2. The Traum Woods (II)

Avery was impressed with his own athleticism, though his calves and lungs burned as he sprinted, all spurred by the blood pounding in his ears. He knew this was a stupid idea. The Traum Woods! A celestial mace! For some wannabe mage! She wouldn’t even be able to wield it anyhow; the vigor and reserves needed to use it at its full potential would be staggering.

He vaulted over a thick root and crouched down, hiding, calming his breathing. The trees around him swayed then stilled, fallen leaves dusting the uneven ground. Avery watched his surroundings, lost in thought. Birger—idiot…effortlessly catching him, the impression of him, strong arms securely holding him, the feel of a large hand cupping his shoulder, his broad chest heaving from the sprint… Avery shook his head and laughed, amazed by the knight’s audacity, and pointedly ignoring the swirl of butterflies that had gone rampant in the pit of his belly.

He heard a branch snap and slapped a palm over his mouth, curling into a defensive ball. Ridiculous! Avery was more than capable of defending himself, but the suddenness of everything had shaken him.

He decided, after a long moment of inaction to crawl away, but as soon as he did something snarled, and he cursed his poor timing; he was grabbed by his cape and violently thrown. He flew, wordlessly, and landed hard, knocking the air out of him as he landed belly-down. Discomposed, Avery pushed himself up to glare at his assailant. The same enormous creature glared back at him, four eyes narrowing as it slowly stalked forward, wings splayed in an imposing manner, each footfall trembling the soil beneath him.

Avery scrambled to his feet right as the creature lunged. The mage held up his hands, ready to cast; he felt his arms tingle—his wards reacting—and just as Avery was about to conjure his magic, the creature produced an ax and swung down, catching the startled mage’s chest, splitting his vest. A pain ripped through him, the crushing impact winding him once more. Avery felt his forearms go hot, saw a flash of brilliant light, and then darkness.

***

Aalap was leaning forward, mouth slightly open. “And then what happened?”

“Oh.” Avery shrugged. “I passed out.”

Birger grunted. He sat relaxed, arms folded across his broad chest. “That’s when I found him.”

***

Birger was tempted to leave. He had been placing spell-infused markers as they wandered, discreetly dropping the glistening rocks behind him just in case he needed to find his way back. His hand was poised near his sword's hilt, thankful to have snatched it up as he fled. He hadn’t expected any of this to happen; in fact upon starting this endeavor he hadn’t known what to expect—magic and the like were all a mystery to him, one that he never cared to understand. But if the mace was something Sachie required to better her potential, then the mace was a necessary plunder; celestial beings be damned.

A breeze blew past him, buffeting small whirlwinds of dead leaves. He paused, catching the scent of bile and blood—an acrid and unfortunately familiar scent. He drew his sword, eyes surveying the dense trees. It was quiet. He pressed forward, back and neck tense, only loosening as he spotted the carnage—a wide area of innards, bones, and blood-spattered tree trunks, as if something or… someone had burst from the inside out. Birger staggered back, queasy. Even on the battlefield he had never seen anything this… disturbing. He spotted a lump of crimson tucked away on a mound of golden leaves—a cloak. Avery’s cloak. Birger sheathed his sword and rushed over, that queasy feeling becoming one of panic as he gently took the mage into his arms and rolled him over. He was covered in gore but was in one piece and breathing. Birger let out a relieved sigh and laid Avery down. He used the tip of the mage’s cape to wipe his face clean for him, eyes scanning the damage around them.

“What the fuck did you do,” Birger whispered. But Avery was still, face serene. He cupped the Tatran’s cheek, lost in his shapely lips, strong nose, and long lashes. Birger’s hand was so pale in comparison. “You look so much like him,” Birger said, chest tight with sorrow. Alike but different...

Avery squinted up at him. “Like whom?”

Birger flinched, flustered then furious. “Were you awake this entire time?”

The mage propped himself up with his elbows. “No.” He looked down at his soiled clothes and sighed.

Birger frowned. “What happened here?” he asked, desperate to change the topic.

“I don’t know,” Avery said while looking at the soiled trees and ground. “Might’ve been my wards.”

“Your…” Birger was confused. He stood and when Avery held his hand up for help, Birger slapped it away, making the mage awkwardly laugh. It was then that the knight spotted something peeking through the split in Avery’s vest and linen shirt—something luminous. He scowled.

“What?”

Birger knelt and grabbed him.

Avery flushed but didn’t push him away. “What?” he asked again, annoyed with the fluttering sensation in his chest.

Ignoring him, Birger tucked his hand into the split and felt… “Mythril.” Birger had never been magically inclined, but he knew magic when he felt it—an odd sensation, unnatural, unsettling.

The heat drained from the mage’s face. He swallowed.

“You’ve been wearing Mythril.” Birger laughed, unbelieving. He held Avery’s tunic open, taking in the gilded mail, embellished with intricate patterns and runes. “It’s real…and you have it?”

Avery scoffed and rolled away from him. “Yeah, I have it,” he said, righting himself and brushing the leaves off. “And what of it?" He gestured downwards with both hands, and all the gore vanished from his clothing. "C’mon, let’s go find Sachie.”

Birger marveled at the ease of Avery's sorcery. He'd never seen a mage not use a catalyst of some sort (even Sachie had an armlet for casting) or even use magic in such a mundane way. “Where did you find it?”

“The Mythril? What does it matter? As far as I know, I have the only set,” Avery said smugly, hands on his hips. “Now use your shivering stone, that’ll be the quickest way to find her.”

Birger relented and pulled the stone out, handing it over to Avery. “You’re full of mysteries,” he said, following the mage.

He laughed. “I’m not. What you see is what you get, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you want then,” Avery said, with a huff. He stared at the shivering stone on his palm as he walked. “Hmn, weird…”

“What’s weird?”

The two reached a clearing of fragrant yellow grass. The sun hung high above, and a flock of birds took flight in a flurry of flapping wings and angry coos. Birger squinted and stepped forward, blocking Avery. A line of brigands flanked the other side of the clearing, as if waiting for them.

“Well, what do we have here?” the leader shouted, his voice bold; he wore mismatched armor and shouldered a hefty sword. “This here direction requires payment for passage.” His comrades chuckled and armed themselves.

Avery leaned around the knight and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, of course.”

Birger reached for his sword.