Chapter 47: Northreach

For a brief second, the chaotic merchant mask slipped completely, revealing a solemn, unnervingly sharp look underneath.

Then, with a sudden clap of his hands, he bounced right back into his animated self.

"Two hundred and forty! Beautiful, beautiful Gilded Gold!" Balkas chirped, scooping up the heavy purse and testing its weight with a reverent grin. "In stock? For anyone else, no. But for you? Balkas always keeps a private vault for thehighesttier of clientele. Give me just a moment to fetch the vials from the back."

He rushed to the back area and, in a flash, was back with a box. Opening it, two vials of blood were elegantly displayed. The transaction was made, and Resven was about to say his farewells when he paused.

Balkas’ normal animated expression had once more faded, and he gazed at Resven in all seriousness. He leaned over the counter one last time, and his voice dropped into a low, deadly serious whisper.

"A word of advice, though... watch your step in the city squares when you leave here. Word travels fast when this much wealth changes hands, and we’ve had a few dangerous rats lurkin’ around the alleys lately. Keep your guard up, Resven. It wouldn’t do for a bounty like this to get hijacked before it even reaches your camp."

He nodded, thoughtful, and turned to leave.

***

Northreach

The continents of the world were vast and rarely met, but in the extreme north, a massive ’landbridge’ connected the continent to the wastes.

The Icelandic. The Northern Wastes.

And where these two continents meet, a large mass of mountains and ranges stood like dutiful watchmen. Among these mountains stood the fortress of High Hold.

The wind outside High Hold howled like a dying primal beast, tearing at the colossal, dark-timbered rafters of the great hall. Carved directly into the living rock of the highest peaks overlooking the Northern Pass, the fortress was built to endure the crushing weight of the arctic winters and the relentless passage of time.

Inside, the air smelled of heavy tallow, burning pine, and the distinct, metallic tang of fresh monster blood. Colossal stone pillars, rough-hewn and unpolished, marched down the length of the hall, supporting a roof steeply pitched to shed the eternal snows of the extreme north.

At the far end of the chamber, beneath a massive iron banner bearing the jagged, obsidian-black silhouette of a mountain peak, sat High Warden Sigurd Skagen. The Lord of House Skagen, one of the five Royal houses in the north.

They were shields and protectors of the north and the pass.

He was a titan—a living cliffside. Even among giants’ descendants, Sigurd was a mountain: over seven and a half feet tall, armored in heavy, unpolished dark-iron plate.

His skin was the color of weathered granite, scarred by decades of battle and blood. He sat perfectly still, his massive hands resting on the pommel of a greatsword that could have cleaved a wagon in two.

A warrior knelt on the frost-dusted stone before him. The man’s armor was dented. It was coated in a thick, frozen layer of pale, greasy ichor—the unmistakable blood of an aberration from the extreme northern wastes.

On the warrior’s exposed upper chest, the obsidian-blackGranite Peaksoul tattoo pulsed with a low, dull heat, keeping the absolute cold of the permafrost from freezing his blood.

"Report," Sigurd rumbled. His voice was a low, seismic vibration that cut straight through the roaring gales outside.

"The Eastern Chokepoint at the Glacier Sluice holds, High Warden," the warrior spoke, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "The Granite Wall infantry stood like bedrock. The third wave of pale abominations tried to scale the ice-shear, but our heavy shields kept the formation locked. We smashed them into the ravine."

The timber and stone supplies from the lower quarries arrived on schedule. Everything is moving steadily and securely.

Sigurd gave a single, slow nod. "And the Western Shelf?"

The warrior’s posture stiffened, a grim shadow crossing his weathered face. "The Shelf is suffering, sire. A horde of blind, flesh-eating aberrations - The Brae-Ghaunt - breached the lower trenches. They don’t feel pain, and they don’t retreat."

"Our vanguard fought until their weapons notched on the beasts’ calcified hides. We held, but the casualties among the regular Iron Guard were heavy. The shield-wall is thinning fast. If we do not send a fresh detachment of heavy shock infantry to reinforce the shelf by tomorrow’s dawn, the western flank will buckle, and the horrors will spill into the sub-alpine valleys."

Sigurd’s amber eyes didn’t flicker with panic. Panic was a luxury for lesser men. "Tell the Second Vanguard to march. Send in a few Bastian-Captains as well. They should take the field at midnight, the wall will not break whilst we guard it."

"Understood, High Warden." The warrior paused, swallowing hard before lowering his voice to a confidential murmur. "There is more, sire. Intelligence from our merchants and scouts returning from the northern territories. The inner workings of the far north are shifting, and there is much unrest happening between houses."

Sigurd leaned forward slightly, the dark iron of his breastplate grinding heavily against his gauntlets. Any news below the high tiers was entirely beneath his notice; his gaze was fixed only on the powers that could shake mountains. "Speak."

"Reports from the royal houses, sire. House Durgrim has begun pulling their heavy coin and high-grade ores back into their subterranean holds. Our informants claim Lord Thrain has completely sealed himself away within their deepest vault. Word is he has acquired an ancient, primordial catalyst and is attempting a breakthrough to the Violet tier. If he succeeds, the military balance between the high houses will shatter."

The warrior moved his hand to a leather scroll case at his hip, but did not open it yet. "Furthermore, the savage clans of the Icelandic Wastes are no longer fighting among themselves. The raiders and ice-barbarians have united under a single warlord. They are pushing south, and their cruel, brutal raiding parties are slipping past the coastal inlets."