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Cold obsidian. Olga McArrow
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“See? What did I tell you!” Will grinned.
“That’s just the beginning!” Klarissa patted Kan on the back. “And how did you think they were going to teach you magic here, in No Man’s Land, huh? I’m sure you’ll get all the training you wished for once you’re back on the stable lands! You have a great future. Trust me, I know!”
“How?” Kan sniffed at her; he was in no mood for jokes and sappy encouragements.
Klarissa tugged at the thin string on her neck and revealed a small soothstone, just like his own. Kangassk’s eyes became very round; he gasped…
“Hide it, you silly girl!” he hissed at her under his breath. “If Sereg sees it, you’ll go to prison for five, no, ten years! And will spend them felling trees in a bitter cold!”
Unlike the Regions Kangassk passed through before, Shamarkash had a very distinctive border, a beautiful one at that: flowers, a whole “river” of flowers, so wide it was hard to tell where it ended.
“The border! We made it!” cried Iles and Ergen, the youngest of the five traders, and dived into the flowery river. The marvelous plants were so tall they closed in above their heads like sea waves.
The flowers cheered up everyone: the traders who ventured beyond the No Man’s Land for the first time, Kangassk who had been especially unfriendly and sulky for the last few days, and even the mages who had obviously missed their magic a lot during the journey. The older traders picked flowers to make themselves wreaths, the kids played tag with the chargas among the tall plants, Kan smiled for the first time in days, and the ancient mages threw sparkling spells at each other, happy to be themselves again. The traders’ old donkey remained a sole island of tranquillity among the madness: to such a simple beast, the blue river of flowers meant only food, a lot of food that no one was going to take away.
Vlada beckoned Kan to come closer and showed him a small plant she pulled up by the roots, the plant with blue flowers everyone liked so much.
“This is karlaman,” she said and made a pause to see whether Kangassk was interested; he was, so she went on, “or, scientifically speaking, tall karlaman – Karlamanus altus. It’s extremely sensitive to the strength of magical background in the area and grows only at the borders of No Man’s Land where the tension of magical forces is the strongest. You see a river of karlaman – that’s the border for you, unless you’re in Kuldagan, of course…” She returned to the previous thought: “So, No Man’s Land is wrapped in flowers on both sides: Karlamanus altus grows on the northern border; Karlamanus lineatus, or striped karlaman, on the southern. It looks similar to his plant, only its leaves have stripes.”
“Got it,” Kangassk nodded, “It’s a natural indicator of antipodal magic.”
“Wow, you even know the proper scientific term! Attaboy!” she praised him.
“Well, I like to read…” said Kan, humble, confused, and a bit blushing.
“When karlaman starts spreading or gets sick and dies out on vast spaces, that means something’s gone wrong with one of the stabilizers. We used that a lot before we framed the stabilizers about eleven thousand years ago. The borders used to dance a lot back then and tuning the Horas manually was such a chore… Well, lesson’s over. Remember the karlamans!”
Vladislava handed the flower to Kangassk and ran away to catch up with Sereg. The small caravan slowly moved forward, further and further away, but Kangassk still stood where he was with the blue flower in his hands…
He thought of the mangled silver frame of Hora Lunaris, imagined the worldholders working on the miracle device someone had so ruthlessly destroyed to get to the precious stone; and kept trying to get over one eerie phrase pounding in his head: “about eleven thousand years ago”…
She’d just stood there, Vladislava the Warrior, all sweet and down to earth, speaking of an unimaginably long number of years as if it were nothing special… Also, she explained the sacred inner workings of the world to him, a provincial boy, like he was five…
What should he do? What should mortals do in such a moment? Drop to their knees in awe? Kangassk didn’t feel like it. Also, he felt no awe in his heart. He felt something else; connection, responsibility… as if he were no longer a usual guy thrown into a fairy tale but an important part of the story.
He spent way too much time lost in thought. The little caravan, swallowed up by the karlaman river, was nowhere to be seen. Lucky for Kan, his faithful charga returned for him to carry him to the others.
He was no longer lost, in more ways than one…
Kangassk leapt into the saddle and hurried to catch up with his companions. The blue “river” of Karlamanus altus looked more and more like a real river and less than a thick twisty bed of flowers as the distance between it and the little group of travellers grew. One last sprint up the hill, one last glance back – and Kangassk was back with his group again, on the road through the forest.
After the vast open space they had just left, the new scenery seemed claustrophobic. Rows of tall, broad elms with bushy, spiky undergrowth between them stood like two solid walls by the sides of the road; their long branches intertwined above, blocked half the light, and made even a sunny day look gloomy.
This place, so unlike the spacious oak forest near the White Region, gave Kangassk creeps. He had no idea plants could do this to people. That forest stirred some primeval fear even in the desert native. Kan felt watched, hunted, and he wished to get out of here as soon as possible.
In a couple of hours, as the sun went down, it became worse, way worse. It was the horror of Kuldaganian night outside the city walls, all over again. The traders felt it too; all five became skittish, grabbed their weapons at the slightest noise. The worldholders… well, those two were their usual selves: not the slightest sign of being nervous at all.
Time passed, as painfully slow as dripping resin. Stars twinkled through the intertwined branches above. And something… someone, Kangassk could swear, was watching their every step.
“Maskak!” Kangassk shouted, instinctively reaching for the bow he no longer had. “Damn! Someone shoot this thing!”
Astrakh had his crossbow ready and was in a position to shoot the non-human scout but, taken aback, he just stood there, gaping. Kangassk grabbed his weapon and aimed but he was too late.
“I lost him… Now he’ll bring friends,” he said, angry and bitter.
“No worries,” Vlada reassured him and cast a glance at Sereg. The Grey Inquisitor nodded and removed a fat purse from his belt. Vlada continued, “We’ll keep walking. Most likely, they will attack us in where the road goes around the hill.”
“See?” she addressed the traders now. “What did I tell you? Remember joining a caravan next time and be generous when it comes to hiring guards!” and then turned to Sereg again, “Do you know that your maskaks are now wreaking havoc in the South as well?”
“No,” he grunted, untying the purse. The clever knot opened easily when he tugged at the proper string.
“Okay, kids,” Vlada glanced around the group of the frightened mortals, “you too, Kan, listen up! When it gets hot, you are to stand behind us. You can shoot if you want, but no getting into close combat and no heroics. Understood?”
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