Author's note:
This is a classic example of how characters have a bigger say in writing the story than the author does. This did not go the way I expected.
On the other hand, I rather like the outcome I got.
I intend to continue this universe, if enough people like it.
Remember, dear readers, if you want more from any author, vote, and leave comments. Emails are also acceptable.
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The way up the mountain was torturous and long, and their leader insisted they move fast during daylight hours and be established in camp well before sundown.
This gave Nathaniel a lot of time each evening to study, either as the sun was going down or by the waning light coaxed out of the old suncloth covering his hat.
The ancient tome he reverently unwrapped and rewrapped each evening was the last known book of The Wizards' Malefitorium, and was the main reason he was this expedition's healer/scribe.
The other fourteen members of the party, hunters and fighters and hardened rangers and temple looters, viewed him with an undisguised mixture of dismissive contempt and amused tolerance, most of them only accepting his presence because their employer demanded a written record of the journey.
The four fighters, members of the cockily swaggering hero class which had arisen since the time of the Wizards, treated him as a combination of weak younger brother and personal saga writer.
The only one who viewed him as a dangerous inconvenience, and made no secret of the fact, was Avisha, the notorious thief-assassin whose form-fitting, light-absorbing suede and rough silk clothes held more knives than a smithy and whose overt and violent femininity made everyone unbalanced and wary save her lover Borrum, a flint-faced warrior-tactician who was, as far as it was possible with such a disparate group of strong-willed individuals, their leader.
In truth, Nathaniel cared little for any of their opinions.
He was employed to do a job, and he conscientiously kept the expedition log every day, but he had accepted the position - in fact, secretly stacked the cards in his favour - because when they reached the long-abandoned fortress Graskan, he had to be there.
He had read and re-read the Wizards' Malefitorium many times already since inheriting it from his grandfather but he pored over its vellum pages with fresh interest now, looking for any clue, any hint of promise, that he hadn't already seen.
His luggage also contained scrolls and books which contained the common myths, stories and histories (and few enough clues to tell one from the other) about the fortress Graskan but it was the arcane Wizards' Malefitorium, written in an almost lost script, in a tongue nobody living knew how to pronounce, which their financier, and Nathaniel himself, believed to hold the best clues to the ancient stronghold of evil magic and worse men.
The fighters gave him a wide birth when he was studying it, the rangers made warding signs to his face and Avisha's normal cold contempt flared into hot hostility.
Only the rigidly disciplined Borrum made no sign that he distrusted the last remaining remnant of the lore which had lain waste to the land centuries ago.
Even common peasant tricks like Nathaniel's suncloth hat, and even his healing arts, were viewed askance in the book's company.
A week into the journey, Borrum had drawn Nathaniel aside one night and quietly requested that he do his studying in his tent from then on.
Nathaniel had, mostly, complied.
It suited him to be by himself anyway, away from the illiterate, muscle-bound or professionally cruel men and woman of action. Lying in his tent, alone with the book, he could ignore them and even drown out the rhythmic grunting and slapping sounds of Borrum and Avisha having sex in their tent and the nightly token and cautious ribald comment from one of the heroes.
When they had climbed far enough for the trees to be thinning out, they were attacked as the dark closed in.
The invaders were the short, stunted and ugly but strong remnants of the mountain orcs who had served the old masters of fortress Graskan, and had not the wit to fashion bows or throw their spears.
Facing the experience of the expedition and Borrum's organisation, half of them had fallen to ranger arrows and two even to Avisha's thrown knives before they came within striking distance. The heroes, finally showing the skill they were hired for, made short work of any who came through the ranger's arrows and close to the fires.
Borrum and the others, standing as the second line, didn't even need to raise their swords and the only wound sustained by a member of the group was a nasty gash on the upper arm of the hero Doman, who fought with a wickedly curved blade in each hand and had dispatched five of the orcs.
Crouching behind the fighters, grasping his staff in one white-knuckled hand and praying that he would not need it, Nathaniel had unconsciously clasped the Wizards' Malefitorium in his other hand and been shocked to his core when it seemed to move, squirming as though waking up and sending a pulse up his arm that left it tingling several moments after he had snatched his hand away.
He was still staring in disbelief at his hand when the heroes bellowed for healing. Shaking himself violently, he bundled the Wizards' Malefitorium in it's wrappings as he hurried to give aid.
The wound on Doman's arm had not impeded his ability to behead the orc who gave it to him and would heal well enough with a rough bandage, but Nathaniel had been better trained than that. He set about cleaning it with boiled water and a splash of quatro-distilled Vodka that made Doman's jaw clench hard enough to make the veins in his neck stand out.
The hero refused to let Nathaniel sew the edges of the wound together, so he used a small amount of a very precious powder which fused the two halves.
Borrum let him finish with Doman and then ordered the company into a guarded circle.
"Cleric," he said bluntly. "Start talking."
"Orcs," Nathaniel started, equally bluntly. "They have survived the centuries, but they are diminished. In the days of the Wizards, they were larger, smarter, faster.
"It has always been known that remnants survived around all the old fortresses, and philosophers have argued about what this means about the nature of magic. We still have a week's march to get to the fortress Graskan. We may encounter larger and more deadly orcs before we reach it."
There was a brief moment's silence before the ranger Cilar slowly asked "There is more magic, near the fortress?"
"That is what we think," Nathaniel replied. "Before us, nobody has ever visited an intact fortress, but we know that all the destroyed fortresses have orcs and other magical beings inhabiting the upper slopes of their mountains."
"Cleric," Doman said, in a careful voice, "my arm is nearly healed."
It took several seconds for the implications of this to seep into the other's minds and when it did, Borrum almost had to restrain Avisha from killing the cleric where he sat.
Clerics know many charms of healing, of cleansing and of reviving, but although they do make wounds heal faster and bones knit straighter, they are not so effective that the poor suffer from not being able to afford a cleric's services.
To have a deep wound almost healed meant magic, and none of them could entirely restrain the impulse to skewer a suspected wizard upon whatever weapon they held in their hand. Even Borrum had to exercise a great effort of will to prevent himself half drawing his sword.
Nathaniel simply sat and watched them calmly. He had been hoping fervently, since the expedition began, that he would begin to feel the magic as they ascended and had worked hard to ensure they viewed his knowledge and the Wizards' Malefitorium as vital to the success of their expedition.
None of them would turn back - greed and personal pride would see to that.
Finally, Borrum broke the tense silence. "Cleric," he said in a low growl. "I suspect you were expecting this. We need you, and so far you haven't shown me any cause to distrust you. But I will cut out your tongue if I need to.
"Now, everyone get to bed or on guard, and quick about it. We will need to be doubly alert from here on in."
Nathaniel went quietly to his tent, and wisely chose to read by the light of a candle.
The next day was hard. Swords were kept loose and bows were carried in hand. The rangers moved in a loose cloud about the body of the travellers, visible briefly on either side or ahead or sometimes behind but never seen. The heroes, used to charging at vaguely seen shapes among the trees, became jumpy and short-tempered until Borrum ran ahead and had a low word with one of the rangers.
From then on, they moved further out and were not seen.
They made camp before sundown and nobody was in a friendly mood - the heroes were grumpy and sullen, the rangers were withdrawn and kept apart, and the thieves and explorers were twitchy and nervous.
Nathaniel retired to his tent early and for once did not read the Wizards' Malefitorium before sleeping. He did, however, rest his head on it.
The next day he began to see flashes of familiarity in the land around them.
That day had set the standard for the days that followed. The second day, the trees thinned towards scrub and the rangers gave up hiding and spaced themselves around the party, within easy shouting range.
Nathaniel stopped reading the Wizards' Malefitorium each night, but he still slept with his head on it and each day the terrain became more and more familiar. As the nights passed, he began to dream but not to remember.
They were not attacked again, at night or during the day, but Nathaniel started seeing mounds of strange-shaped rock that he was almost sure were trolls that had lost their life as the magic faded.
Nobody relaxed their vigilance and nobody failed to react when, as they approached an overhanging cliff that hid the mountain above them from view, Nathaniel suddenly stopped and shouted a warning.
There was a very intense and very still moment before Borrum, very evenly, said "Cleric?"
Nathaniel had reacted from a feeling of sudden panic and could still feel a mixture of fear and helplessness that would have opened his bowels if it were not so faint.
He glanced around, not seeing a confirmation on anyone else's face - no surprise, no consternation, no superstitious fear of magic.
If there was magic here, only he could feel it.
Slowly, the answer began to shape itself in his head.
