Chapter Fifty-Six: The Noose of Death

After asking what he wanted, some of Wade’s doubts were resolved, while others remained. As the gnome finished recounting those ancient legends and stories, Wade felt as though he were being drawn into a series of events both complex and mysterious.

The silver moon elves of legend...

There was much he could not speak of openly with the gnome, but he suspected that the wizard’s remains he had found while gathering bramble twigs were, in all likelihood, those of the deceased Silver Moon Priest the gnome had mentioned.

But what exactly was that wasteland? Was it once a beautiful oasis long ago?

Why had it turned into the barren, lifeless place he had seen? Why had it become so desolate?

The more he pondered, the more confused he became; after speaking with the gnome, many things seemed only more elusive. He decided, for now, to set aside these distant matters and simply left the small study with the gnome.

The gnome carried the kerosene lamp and shut the door behind them.

A long time had passed—Wade and York had been in the study for at least three or four hours.

A faint flame still flickered in the alchemical crucible at the center of the cavern. Most of the exhausted villagers had closed their eyes and fallen asleep together in clusters.

The cave was at least far warmer than camping outside in the wild; there was no need to worry about prowling, hungry beasts.

Tonight, the villagers could finally sleep without the fear that had haunted them through the arduous days of flight.

They slept soundly on blankets spread over the cold, hard ground. At a glance, a hundred people lay sleeping; the fatigue of their long trek left them powerless to resist sleep.

There was nothing wrong with sleep. In their dreams, they could forget the agonies of reality, forget their pain and exhaustion.

But a few remained awake. Lucas, for instance, sat alone by the fire, holding the charred leg of a stool, occasionally prodding the wood in the crucible.

His gaze was empty, staring blankly into the flames.

Perhaps he was wondering where they would go after tonight.

They couldn’t possibly hide in these caves forever. Even food would soon run out; to lighten their loads before entering the streamside forests, each villager had carried only the barest minimum of provisions.

On average, each person had enough rations for four to five days.

This was the second day—meaning, at most, they could last three more days before the food ran out.

What would they do then?

Winter would persist for another two months. The desolate snowy plains offered nothing but endless snow. Outside, the armies of the Islanders encircled them. Where, then, could they find food? If they tried to leave, they would be surrounded by the Islanders’ forces.

Do nothing and starve to death, surrender and be made slaves—or worse, handed over to the necromancer—or else take a gamble and try to push onward.

It seemed only these three roads remained. Lucas’s face betrayed his thoughts: whichever path they chose, it would lead only to death. So he sat like a puppet, mind emptied, numbly prodding the wood.

Wade had no answer either. To speak plainly, even coldly, the fates of these Tania people were not truly connected to him.

The wandering knight who had journeyed with them was merely one of Wade’s avatars.

He could extract himself from this flight and disaster unharmed. In fact, just now, he had already accomplished the goals he set when he departed the icefields.

He had learned the origins of the extraordinary longsword—this blade called Azure Light. He knew its powers and its worth.

He had figured out where he was, what year it was, and now even held clues, however tenuous, connecting the die and the wasteland.

This journey had yielded enough.

He felt a distinct sense of detachment, a quiet certainty that, if he wished, he could end this journey prematurely.

He could take Mia and leave this cave now, abandoning these people, returning to the wasteland, and wait for the die to recharge—then assume a new identity and set out elsewhere.

The Islanders’ war of conquest could not touch him; even the necromancer did not yet know of his presence.

He was an observer, an outsider.

His promise to the Tania people was only to see them safely to Alvador.

He had fulfilled his contract—without him, they could never have made it this far.

By both reason and sentiment, he had done enough.

The truth was, he really could not see a way to change their predicament.

Was it time to abandon them?

The deadline seemed fast approaching. This was the night of the seventh day; soon it would be the eighth, then the ninth, then the tenth.

He sensed that at dawn on the tenth day, this incarnation would reach its limit.

Even if he wished to go on with the Tania people, he would still be forced to leave on the tenth day.

Though he hoped they might reach a place of safety, reason told him... these Tania people, pushed beyond their limits...

They would die.

The little girl who had given him a flower, Lucas who watched him draw his four-panel sketches by the fire, the gnome who had just told him stories—

Every one of them. They would all die.

When Wade left, if he ever returned to this land, he would never see these faces again.

Perhaps they would perish of hunger and cold on the snowy plains, or be surrounded and cut down by Islander soldiers, or dragged before the necromancer, their flesh and souls twisted into horrors like the stitched beasts.

The noose of death had already tightened around their throats, drawing ever closer.

Should he leave tonight?

When all were asleep, he could slip quietly out of the cave, hide the sword, and wait for the next journey to begin.

Wade looked over the Tania people, with whom he’d spent just a few days. He bore no responsibility for their lives, yet he recalled the looks in their eyes as, by the ice bridge, the men doffed their hats to salute and the women lifted their skirts in curtsy.

He stood for a long while and made his choice.

For better or worse, he would remember all that he had seen.

If he could not witness their fate now, he would do so in time.

If any of them survived, he would meet them again. If they perished, even if he alone remembered, he would honor their memory.

Wade stopped in his tracks. The gnome beside him yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“York is exhausted. Has to get some sleep,” he muttered.

From his ring of keys, the gnome handed one to Wade and placed the kerosene lamp in his hand as well.

“York needs a good rest. If you want to read, just go to the study yourself.”

“Read whatever you like. It’s all the damned Islanders’ fault—York’s collection won’t make it out with us anyway. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow, sigh.”

Old York shuffled off with a sigh, head down, keys in hand, disappearing through another door—likely his own chamber for rest.

Once the gnome was gone, Wade lingered outside for a moment. No one paid him any mind; those who needed sleep were already asleep, and Lucas sat lost in thought. So Wade returned to the study, took up one of the gnome’s books, and quietly leafed through its pages.

Time slipped by. Even the little ghost had burrowed into her sleeping bag to rest.

Only the sound of turning pages broke the silence. It seemed as if, in all the world, Wade was the only one awake.

As a reader, Wade did not participate in the world of the book; he simply read in silence the words written by people he had never known.

He had no idea how long he’d been reading when, upon opening a certain page, a bundle of drafts slipped from between the aged pages.

Perhaps these were things the gnome had tucked away long ago and forgotten.

Wade picked up the entire bundle and was momentarily stunned.

On them were anatomical sketches—studies of human proportions.

There were not only overall proportion diagrams, but also sketches of skeletons and internal organs.

Though the drawings were crude and clumsy, Wade could discern their meaning.

Every bone on these sketches was placed correctly; each organ was drawn in its proper location.

He examined the old papers again and again—these were works of years past, perhaps even ten or more years ago.

Suddenly, a question occurred to him: why had the Islander soldiers not simply killed the gnome with their swords, but instead tied him to a cart, bringing him back alive along with the carcass of the ice bear?

Was it only because the gnome knew a little alchemy?

But how would the Islanders even know of a gnome living in Alvador who was skilled in alchemy?