to do as they pleased. Women and children were sold into slavery, and boys were forced to serve selfish lords who would do anything to obtain their power.

The stranger tried to ignore the brawl downstairs. The world was turning into something very different, and not for the better. This had been clear to his brotherhood for a long time, and there was little they could do to prevent what was coming. Understanding the changes in tide and time was his greatest ability, a gift his masters had told him to treasure like archaic lumps of gold.

Three weeks had passed since he left his brotherhood. His masters hadn’t liked his plan. They had questioned him thoroughly, yet in the end they had reached a conclusion. After the last council they had agreed that they, the other druids, would travel into the far north, to hide from the darkness. They had to vanish from Aladria; otherwise, his plan wouldn’t work. The guardians of the Silver Lakes would offer them assistance, as the brotherhood had in return provided shelter and comfort during the hunting seasons.

That morning, the wind had been cold and restless as his seven brothers ventured, along with the guardians, into the far North, uncertain about their choice, uncertain about the future. Thus did they leave the ancient walls in the care of the youngest of their kind. He too had left the same morning as his brethren headed north and had crossed the arch bridge with hope in his cooling blood. Covered with red ivy leaves, the stones looked much like the colour of his cloak. He knew that day that by the time he got back, snow would have buried the colourful leaves and replaced them with lustrous, cold winter-crystals.

The stranger gazed out the open window. No guardian had opted to follow him. His contemplation remained his only companion, persistent, tiresome, and most critical to his controversial thoughts. He had to go south, to the Hammer Mountains, then north, before he returned to the sacred walls. The dreams and visions he had experienced were not to be regarded as irrelevant, and although it had taken him an eternity to convince his masters to trust him, he had faith in the folk under the mountain. They were selfish and proud, but something told him that they were the best choice; the secrets would rest safely there.

The book, now resting upon the grimy sheets provided by the host, explained it all. It contained many a secret. Healing plants and herbs were all described in it, along with a thousand mysteries of nature herself, all decoded and spelled out in the ancient tongue, which would very soon be a lost art.

He inhaled the changes in the air. It was turning uncomfortably metallic. The sweet aroma of herbs and plants would soon be history. He surveyed the snowy hills towards the north and the gleaming white moon above them like a frozen mirror. Like a starved wolf, the wind howled between the dying trees nearby, plucking away their dead leaves like loot from a plunder. This was merely the beginning of the lord’s just vengeance.

The book wasn’t all, for in it was a map that showed the way to a mystical key. The order had guarded it ever since the last ice age and kept it well hidden. Every century, one of them would claim the key and hide it from everyone else, and later return it under the green moon for the next member of the order to protect. And now the key had passed onto him.

But times were changing. They could no longer keep it hidden from the menace that lurked in the shadows – the darkness that had returned from beyond the stars.

He closed his eyes. His heartbeat was calm and steady. The child he had seen in his dreams would suffer more than most. She would grow up without parents and be tossed between the will of different masters. Her path would be hard and strenuous. Sorrow would weigh her heart, not love.

And yet all this would happen in the far future. Therefore, he had sworn to stay within the ancient walls until the child crossed his path. The prophecy couldn’t be false. He had had those visions since he was a young man, and now, approaching three centuries, they were still there; that had to mean something.

Somebody knocked on his door.

‘Who’s there?’

The host entered with some lukewarm goat milk, on the house, which he placed upon the table. As he was about to leave, he remained standing in the door.

‘What brought you here?’ he inquired, politely.

The red cloaked man explained he had been sent to tell the people of Little Creek, the northernmost kingdom of Aladria, about a new discovery he and his brethren had made.

The host’s eyes widened, ‘Will you tell me?’

‘It’s a plough,’ said the stranger and closed the door.

HE LEFT BEFORE ANYONE awoke. The morning was grey and quiet, in fact so calm that it distressed him. There were no birds left, and for being late autumn, the belated ploughs of migration birds should appear on the pale sky. But there was nothing, not even a little sparrow.

He turned one last time to look at the tavern. They wouldn’t remember much when they woke up, and the headache would last until nightfall, at least. But it was the only way to keep him safe, to keep his journey secret and clouded. The evil his order had sensed was far beyond the comprehension of human minds; they were limited, thinking that such forces could be located, hunted, and destroyed. But to those who knew, evil was as much a part of the world as life itself. It wouldn’t be parted with, and for every action or thought ever created there was a shadow side to it.

However, these shades were so dark they could consume the very light that provided life. Once trapped in the rivers of darkness there was no turning back. The crystal in his staff had taught him about the true power of such malice, and at the same time it had lifted his spirit to the unattainable heights of light and glory. Such was nature, these seemingly opposing forces coexisted – everywhere.

The moorlands with its scattered marshes bathed in the shades of the Hammer Mountains, quiet and silent in the tranquil afternoon. He had travelled ever since he left the tavern on the hilltop and was now seated on a stone mark. He had avoided Little Creek. Anyone there would suspect him of being a witch, a heretic. They were probably right, though not in the essence of what he truly was.

He finished his ration of mutton and honey. The book weighed heavy. Or perhaps it was the tiresome bog he was striving to get through? It certainly wore him down, and if there was one good thing about the winter it was frost. This made these muddy places, these deep layers of peat, constantly waterlogged, feel like an uneven and somewhat rugged floor.

Snow descended, and as it reached the soaking soil it blended with it and made it even harder to advance. The ground itself wanted to hold him back. But he didn’t bother to cast spells or call for guidance. There were far worse forces in the world than soggy marshes.

Where the wetness wasn’t overwhelming, cloud and crowberries could be seen if one peered through the thick straws of tussocks and hare’s-tail cotton grass. Amongst the dark berries lay dead dwarf’s cornel leaves. The wind had blown the mossy green leaves all across the mashes, and now they were sticking onto his boots as he struggled onward, towards the rocks ahead.

The murky shades toppled over him like a black waterfall. The Hammer Mountains hid the rising sun. Soon, he would have the honour of walking on stone and perhaps, if he was lucky, a goat path. He had trusted his intuition so far, and thus dared to hope that someone was still residing within the mountains. 

He knocked upon the mountainside with his staff, as instructed in the history books he had read as a young novice.

A long while went by. The wind still blew from the east, and with it followed a blizzard of snow. Winter had come, although all too soon. For this time, it wasn’t the seasons who decided upon the changes of the world.

The mountainside creaked. The echo rang towards the open moorland below, eventually dying somewhere out there upon the cold plains. Pebbles and grey rock fell from the ledges up the mountainsides. A stone door swung open. Out came a short fellow with a large, black beard. A silver diadem shimmered in the white daylight. Behind him laid a darkness, vaguely illuminated by torches along the walls.

‘You know how to knock,’ said the snowlinger. He was a messenger, and the runes carved in his diadem translated to that exact word.

‘I bring a gift,’ said the tall stranger in the crimson cloak. Although marked by his long journey to their doorstep, his beard was neat and well cared for.

‘A gift?’

‘Indeed, a book, but I suggest you keep it safe and hidden.’

The messenger returned to the murky shades from whence he came. The door closed behind him, leaving the stranger to the approaching snowsquall.

A long while went by before the door reopened. This time, the leader himself had followed the messenger to the door, along with six warriors of their kind.

The stranger showed them great courtesy by bowing, but kept his eyes fixed upon the lord under the Hammer Mountains, the leader of the Snowcaves. The stranger was invited to step inside the opening of the mountain, to seek shelter from the storm.

‘You bring a gift?’ said the leader.

‘My lord, that is correct.’

The stranger handed over the book containing the map. It weighed heavily in the arms of the lord of the mountain. 

He opened it. The language was unintelligible and was written in an ancient tongue. The lord’s eyes opened wide. This was far more valuable than anything they had ever collected, found, traded, or written. He would most certainly keep it safe. 

The stranger bowed for the second time. ‘Consider it yours. But suggest you keep it indoors.’ 

The lord promised to keep it hidden in the darkest corners of their library, and to invent a story of curses and condemnation if so needed.

‘But who are you, stranger, and where do you come from?’

‘I am a strider, a rover, from the far north.’

‘The book, it isn’t cursed, is it?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

The leader looked up at him. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Second hand, a small little bookshop in Little Creek.’

The leader frowned. ‘I’m sure you know that we don’t approve of folk like you, of humans. They mean trouble.’

‘Perfectly understandable, my lord.’

‘Is it?’ the leader said, eyeing his entourage. ‘Hah. Finally, someone who agrees with me! In which case we’ll take it. But tell me, what will you do from here, stranger?’

‘I’ll be around, telling stories...’ 

The stranger, who replied as if he had prepared for the question, had already turned his face to the storm again.

‘Join me, stranger, for tonight. The ale is excellent, I assure you!’

the leader said, a hand pointing invitingly into the mountain.

‘That sure is an invite I appreciate, my lord. I have full faith in the quality of your ale. However, I sadly must decline your generosity.’

The leader frowned. ‘But you must be exhausted.’

‘I am, but I still have a long way to go, my lord.’

‘What a shame! I could do with the company of someone a little brighter than my fellow snowlingers.’

The lord’s laughter rang inwards, into the mountain, to the great halls beyond the entrance. He thanked him for the present and gave him in return a large blanket of fine, dark wool.

‘Sincere thanks,’ said the stranger and flung the blanket around his shoulders.

‘It is I who should be thankful, strider. That blanket should keep you warm. Maybe we can share a drink some other time?

‘I shall keep that in mind, my lord. Farewell.’

‘Farewell.’

THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND him, leaving the natural mountainside quiet and without as much as a hint of mystery. A huge burden had been lifted off of his shoulders. But there was no time to rest. His hand touched by the bronze key in his belt. He had made sure to keep it hidden inside his large cloak as he consulted with the snowlingers. The map had been drawn and delivered – now came the hard bit. The robber of seasons had accepted his offer and agreed to help.

But his aid had come with a price. The last druid would, from this day on, be left in solitude, cut off from his brethren. His name would be hidden, and he would travel the wintry plains like a nameless strider, only known as the man in red. He had complied never to reveal his magic unless he deemed it an absolute necessity. Also, he would not get too involved in the suffering of the world – until the child had been born. The ice dragon wanted the people of Aladria to suffer for their ignorance. They had to believe magic and wonders were mere myths. 

Darkness watched him. He was running out of time. The glowing red crystal in his staff provided an invisible shield against the gathering storm as he bid the Hammer Mountains farewell. He had a long and arduous journey ahead of him. Not even he knew when fate intended to arrange for the right things to occur, though that time would most certainly be just as affected by a strong portion of coincidental incidents.

C:\Users\Alexander\Desktop\IMG_20170118_014839–Kopi(2).jpgOne

WHEN THE SUN SETS IT disappears. Not just to the eye, it vanishes. Most of us don’t realise that it leaves our world behind, venturing into another. Dórinn knows this. In fact, he knows more than most. He has seen places you would never believe exist. But let’s not dwell upon that anymore. Let’s start at the beginning. My dearest friend, time has passed so quickly since Róinn and Dórinn left their safe Snowcaves for the perilous path into the north...

Chapter I

Dórinn’s Return

Opportunity only knocks once.

Regret only plays a part when the knocks are ignored.

-  Snowlinger proverb.

A

snowlinger thrives best alone. In Aladria’s east you’ll find deep caverns and hidden halls, all made by the creational genius of nature. But this happened a long time ago, way back in time when the world was ruled by no less than three kinds of dragons. The entrances to these caverns are difficult to find, inconspicuous, and although there are large doors, these are mostly covered by ice and snow. But should you be lucky enough to find one of these doors, knock. Soon, you’ll find yourself in large rooms followed by majestic halls. Keep in mind, a long time has passed since the snowlingers discovered these halls, forever laying claim to them. They live in peace, hidden from the rest of the world, so you may find them a bit odd and self-absorbed. But don’t worry. You won’t regret stopping by.

RÓINN CLEANSED HIS rugs, spanking the dust from them with his carpet beater. The rising dust provoked a sneeze. He had neither tidied nor cleaned his room in ages. Laziness had become his life. On second thought, perhaps whipping the carpets wasn’t the best idea.

He surveyed the clutter, waiting for his tea water to boil. A large, black cauldron hung above the hearth of his room. Róinn had spent half of his life reading books by that fireplace. The world was presented in preserved glimpses that way, a window into the farthest corners of it. Confined to the Hammer Mountains, fiction was as important as food. And the books he’d borrowed from the library were many, a heap of clutter upon his dining table. Not all of them were fictional.

If I’m going to find that little trick on how to solve clogged up noses, I’ll be seated until my death.

He slid into his comfy armchair. Resting his short legs upon a stable of books, he packed himself into a large, comfortable duvet. The carpets could wait. First, the washed floor had to dry.

Knocks on the door.

Róinn swore under his breath. ‘Yes?’

A snowlinger entered, bringing with him a long list.

‘Don’t remind me. I know what that is,’ said Róinn.

‘Nine times now, Róinn. Nine! Common service is common good. You should know.’

‘I do.’

‘And yet here you sit.’ He looked around. ‘What a mess. And those books?’

‘Oh, I am taking them back, I am!’

‘The librarian might kill you one day.’

‘I hope so,’ muttered Róinn, meeting the snowlinger’s confused glare. ‘Look, he still hasn’t showed up to ask for them.’

‘Because he trusts you, Róinn. Though I fear that trust is beginning to fade. Now then, shall I put you up for laundry? Or would you prefer the smithies?’

Róinn wacked a fist into the chair’s armrest. ‘Just... anything will do, thank you.’

The snowlinger ticked something off on the list with a quill. ‘Noted. Anything else?’

‘Get out.’

‘Sure, but before I go,’ the snowlinger said, ‘it should be mentioned that Lord Ethlón has banned your friend from ever re-entering our Snowcaves.’

Róinn frowned, disbelief flaring in his gaze. ‘What did you just say?’

‘You heard me, Róinn. That vagabond can never return. You should’ve convinced him to stay.’

Róinn fought a building rage. ‘Ethlón is a snob! He’s not like his forefathers. Where’s his pride, his... get out!’

The snowlinger stepped back out and closed the door. Róinn sank further down in his chair. Dórinn, banned from our Snowcaves? Lord Ethlón, you fool, that was a mistake.

He hadn’t seen his best friend in a long while. The last time Dórinn was around he mentioned something about a curse. According to Róinn’s feeble calculations that was nearly ten years ago. Why did he come to think of the embarrassing incident now, the big quarrel in front of his fireplace? Ten years was a long time. His friend got really mad at him that time. The more he thought about it, the more he remembered why he had snapped like a lute string.

My life isn’t useless. My life isn’t wasted. I am not lonely. Am I?

That was what Dórinn had claimed. But Róinn knew better. The harsh world outside the Snowcaves had nothing to offer – a fact known to any snowlinger, except the foolhardy nonconformist who ran away. Ten years! Is it really that long since I told my friend to bugger off? I miss him.

He threw a quick glance at the books upon his table. Yes, his friend had mentioned the legends about the key, too. Róinn knew of it for he had read about them, in the library. According to legend, the key unlocked a door nobody had ever found. It was supposed to lead into a world beyond this one, a world made of riches and gems.

He scoffed to himself. Fairy tales remained fairy tales, a contribution to bedtime stories for children. Nothing else. He loved writing, especially in his diary, and whenever he was in the mood of composing insignificant poems. His works weren’t meant for greatness, like the famous legends and vibrant fairy tales he had come across in the library.

His eyelids were closing. On the other hand, could there be something to the old legend? He wasn’t sure, but the idea was stuck in his mind and slid with him into sleep. His breath deepened. Soon, sleep would take him into the world of dreams and infinite possibility. Without realising it, his hand hit the duvet hard enough for a few feathers to shoot out from its sides. His head fell forward in a deep sleep. The light of the gentle flames played reflectively on his round, ruddy face. Finally, his longed peace descended.

RÓINN AWOKE. SOMEBODY was knocking on his door. The room seemed to be spinning no matter how firmly he tried to fix his eyes on it.

I swear, if that damn messenger returns for more trouble, I’ll beat him senseless! He got up and staggered towards the rolled-up carpets as fast as he could, and a moment later they were placed exactly the way they were supposed to.

The knocking came to an end.

Róinn opened the door. Stunned, he remained standing in silence for another ten heartbeats. ‘Dórinn? Is that you?’

The hour was late, and there was no one else around. Still, Dórinn seemed worried and was constantly looking over his shoulders. He clearly