Chapter Forty-Eight: Arcane Foundations V: A Matter of Opinion.

  As if the forces of fate had finally deemed it necessary to provide a lull to the runaway mage, Selriph’s first two days ascending through the Greyspire mountain range were all but quiet.

  The only noteworthy occurrence, assuming a scribe would even document the relative quietude in this cynical story, was the meeting with the mountain bear. By immobilising its paws in conjured ice mounds, steel was administered through its wits, providing it a swift end.

  The ensuing meal satisfied Selriph’s canine companion.

  As expected, the equidae quickly passed up the offer of meat—something which did not surprise the boy, given their herbivore disposition.

  They spent the first night in relative comfort. Effortless levitation by arcane means all but removed the menial and taxing task of building the dome-like shelters made of compact snow, large enough to house Selriph comfortably.

  Thus, what would have taken two hours through individual physical labour only took a mere half hour for the youth with magical abilities. That extra time allowed him to construct similar structures for Emmett and Nightwind—erected windbreaks in a circular arc that could comfortably house the two animals, with an exit facing eastwards, away from the oncoming winds.

  The rest of the time was spent in the relative warmth of an igloo, courtesy of the cold sink, which could reach a metre deep with just a minute of toiling away with cryomancy. This, along with Selriph’s use of the conjured torch flame from his pyromancy—used to cook his hunting spoils and to illuminate the tome for further cryomancy study—allowed the igloo to maintain a comfortable warmth.

  In fact, it was so warm that Selriph had pondered whether it was possible the heat from his flame would turn the upper portion of the igloo into slush, causing a cave-in. However, that was superseded by his realisation that he felt lightheaded in the confines of his icy curation.

  Initially, he attributed that to possible poisoning from his consumed meal, although his keen mind eventually realised its true cause—a lack of ventilation.

  The youth remedied that oversight long before he inadvertently consigned himself to an untimely end, an icy tomb.

  Beyond that, the first two nights went along in relative peace, Selriph having ample opportunity to develop his nascent cryomancy. Cyan-blue energy formed into solid ice — the offensive cantrip, one that could be moulded into an icicle for added lethality.

  The only frustrating obstacle that Selriph encountered lay before him: the makeshift basin at the bottom of his second shelter on this third night. Varnel the Wise’s tome lay open, at the boundary between the sections on cryomancy and hydromancy.

  Its aged parchment told of an interesting debate among the leading minds of Arcanum across the continent of Aerathyn. Was cryomancy a sub-school of hydromancy, or was it something entirely different?

  After all, the former discourse would argue that since ice and snow were the solid state of water, then surely they should fall under the wider hydromancy umbrella. As Varnel quoted an apprentice, “If we classify the manipulation of granular forms of earth under terramancy, why should a distinct set of rules apply to the element of water? By that logic, one would need a separate school of dirtmancy to maintain consistency.

  The opposing interpretation argued the following: the incantations, along with the chantless imagery between cryomancy and hydromancy, possessed extreme berths. Cryomancy required the reciting of phrases relating to the crystalline lattice of ice and snow—not unlike the beautiful arrangement of snowflakes when magnified to the humanoid eye.

  Hydromancy, however, demanded a different repertoire, relating to the free, fluid, flowing nature of its structure. Some incantations and imagery detailed the ‘fluxional’ nature that bound the element together, juxtaposed with the ‘reticulated’ view of cryomancy.

  The boy, found himself on the latter argument; the reality spelt in front of him in the basin. Vickthar, in his limited time with Selriph, had only formally taught the youth how to attune to the element of earth. Apprentice mages beyond the empire would have attuned themselves with all five (or six), if Varnel’s text were any indicator as to the intended order of arcane training.

  Thus, the hedge mage by circumstance found himself in a unique situation, having mastered the cantrips and first-level cryomancy spells in a mere two days, yet still not fully attuned to hydromancy.

  Thus, no matter how much Selriph attempted to exert changes on the framework of imagery that governed cryomancy, he could not will the mound of slush into its liquid state.

  Varnel’s academic proposition all but corroborated this; he classified the shifting between ice and water as a third-tier feat, one that required the caster to have an extensive understanding of the two separate schools, in his view.

  Selriph let out a chuckle, amused more than disappointed at the lack of ease in rendering drinkable fluids. His hand flared one more time with the loose, almost liquid-like torch flames as he applied it to the mound. The solid mass made way for the sight of individual flakes, giving way to the heat. Its liquid mass pooled in the makeshift basin.

  In that hypnotising display—illuminated by the crimson and shadow around his quince—his mind relished in the image of the heated parley in the mages’ sanctums throughout the continent over the ages-long debate.

  Selriph could picture himself in the classrooms of a mage’s tower, a violet-hat-adorned professor with thick grey hair and a flowing beard, positing this hydromancy-cryomancy stumper to his students. Selriph now had a distinct position that he could cite evidence for.

  That simple act was something he longed for—a life of magical study, without chains, immersed in magical academia.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  What is wrong with that kind of life?

  The elves had chastised him many nights prior—the sting forced into the recesses of his mind as he immersed himself in the arcane energies he was playing with, indulging in the comforting reprieve it had always given him.

  For a moment, in this warm respite in his conjured shelter—the handiwork of his prodigious magical abilities — he allowed his mind to wander to the life that he sought.

  The mosaic of white carried with it the occasional brushstroke of grey and black—the mountain rock peeking through the snowline. A frosty breeze swept in and buffeted the party. The former skin of the hunt three nights prior hung over the black gulper horse, pacing in a comfortable, almost cosy trot.

  Selriph had wrapped himself in whatever remains he could tailor from the bear’s fur coat, wrapping it around the front of his person; a much-needed barrier, given the torn state of his upper garments. Red arcane energy filtered through underneath his wrappings, an orb of magical energy attuned to pyromancy, one that emitted warmth but not flame.

  He scanned the surrounding scene, a sheer cliff to his right leading to the peak of Mount Plabus—the only identifiable summit Selriph had previously labelled on his patchwork map—his only landmark.

  Of course, when devising his original plan, he'd never anticipated that he would end up travelling east and then crossing the mountain range. Only Oagat’s topographical map, a fortuitous piece of knowledge that made this trek viable.

  And it indicated they were now well past the halfway threshold.

  Ahead, the slope began to descend. Under a clear azure sky, minor summits interlaced on the horizon in a general downward slope. A clear, almost river-like path led east toward ground level. Through a thin sliver between twin peaks, he could make out the tundra plains on the eastern side of this great natural barrier.

  North by ten degrees, then a sharp turn east, then southwards by five degrees. Then one more bend towards the northeast. Out of the mountains…

  As he took in the majestic sight before him, Selriph allowed the trickles of musing to permeate the membrane of his thoughts.

  Imagine if I had escaped in the summer … perhaps the snow line would not extend this far…

  He gazed down at the white frost, which felt crisp and cold against his boots.

  With my terramancy inert, this trek would have been much harder, unable to make camp.

  Selriph shook his head as he realised that he probably would not have had that cursed meeting with the twins. After all, the mine might not have collapsed then—it only occurred a month or two ago. Then he could have simply passed off as a traveller, taking the route through the mines. It was exceedingly unlikely that the small complement of guards at that excavation would pose much trouble to him.

  No… it would not have been as simple as that.

  Either way, Selriph found himself in a weird mix of relief that he was on this viable path through the mountains. Along with that, he had ample opportunity to learn ice magic, almost swearing that the immersion in the very elements themselves provided the perfect opportunity for expedited learning via circumstance.

  The icy wind stung his cheek, still red from the elf’s blow, a stark reminder of the price he’d paid for this journey: a few harsh words, and his terramancy now unusable. He hoped it would eventually return once enough time had passed since his last encounter with Kela.

  The words from the elf flashed briefly in her mind. “Why didn’t you—”

  He touched his cheek, and the icy coldness made him wince as he shook his head.

  Perish the thought… we are surrounded by nothing but snow, anyway.

  Selriph exhaled, the warm air forming a thick mist as it left his mouth.

  We can do this. It should get easier from here; it looks like it’s all downhill.

  Selriph had half expected another obstacle from fate, another sardonic mocking answer to his internal thoughts.

  But it never came.

  At least not yet.

  After trekking for twenty more minutes, the first sign that something was wrong became apparent. Or rather, something familiar came into his purview.

  A subtle warmth emanated, distinct from the heat generated by his mystical methods of staying warm. It was external, or rather ambient.

  The distinct hum of arcane energy, coming eastwards, somewhere from the other side of the sheer cliffs of Mount Plabus—framed in the right of his vision, the summit extended well into the cloud line.

  Magical energy? Here…? Hang on… didn’t that elf mention—

  Before Selriph’s mind could recollect the crucial piece of information that would orient him to its source, a second thing came into his purview.

  The dire wolf, which had been a near constant on the right periphery of his vision, had disappeared. A low growl instead replaced it, one that sought to attract the attention of his human partner, but also in abject unease at something.

  Selriph turned to see Emmett in the middle of unearthing something buried just below the snow line. He paced over, Nightwind letting out a whine of protest at having to backtrack.

  The wolf dug and dug for what seemed like an eternity. In that span, Selriph questioned whether a spontaneous need to excavate itself into a hole had overcome the wolf.

  Is he feeling too cold this high up…? No, he can’t just be digging a hole to protect himself against the elements; this was the same thing he did when we found that knight’s corpse.

  The answer came when the glint of metal shone through—about half a metre below the snowline. With each deliberate movement of the wolf’s paws, the padded leather emerged from the snow.

  Then came the distinct deep-red cloak.

  It was a corpse, frozen by the elements, bearing the distinct markings of Eldeitian footsoldiers.

  Eldeitian soldier corpses here…?

  A distinct sense of déjà vu washed over Selriph as he traced his eyes back to eye level. The arcane energy that had been all but ambient stirred.

  He had half expected another ‘spirit’ to rouse. A ‘guardian’ of the mountains, in the form of an ice golem. Perhaps controlled by yet another two fugitive Ventharian elves?

  But no, this was far worse.

  Above him, halfway to Mount Plabus’s cloud-shrouded peak, Selriph saw a cyan-white disturbance.

  This sight brought about something that was all too familiar. Not because it resembled the artificial construct from the hot-headed Ventharian elf, but because it mirrored the ghastly air he felt in the town of Fallbrook during the night of the lunar eclipse.

  But it wasn’t the oncoming Frost Wraiths that were the real issue; it was the fact that where they emerged from the snowline, a deep rumble began. The white mass above them began to warp and give way.

  “We have to move now!” Selriph bellowed out in command.

  He ran, Emmett sprang past him, Nightwind neighed in pain as Selriph yanked the poor steed by the reins. The earth thundered before a deafening cacophony filled his senses.

  The rumble was a physical presence, a sound that morphed into a feeling as the white wall of the avalanche began its descent. Massive chunks of deadly ice tumbled within the rolling mass, all headed towards them, like a white hell come to claim their souls.

  Damn it, there’s no time!

  Selriph turned, his hand flaring with cyan-blue energy, the only thing he could muster to meet this living wave of frost.