Fury in the Wind Prologue - A Shadow in the Snow

Master Kenway pulled the scarf across his face and lowered his head as he took one precarious step after the other up the incline. The snow was deep, the landscape barren, and the wind was picking up and howling louder all the time. His fellow historian and explorer, Reginald -many years his prior- trekked behind.

The Flatheads were an unforgiving territory at the peak of the Agressi Mountains, and in the waning light of winter,winter many would and had called this a fruitless and dangerous endeavor. The landscape was barren and frozen, spotted with peaks here and there that were barely visible in the swirling snows. But Kenway knew what he had been told by other explorers. There was a shrine up here, something not built by the men of Velhurland, and he was going to find out its origin and maker if it was the last thing he did.

War was ravaging Velhurland and had put discovery aside for smithing, exploration for strategy, and history for glory. But Kenway found that foolish. History was not something to ignore, some relic of bygone times; it was the guide to the future full of lessons, missteps to avoid, and paths to build on. Few shared his view, and even fewer were willing to support it, and so with no funding but his own pockets, he and Reginald had taken to the mountains on their own.

Now, two weeks into this expedition, he was beginning to question if he had inadvertently put his own glory over knowledge and was driving himhe and his friend to their death in an ironic twist. They had seen no signs of life the past two days. They were past the tree lines, past any trapper or hunter lodge, and past the point of returning empty-handed.

But light was fading, and if they didn’t soon find shelter they would be past the point of no return. Reginald put a hand on Kenway’s shoulder and yelled over the winds.

“Should we turn back? If we go much further, we’ll lose our way.”

He turned back to see nothing but swirling snow and shadows. It may be too late already. Kenway shook his head. Whatever this shrine was, it had been built by someone, or some people, strong enough to endure these storms. That meant that he could too, frail as he was and up in age.

“Move forward. We’ll rest when we reach the shrine. We’re near the peak.”

Reginald just nodded; the wind was too loud to have a simple conversation. They shuffled through the snow, scanning the horizon. There was a peak off to the left, several hundred feet tall, but hidden until they were just a few hundred paces away. It was a gnarly spire of black craggy rock and frozen waterfalls. It looked like a monster made of stone, solemn and menacing down at them.

But there was something else, a dark shape straight ahead, pointing toward the sky. As they approached the shape, it became more defined. Unlike the mountains, this was smooth in design, defined by sculpting tools and not just the winds of time. It shot into the sky like a blade, narrowing as it rose. Along the base, like the hilt of a sword, spread out a stone slab fifty paces wide, curling in at the sides.

Kenway tugged off his ragged glove and put a hand to the stone, his fingers already numb and turning purple. Here in the curve of the stone, the wind was stifled. Kenway ran his thin fingers along the runes that were etched into the rock with the precision of a master sculptor. They were foreign, some language from another land or another time, or perhaps both. The stone had begun to fade with time, cracks showing along the edges and weather-beaten parts wearing down the deep cuts of the foreign writing, leaving half-runes. If they ever found out what this runic language was, that would pose yet another challenge to translation.

Reginald chuckled, pulling back his hood and scarf. His black locks were matted and sweaty, his face, usually clean-shaven, now stubbled with salt-and-pepper flakes. His smile breached from ear to ear.

“I suppose that those trappers were not lying after all! Glad I listened to you.”

Kenway wagged a finger. “You doubted me?”

“You? No. Mountain trappers who hadn’t seen another living soul for months on end? Yes.”

Kenway nodded, his eyes taking in every inch of the slab. He had hoped it was here, hoped that it was all real. But now that he was staring at it, he had even more questions than answers.

“We should camp here for the night. Keep the wind off our backs.” Reginald let his pack slide off his back and plop on the rocky platform the shrine was set on.

Kenway walked to the base. At each corner, top and bottom, there were sigils carved in. These were unlike the runes and appeared to be more like symbols, representing things of earth. There was a swirling flame, a large boulder split in two, a wave curling, and a streak of lightning. In the center of the runes, the full height of a grown man, was carved a sword.

“The elements?” Reginald queried.

Kenway nodded, his mind swirling with thoughts. “Do you think it could be a shrine to a deity? A place of worship for the weather?”

“It seems an awfully hard to trek for people to pray to their god,.” Reginald said. “Perhaps a pilgrimage? Like in Farhjura? They are said to trek across deserts and mountains to meet with their ancestors. Some ritual of leaving childhood behind.”

Kenway rubbed his grisly white beard. “Could be. And what of the runes? We’ve thought Velhurland to be empty before Astor and Sador came to these shores. This is no language from Gormica, Heustland, or even the ancient tribes of Rael if my memory serves me right.”

“And it often does,” Reginald chimed in.

Kenway shrugged. “It is one of the many questions to be answered. And what does a sword represent in the elements of nature? And why is it central in this shrine? We’ll need to return to Atheron. If there is an answer on written page I will have it in the Red Keep.”

Reginald nodded. He was digging through his pack. He held out a bit of dried ham.

“Hungry? We’ll have to wait until morning to leave. I’ll begin sketching this shrine and the runes and symbols at first light.”

Kenway shook his head no. “I’m going to look around just a bit more. Too curious to eat just now.”

“Stay close. Don’t let this shrine out of a sight, Kenway.” He gave a knowing look.

Kenway waved a hand before putting his gloves back on. “I’m not one to wander.”

Reginald looked all around. “What exactly do ya call this, you old fool?” He laughed.

Kenway chuckled. “I call it blissful! All my years we’ve been searching and exploring, but I’ve never seen something so fascinating! Right here in my grasp.” 

He wrapped his scarf around, pulled his hood tight, and stepped out from the cover of the slab into the howling wind. The light was nearly gone. Despite his desire to go farther out, he stayed within arms-length of the shrine, circling behind it. Here the full force of the wind was felt. If he had nothing on but a nightgown and cap he would’ve felt no more exposed or frozen. He could barely see a few steps in front of him, his face lowered, and eyes squinted. The ground was still smooth here, likely an extension of the base of the shrine, shaved and weathered down by time and wind. He shuffled along. The back of the slab was empty of anything meaningful. It was scarred, chipped and rough, but had none of the markings from the other side.

Kenway's foot caught against something hard as he stepped forward, and he stumbled to his knees. With a grunt he pulled himself back up. He looked back. There was something knee-height, covered in a snow drift. He wiped the snow off from end to end, revealing a long slab of rock. It was a rectangle, no doubt man-made. As he cleared it, he began to see a shape form in the center of it. It was filled with snow, but the outline of a sword stood out clear against the dark granite. It was a mold table. Here, at the highest point, in the most inhospitable place, was the tool to forge a weapon. 

Kenway’s thin brows furrowed. He ran his hand along the shape. It wasn’t snow in the mold, it was ice. Someone had used this forge. The stone felt cold. Perhaps it had been eons ago. There was no warmth this high up that would have ever melted the ice. It could have been done by some traveler four hundred years ago, before the king’s sons ever arrived onin these shores. Perhaps one of the trappers had even fancied a new weapon and tried his hand at it before returning to Atheron.

Kenway beat some life back into his hands. He had to show Reginald. He felt his way back along the slab. The wind was so fierce that he was pushed into the stone. He felt like a leaf in a hurricane. Then it all stopped. In an instant, the wind dropped. The snow fell to the earth and silence reigned on the mountain. Visibility now much improved, Kenway looked around. His mouth hung open.

“This is not natural.”

Before him, now unobstructed by the storm, he could see another wall, chiseled with the same style as the shrine. It looked like a story, a figure stumbling in the first carving, rising in the second, armed with a sword in the third and rising above the earth surrounded by rays of light and furls of wind. The sword stood out on the rock carving, blackened with fire. 

“Kenway!”

Reginald came sprinting around the shrine, still trying to tie his scarf around his face. His head snapped back and forth. His eyes were wide as the oceans.

“What in the name of all that is holy is this?” He looked at Kenway. “We should leave!”

But Kenway’s gaze was to the top of the nearest peak, where amongst the cragged outcrops there was a movement. He was not sure if it was man, animal, or some figment of his imagination. It may have been a hallucination from being in thin air and bad weather for too long, but he could’ve sworn he saw the horns of some beast along the top of the rocky face. Surely nothing that size could survive on the sparse vegetation of the Flatheads.

Then there was a shout. It echoed down over the Flatheads with strength unnatural to man, washing over like a wave, bouncing off the shrine and back up the peak. It sounded more like speech than a wild animal, but Kenway could not make out what creature, man or otherwise could create such a sound. Whatever it was,  they were not alone, and something mystical, something unheard of on earth was happening. And they should leave.

“Leave! Now!” He rushed to Reginald, whose eyes were peeled to the mountain peak.

         Kenway grabbed his arm as he ran by, dragging Reginald with him. He could feel the energy in his arms, the shaking intensity one gets before running a race or fighting a war. But you could win those things. They had parameters, logic to follow, and precedence to guide. Whatever had just happened here was wholly new and unnatural. Kenway was as ambitious a discoverer as there had ever been, but a gnawing feeling in his gut had saved him many times before and it was as voracious as ever at this moment in time.

         Reginald said nothing but began to run on his own. They rounded the slab and Reginald scooped up his bag in one motion. He looked back at the runes, symbols and the sharp spire. His feet stuck in the snow. To leave something like this as soon as it had been found felt wrong. And Kenway felt it too. There was a voice that said to stay, to wait it all out and find answers to this growing mystery. To write down the runes, memorize the symbols, explore the area. They had come so far, travelled for weeks through bad weather with little food and enduring physical toil.

         There was that shout again, and this time the echo was answered by a rumble. The craggy peak shook and snow began to tumble from the peaks. At first it was small stones and little clumps of snow, but as they fell, they reached out and took others with them. In a matter of seconds, the whole peak was covered in cascading snow. Like an anchor snapping in a storm the wind returned. It was ferocious, whipping at Reginald and Kenway. That brought them to their senses.

They took one last look at the shrine and began hurtling down the Flatheads. The deep snow made every step a battle, and though they progressed, the avalanche was immeasurably swifter. It swept down, crashing over the shrine like a wave on a shore rock. It was magnificent and terrifying all in one. There was a low crack and the spire of the shrine split at the base and began to tumble straight for them. It bounded down the incline, driving snow aside like a plow through good soil. It was headed straight for them, driven by this unnatural wind.

 There was a point where the path narrowed up ahead. It burrowed into the rocky terrain and became the narrowest of paths through the frozen earth. Kenway began to claw his way through the snow, his arms pumping as fast as they could. His heart fought to tear itself out of his chest. Suddenly the cold was irrelevant. The wind attacked his back and he scrambled forward as the snow came up to his waist. The path was visible now, just a few yards ahead.

Reginald was just behind. His fight for his life just cut through the din of the storm. He was a big man, an experienced man, but this storm was too great for even him, and it was evident in the desperate grunts and growls as he tore through the snow. Then he went silent as Kenway reached the path. He turned around, but Reginald was nowhere to be found. The shrine spire was crashing ahead. Behind it, for just a moment in the swirling snow, Kenway thought he saw a dark figure, his silhouette jagged and rough. Then it was gone. And so was Reginald.

The spire came crashing down. Kenway dove for the path. He hit the ground as the snow came rushing in and swept him along. The spire careened into the rocky sides of the path and shattered into a thousand bits. Rough chunks and splinters of it rained down. Kenway covered his head and a wall of snow enveloped him.