Skyterra: Winter's Crown

The archaeologist tugged at the collar of his outermost coat, the thickest of the three he was wearing. His gloved hands were numb, and the visor on his face was fogged over. 

The relentless gale had been blowing since they first started their journey. The archaeologist had initially tried to appear unfazed, but had long since given up the facade. The wind was sharp and bitter, the cold unbearable. His best boots were soaked from trudging through the thick snow, and the equipment strapped to his back weighed him down. He was tired and miserable and could no longer resist the violent trembling the cold elicited from his body. 

"How much longer?" he tried to say. But his voice caught in his throat and in the wind, and he could barely hear himself. He figured he must have sounded ridiculous either way. 

His guide, a broad-shouldered, fair-skinned Valanorrd, made no response. He continued moving through the frost, as naturally and unencumbered as the archaeologist would through an empty street. 

If the Valanorrd felt the cold in the slightest, it certainly did not show. His muscled form betrayed not a hint of a shiver, and his blue eyes remained wide and focused even in the face of the oncoming wind. To make matters worse, the man's chest was bare, exposed to the elements. Only a cloak of snow-white Amarok pelt and crude leather pants shielded him against the harsh climate of Winter's Crown. He had iron bracers on both his arms, and wore thick black boots lined with fur.

The winding road before them was known as the Crooked Spine, a natural ridge that cut across northern Winter’s Crown at a diagonal. Legends told of great treasure hoards stowed away in the mountains by ancient men who once lived at the base of the Spine, before a terrible winter came and wiped them all out. Scholars and fools alike had attempted to navigate the Spine, hoping to find those legendary treasures, and none of them had survived. The footpath was rocky and narrow and lined with frost; the thick blizzards made for piss-poor visibility. Stone and ice jutted out at all angles along the trail, large enough to hide a wild beast from view. A single misstep could spell doom. 

But there was a clear difference between the archaeologist and those who had come before him. He had a guide: a Valanorrd who was born and raised in the frigid wasteland that was Winter’s Crown, who had spent his youth battling for survival on the Crooked Spine itself.  

If anyone could survive this expedition, it was him. It had to be. Those bastards at the Academy who were funding the whole thing had made it very clear: if he returned with nothing again, he might as well not return at all. 

"How much longer?" the archaeologist tried again, this time with more success. 

The Valanorrd's expression changed subtly. His impressive beard, long and elaborately-braided, crinkled a little, and his brow furrowed slightly. For a moment the archaeologist thought the northerner might yell at him. Not that he would mind--they had been walking in silence for so long that any form of communication was welcome. 

But instead the Valanorrd stopped in his tracks and held up a hand. The archaeologist halted as well, behind a massive, outstretched arm. 

With his other hand, the Valanorrd drew a spear he had strapped on to his cloak. The shaft of the weapon expanded as the seasoned warrior twirled it defensively.

The archaeologist waited, not daring to make a sound. Even his shivering had ceased. 

The Amarok was almost invisible in the snow. If not for the cold blue of its eyes and the flicker of its red tongue, the archaeologist would not have spotted it. Crouched on all fours and nearly as large as a bear, the lupine beast emerged from behind a spike of snow-covered rock. Its hooked fangs caught the glint of the waning sun, and the archaeologist could feel whatever colour he had remaining drain from his face. 

“Back,” said the Valanorrd, his voice clear and steady. 

The archaeologist did as he was told, slowly so as not to draw the Amarok’s attention. The beast’s icy gaze was locked on the Valanorrd and his spear. No doubt it could sense, rightfully so, that the warrior was a bigger threat than the scholar. 

The Valanorrd struck first, driving his spear forward in a quick, powerful thrust. But the Amarok was faster. It ducked away, then kicked off from its crouch and into a leap. In a second it had closed the gap between itself and the Valanorrd, and the latter had no choice but to raise his arm, shielding his face from the oncoming attack. 

Fangs like ice picks clamped down onto the metal bracers the Valanorrd wore, as both beast and warrior tumbled to the ground. Valanorrdic metal was notoriously sturdy, so the warrior’s arm remained intact. But the Amarok was faster and stronger, with four sets of claws he could employ.

We’re done for, thought the archaeologist. The Academy bastards were right; I shouldn't be here. 

The Amarok raised a paw, with knives protruding out the end. 

This is how it ends. I'll die without a single discovery in my name. 

The spear seemed to come from nowhere, plunging through the back of the Amarok's head. The beast made a sad, whimpering sound, then tumbled off the Valanorrd.  

With a grunt, the warrior pushed himself to his feet. Blood trickled down the front of his chest; the Amarok must have scratched him when it pounced. In the Valanorrd’s hand was his spear, the shaft retracted so that the weapon was now the length of a dagger.

Still not daring to move, the archaeologist took a moment to process what had happened. Given that the Valanorrd had been flat on his back, the spear at its full length would have been awkward to maneuver from that angle. He must have used his arm to draw the Amarok’s attention away from the spear, then retracted the shaft to give himself more room and control to land the killing blow. 

But what did the archaeologist know? He had never been in a fight before. Not once. Had he come alone, he would be dead. 

The shivers returned, and the archaeologist gripped his collar with both hands. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

The Valanorrd wiped his spear with the hem of his pelt cloak. He then grabbed a fistful of snow from the ground, pressing it against the wound on his chest. 

“I’ve sworn to protect you, foreign scholar,” the Valanorrd said. “To let you die would be to bring disgrace to my Warfather.” 

The archaeologist’s jaw dropped. That was the most words the warrior had spoken since their first meeting at the village.

"Let's go."

The Valanorrd trudged on, not waiting. His steps were wide and quick, and the archaeologist struggled a little to catch up. 

Before them, the last vestiges of sunlight was fading behind the mountain range. The long shadows cast by the terrain made the archaeologist uneasy, though not much more that he'd been since arriving at Winter's Crown. 

Already he missed the warmth of his home in Firstland. He had no love for the bustle of the city--he was raised on farmlands far from the capital--but now he craved its sights and sounds. Hell, even the clunky, smelly skyship that had brought him here would be welcome. At least his bunk had been warm. 

In contrast, everything and everyone he had encountered upon leaving the skyship was cold. The weather, the icy terrain, the obscure and dangerous wildlife. Even the people were blocks of ice, their faces fierce and unreadable. 

The archaeologist’s breath rattled as he sighed. The anticipation he felt two days ago was now gone, blown away by the merciless wind. 

They came to a sharp incline, too steep for the archaeologist to maneuver by foot. He got on his hands and knees and proceeded the slow crawl up while the Valanorrd, who had already made his way up, waited.  

At the top of the incline, where the path plateaued, there was a small cave. Manmade, the archaeologist thought. The mouth of the cave was too perfectly arched, and the ground within too flat. Intricate runes had been carved into the entrance. 

“All are sheltered by the Great Mother,” the archaeologist read aloud. 

“You understand the ancient runes?” said the Valanorrd. 

The archaeologist nodded. “This is a Mother’s Bosom.” 

“Yes,” the Valanorrd replied. “Since the dawn of history, the Nine Tribes have been at war, by the Great Father’s decree. A Mother’s Bosom is sacred ground, blessed by the Great Mother herself. Any warrior of any tribe may choose to seek respite within her embrace. Even sworn enemies may share a shelter, provided they shed no blood, under pain of death.”

The archaeologist knew all this--he had studied Valanorrdic culture and history in the Academy--but the banter stunned him. He made no response as they entered the Mother’s Bosom together. 

There was no discernible heat source, but the inside of the cave was so wonderfully warm. An enchantment from the runes, perhaps, or a property of the stones. Either way, it was a welcome change from freezing to death. The ground was soft like loam and seemed almost synthetic. More importantly, it was clear of snow. 

Undoing the straps of his equipment harness, the archaeologist sat down and let out a long, contented sigh. 

As darkness crept in, the Valanorrd lit a small lamp he had holstered on his waist, and set it on the ground. It hummed to life, casting a soft glow on the two men.

“The sun has set,” the Valanorrd said. He sat the same way he stood: with his back ramrod straight and his eyes focused intently on some unseen threat. “We’ll rest here till morning.” 

The archaeologist nodded. 

“Tell me, scholar,” said the Valanorrd. "What treasure do you seek?"

Once again, the archaeologist found himself taken aback by the Valanorrd’s sudden chattiness. It took him several seconds to process the question.

"The, erm, Mask of Fimbulvetr," he responded. "Believed to have been constructed over two thousand years ago, by the ancients who once inhabited the Crooked Spine. They say the Mask was the cause of the freak winter which eventually killed the ancients, and while there's no hard evidence to support that claim, the consistency of the legends do--" 

"I know of the Mask," the Valanorrd interjected. "It was lost along with the ancients."

"Well, or so we thought. Winter’s Crown experienced a huge avalanche about a month ago, yes?” 

The Valanorrd nodded. “No lives were lost, but our scouts found one of your contraptions buried beneath the snow.”

“Yes, well, that was an unmanned Academy flux meter. We were using it to measure fluctuations in the Aether flow around the Crooked Spine. Just before it was destroyed, there was an unprecedented spike in the readings.” 

The archaeologist leaned forward, his confidence growing as he spoke. “Now, I've been studying Aether flow patterns and weather changes in Winter's Crown since the avalanche, using data from other meters nearby. The same Aether surges are still happening, and the weather has been erratic--even by the Crown’s standards. I began tracing these disruptions to their origin point, and the answer was clear--whatever caused the avalanche is also causing these energy spikes." 

“And you know for certain that it is the Mask which caused all this?” the Valanorrd said.  

“I’ve got a pretty strong hunch,” said the archaeologist, shrinking back a little. 

The Valanorrd scoffed. “So your Academy sent you here on a hunch.” 

“Hunches are the cornerstone of every great discovery,” the scholar replied weakly. 

For a few moments neither of them said anything. The archaeologist thought perhaps the conversation had come to an end, but he noticed the Valanorrd staring at him with a kind of stoic expectancy. He couldn’t help but look away.

"I, erm, suppose I should thank the Warfather,” he said, his voice quiet. “Without him, this expedition would be impossible."

Not that it was much of an expedition, the archaeologist thought. The Academy had afforded him barely enough money for equipment. They had been exceedingly clear about not being able to fund his personnel requirements, possibly in the hopes that he would give up on his wild chase. No other scholar was willing to sponsor him, and he’d already spent a large chunk of the family money on his last two expeditions. 

“How did you come to know our Warfather?” asked the Valanorrd, interrupting the archaeologist’s thoughts.

"Ah," said the archaeologist. “Well, a cousin of mine fought alongside your Warfather in the Leviathan War,” said the archaeologist. “He wasn’t a Warfather then, I believe. Just a Valanorrd warrior.” He added quickly, “But a brilliant one, of course!” 

The Valanorrd, whose expression had changed when he heard the word ‘just’, relaxed a little. 

“They were comrades, your Warfather and my cousin. Well, warbonded, as your people call it. Sworn to fight and die for each other. And warbonds, well, you know, they last forever.” 

The Valanorrd nodded. 

“So, when my cousin heard I was planning an expedition to the Crooked Spine, he contacted your Warfather. They hadn’t spoken in half a decade, but their warbond was still very much, erm, intact. And, well, I suppose your Warfather must have honoured the pact, because he welcomed me and sent you to be my guide.”  

“Our Warfather is a noble warrior,” said the Valanorrd, “one who has waged war on the world beyond the Frostlands. He is terrifying on the battlefield, but shows the Great Mother’s mercy to those in his care.” 

“Indeed,” said the archaeologist. “I’m grateful for his generosity.”

“But he is also a man of vision,” the Valanorrd continued. “One who sees that perhaps our traditions and cultures hold us back, prevent us from becoming who we are meant to be. The first of the Warfathers to lead our tribesmen into a war that was not ours. And now, he welcomes a foreigner into our dwelling.” 

The Valanorrd paused, his expression unreadable. The archaeologist looked away, thinking the conversation ended. 

But the warrior carried on suddenly, saying, “Many of us wondered if it had been a mistake, but Warfathers do not make mistakes. He must have a reason for bringing you here, beyond simply obligation to a warbond.” 

It was the archaeologist’s turn to stay silent. The Valanorrd’s intense gaze was now fixed on him, and he felt naked, exposed. He was keenly mindful of a Valanorrd’s tendency to speak in riddles, and how notoriously xenophobic they tended to be. 

His guide was right: the archaeologist could not have been here without the Warfather’s blessing. It seemed that in his eagerness to come here, he had taken his brother’s ties with the Valanorrd people for granted, accepted it despite knowing that Valanorrds never mixed with outsiders. 

Did the Warfather’s acceptance of the archaeologist bring dissension into the tribe? That would be a dangerous thing. Most Valanorrds pledged their whole lives to their Warfather, the fiercest warrior and ruler of the tribe. To denounce him was to denounce the tribe and risk exile. To challenge him openly was to court death.  

The archaeologist swallowed, instinctively drawing his knees up to him. Then the Valanorrd did the most peculiar thing: he curled his lips in a sort of half-smile. It was a mirthless smile, but still it seemed almost misplaced on the warrior’s hardened face. 

“Rest, scholar,” he said. “We move at first light.” 

The Valanorrd closed his eyes, and the archaeologist did the same, though he did not sleep.

Leaving the Mother's Bosom was possibly the hardest thing the archaeologist had ever had to do. The unnatural warmth within the cavern did not wane throughout the night, and in those fleeting hours he thought himself far from Winter’s Crown. 

He would have stayed huddled inside for a while longer if he could, but time was of the essence. Though the morning sun brought with it some measure of comfort, the archaeologist was well aware of how precious the daylight was here. There were no afternoons in Winter’s Crown--only mornings which lasted but a handful of hours, followed by long, freezing nights.

By first light, the Valanorrd and the archaeologist were on the move again. Like the day before, the journey was a silent one. The archaeologist began to wonder if the Valanorrd didn’t speak simply because he was conserving his energy. He imagined it took a great deal of focus to maintain that impenetrable front, so much so that the warrior was incapable of speech. 

After last night’s conversation, however, the archaeologist appreciated the silence a little better.  

They arrived at their destination within the hour, after traversing a winding downward slope that nearly had the archaeologist slipping to his death. The slope opened into a wider pathway, and a few moments later the pathway disappeared. In its place was a massive gash in the stoneface, originating nearly a hundred feet above them and stretching down farther than the archaeologist could see.

This is it, the archaeologist thought as he unpacked his equipment. The Mask will be here, and if not the Mask, then please gods, just something. Anything at all! 

A moment later, the archaeologist’s tools were laid out in the snow. Grappling hooks, torches and flux meters, amongst other contraptions. The largest of his equipment was the Molerat. In its compact form, it resembled little more than a battered metal case with a detachable control pad on one side. The archaeologist retrieved the pad and keyed in the passcode. 

With a whir, the Molerat came to life, lifting itself till it hovered about three feet off the ground. Ventilation flaps flipped open, and diodes lit up along its battered surface. Four mechanical arms extended out the sides of the cuboid structure, two equipped with shovels, one with a drill and the other a pickaxe. The Molerat’s head peeked out from one edge, its one eye glowing a harsh green as it scanned its surroundings, the data it gathered feeding directly to the archaeologist’s control pad.

“That machine will find your treasure?” asked the Valanorrd. 

The archaeologist nearly jumped. In his excitement, he had forgotten the Valanorrd’s unnerving presence. He said, “It’ll do most of the dirty work, but once we get close, I’ll need to get in there.” He gestured to his tools. “Don’t want the Molerat to go destroying the Mask.”

He got to work with the Molerat, guiding it slowly up the side of the mountain. The winds had ebbed, thankfully, so the Molerat had one less impediment to grapple with. The archaeologist could leave most of the flying to the Molerat’s autopilot, allowing him to keep a closer eye on the readouts. 

It was a minute later when he finally saw what he was looking for: a sharp spike in Aether readings. He could not help but smile.

“It’s here!” he said, to no one in particular. 

The Molerat had stopped about thirty feet above them. The gash in the mountain seemed more prominent here, the upturned stone running along the sides to form a skewed cross. The archaeologist tapped another button on his controls, and the Molerat proceeded with the rest of its work, drilling through the larger chunks of stone, and scraping off the looser ones with its shovels and pickaxe. 

Through layers of stone and rubble, the Molerat dug, while the archaeologist waited. His heart was racing, and he no longer felt the cold. There was a buzzing in his ear, and his stomach churned like it did when he had to speak in front of a large crowd. 

Soon the archaeologist lost sight of the Molerat. It was too deep now. He could only hoped there would be no interference with the camera feed. 

Then, a half-hour after it had begun, the Molerat stopped. It had emerged from its dig into a hollow space, and now its visual sensors had detected something. Its eye shifted till the camera feed on the control pad was focused. And the archaeologist saw it.  

The Mask of Fimbulvetr, so white that it seemed to glow within the lightless cavern, sat atop an altar of polished stone. It was perfectly symmetrical, and resembled a misshapen skull with shards of bone extending out from the sides. Surrounding it were five finely-cut gems, each one a different colour. Their brilliance paled in comparison to the Mask. 

“It’s the Mask! I’ve found it!” the archaeologist cried out. The bastards at the Academy could eat their words. It had taken him a long time, but he finally found his crowning glory.

He turned to face the Valanorrd, his elation stripping him of all fear and awkwardness. “I did it! Look, friend--”

The Valanorrd’s spear tore right across his throat. Blood and bits of flesh trickled onto the snow.

Mouth still open in a dazed smile, the archaeologist slumped to the ground, his hands still grasping the control pad. 

“I’m sorry, scholar,” the Valanorrd said. “I have grown fond of you. I’m afraid a quick and painless death is the only gift I can offer.” 

Bending down, the Valanorrd pried the control pad free from the scholar’s dead hands. Through the bloodstained screen, the Mask stared out at him, hollow eye sockets beckoning. 

“Long may the North winds howl.”