Maxwell

  “Preparations are proceeding apace for the expedition. Letters have been sent to the relevant parties, outlining my plans and need for assistance. I can not claim to know how many of them will reply to my summons… if any at all.

  The only one I feel confident about is Regulus. He has ever been a slave to his curiosity, and my expedition promises adventure and peril in equal measure. Something tells me he shall not want to miss out on such an event, as it threatens to have ramifications for the entirety of Alwaar, and all who dwell here.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2155 Post-Separation (PS).

  The mood in the group was somber, for lack of a better word. We walked in unabridged silence, the mist enveloping us as we trekked across fallen leaves and dead branches, charting an uneven course through the woods. How the tall man with the claymore was able to tell where he was going remained a mystery to me, yet I followed him all the same with the grim-faced determination of a man too stubborn to yield.

  Every so often, a soft breath would tickle the skin on my neck, the steady exhalation of an unconscious Amelie. I carried her sleeping form on my back, her head resting against my shoulder, her raven hair a blanket of messy curls flowing down my side.

  To my left, the tall man contended with his own baggage, in the form of the redheaded woman from before, who was weeping softly where she lay cradled in his arms.

  Together, the four of us made for a sorry sight indeed, wounded and defeated as we hobbled along the forest path. I tried not to focus on the incessant aching in my arms, riddled as they were with cuts and lacerations.

  After escaping from the wolves and the as-of-yet unseen Marauders, the tall man had helped me bind my wounds with some bandages he had brought with him, which had helped slow some of the bleeding. Nevertheless, I felt certain I would have long since fainted by now, were it not for the pool of Astra I held within myself, extracted at great cost from the myriad streams that ran through the soil beneath my feet.

  Unlike the vibrant thrum of energy that usually coursed through my veins whenever Astra was involved, my current operating level was far below anything I had experienced prior. There were no soaring peaks of power, no hale vitality surging through me. In fact, even with the Astra I maintained in my core, it still felt as if I had attempted to play chicken with a freight train, only to find out that the human body was scarce competition for a hulking behemoth of steel on wheels.

  Put simply, it was all I could do to keep myself upright and walking, the mystical energy working overtime to ensure that I did not succumb to my wounds in the process. It was no wonder that Amelie had collapsed following her amazing display of pyrotechnics.

  After exploding into a brilliant bonfire of conflagration, Amelie had used the last vestiges of her power to fashion us with an escape route. Forcing the roaring flames to shape themselves into walls, she had built for us a tunnel through the mist, beset on both sides by barriers of wildfire, crackling and hissing where it fought to consume all that dared approach.

  Then, with a groan, she had slumped over on the ground, her mind retreating into slumber to save her from the weight of her exhaustion.

  I had promptly taken her unconscious form on my back, and fled down the newly constructed corridor, ignoring the sweltering heat and the painful aching of my arms. The tall man had followed close behind, with the redhead held firmly in his arms. She had screamed the entire way down, fighting desperately to free herself from his grip so she could return to her dead companion’s side.

  Presently, the tall man coughed to clear his throat, the sound drawing my attention.

  “Your friend,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “She is strong.”

  “Uh…” I started, caught off-guard by the sudden statement. “Y-Yeah. I suppose.”

  “It has been a long time since last I witnessed the might of a properly-trained Wielder,” he continued, shifting the redhead around in his arms to further bolster his hold on her. “Her authority over flame and embers identifies her as a member of the Great Noble House of Harthway. As such, I have only one question for you.”

  I felt a shudder course through my body as the full weight of his gaze landed upon me.

  “What is an esteemed member of the Benadiel royal family doing here, of all places?”

  “W-Well…” I started. “That's a long story.”

  “We have time.”

  “But not the energy,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. “Look, I won’t lie to you. I’m one breath short of keeling over right now. And as strong as you look, I doubt you could carry all four of us.”

  The man gave a noncommittal grunt at my words, nodding his head in understanding.

  “I see,” he said. “It shall have to wait until we reach Fogveil, then.”

  “Fogveil?” I asked. “Is that where you are taking us?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is our home. A safe haven, nestled firmly in the Mistmother’s bosom.”

  “The… Mistmother?” I frowned. “Who is that?”

  “You are asking an awful lot of questions for someone claiming to be short of breath,” he said, raising an eyebrow. I promptly closed my mouth shut, and let him lead the rest of the way in silence.

  /-0-\

  We hiked for what felt like several long hours, the terrain shifting and changing beneath our feet. One moment, we were walking up the side of a hill. The next, we were descending between large boulders covered in moss and lichen. It was impossible to identify by which markers the tall man was navigating. There were no discernible landmarks or other notable geographic features to be seen beyond the occasional rock or oddly-shapen tree. For all intents and purposes, it seemed as if he was aided purely by instinct, with no outside guidance.

  Then again, I was far from a trained navigator, and so there was every chance that the man could be seeing signs and markers that would appear otherwise invisible to my unskilled eyes.

  At last, we reached the bottom of a valley where it seemed as if the fog was convalescing; growing thicker, and more voluminous. The mist in this place was so dense, in fact, that were I to stretch my arm out before me, my hand would disappear from sight, drowned in white effluvium.

  “Hey, big guy,” I said, furrowing my brows. “Are you certain this is the correct place? I can hardly see my own two feet here!”

  “Yes,” the tall man responded, his voice emerging from somewhere to my left. Needless to say, I could not see him either. All lay obscured by the mist. “We are on the outskirts of the city. Keep your eyes to the ground, and do not stray. Walk straight forwards, and listen to the sound of my voice. If you get lost here, you will never find your way out.”

  I swallowed the sudden pang of anxiety that threatened to rise from the pit of my stomach, and kept my mind on the task at hand. Walk straight forwards, huh? A simple enough endeavor on its own, but one that was made infinitely harder by the fact that I could scarcely see the lower half of my legs, much less the forest floor. How was I to know if I was keeping course when I did not have any surroundings with which to relate my position to?

  Thankfully, the tall man must have realized my predicament, for he kept talking as we waded through the sea of mist, making certain that I did not go wandering off in the wrong direction. His voice became my lodestar, my guiding force through the swell of vapor.

  At long last, the mist started clearing out. Hints of green started peeking up at me from beneath my shoes, as rays of sunlight pierced through the veil to illuminate my path. Within moments, my entire body suddenly burst free of the white grip, and I was at once standing in a vast clearing, blue skies and green dunes stretching out before me.

  It would not be exaggeration to say that the sight of such a place, hidden deep within the great expanse of mist, stole the very breath from my lungs.

  Gargantuan trees the width of several buildings stood planted at the bottom of a deep valley, their mammoth trunks reaching skyward for several hundred meters before opening up into tremendous crowns of thick branches and green fronds.

  My eyes wide with awe, I stood in silence as my mind tried to process the enormity of that which lay before me. These trees were not just trees; they were titans, ancient beyond measure, their bark marked with the passage of time. The tallest skyscrapers in all the cities I had known paled in comparison to these natural behemoths.

  As I marveled at the sheer scale, I came to notice a series of rope bridges and wooden walkways crisscrossing between the trunks and branches, forming an intricate network high above the ground. These paths wound their way upwards, spiraling around the trees, sometimes disappearing into the dense foliage before reemerging higher up.

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  But that was not all. Small platforms attached to the trees hosted various plants and flowers, creating hanging gardens that added splashes of color to the verdant green and brown. Structures of wood and woven vines formed homes and communal areas, blending in with the natural surroundings. The architecture was both functional and beautiful, a union between human ingenuity and nature’s grandeur. Vast terraces and belvederes constructed around the trunks held up entire neighborhoods, entire districts, forming the image of a treetop city set against the backdrop of cerulean skies and a radiant sun.

  “W-What is this place?” I breathed, my voice coming as a whisper.

  “That…” the tall man said, nodding towards the distant buildings far above. “... is the city of Fogveil, also known as the Grand Sway, and the Palatial Crown of the Mistmother.”

  /-0-\

  We made our way down the grass-covered hill, and towards the foot of the largest tree, around which a small camp had been constructed. Wooden walls rose in a circle around its base, set into the ground at an awkward angle so that the logs tilted slightly outwards instead of standing straight. There was only a single point of entry, a guarded opening in the walls that held no gate, but rather a contingent of guards clad in boiled leathers and padded gambesons, brandishing spears in gloved hands.

  They did not seem particularly worried with the security of the place. As we approached, I could hear them exchanging gags and wisecracks amongst themselves, laughing and smiling as they stood watch over the entrance.

  However, as soon as we drew close, their lighthearted demeanor shifted to something more serious, and they fixed their eyes on us.

  “Hail,” one of the guards said, stepping forward. His voice was firm, though not unkind. “State your business.”

  The tall man beside me straightened, his posture becoming more authoritative. “We seek an audience with the Elders,” he announced. “I am Gareth of the Warborn, and this woman in my arms is Gwyndolyn the Fierce. We were dispatched to deal with a pack of infected wolves encroaching upon our territory, and met with stronger resistance than anticipated. We carry wounded in need of care.”

  The guard's eyes widened at the mention of Gareth's name and title, and he nodded curtly. “Of course, Major. Forgive my impertinence. The Elders will want to see you immediately.” He signaled the other guards, who parted to allow us passage.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Gareth said, before continuing deeper into the camp, Gwyn nestled close to his chest. I followed after at a slight distance, taking in the sights and sounds.

  Now that I was seeing it from the inside, I felt the camp was larger than its walls suggested. The place was bustling with activity, people moving to and fro with a clear sense of purpose. Most of them seemed to be military personnel, judging by their apparel and the way they spoke to one another. Their uniform consisted of padded tunics dyed in the verdant greens of the forest, complete with an arrow-shaped insignia on their shoulder that identified them as belonging to the same unit.

  Gareth, on the other hand, wore no such colors, yet they all stopped to salute him as he passed, holding their right hand in a closed fist to their forehead. Whoever he was, it was clear that he occupied a position of some renown amongst the men.

  He was also the only one among them to have a “ghost”, its spectral form clinging to his back as he walked. Even the redheaded woman’s ghost was nowhere to be seen.

  “We’ll be taking the elevator to the Forum,” he said. “It’s the quickest way to the Elders, and the Medicinal Quarters.”

  “Oh. Umm… Yeah, that sounds good,” I said. It occurred to me then that it felt all too natural for me to do as this man commanded. So imposing was his presence, so assertive his words.

  Our path through the camp eventually took us to the base of the colossal tree, where a large opening had been carved into the wood. Various tents and shaded pavilions had been erected around the perforation, creating a natural hub that housed all manner of enterprise. Healers tended to the wounded and sick in makeshift clinics, whilst officers discussed strategy and deployments over tables littered with maps. Runner-boys scurried about with provisions and armaments, whilst soldiers sat gathered around cooking fires with pots suspended above roaring flames. The air was filled with a mix of scents: fragrant herbs, boiling stew, and the earthy aroma of the tree itself.

  “Welcome to Camp Ivory Dawn,” Gareth said, noticing my wide-eyed expression. “The forward operating base for the city of Fogveil, and the last line of defense against the Plaguestricken.”

  “... The Plaguestricken?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “You recall those wolves we fought in the forest? How they had those parasites attached to them, driving them into a frenzy?” he said.

  “Yeah, of course I remember,” I said.

  “Well, those are the Plaguestricken. The unlucky ones who have been infected by the twisted passions of the Bonefeeder.”

  “The Bonefeeder?” I blinked.

  “Disgraced disciple of Rodona, and head of the now-defunct Herbalism Chamber at the Apothecarium,” he said, regarding me with a curious look. “It is a tale of some renown. Have you not heard of it?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have…” I said. “Well, no matter. All will be explained at the banquet some days from now.”

  “What? Banquet? I don’t recall being invited to any banquet,” I frowned.

  “You just were,” he said, leaving me bewildered by the side of the path as he continued onwards, towards the gaping maw sculpted into the side of the tree ahead.

  /-0-\

  Our journey into the city proper was one of dewy-eyed wonder and childlike astonishment on the part of the greenhorn, which just so happened to be me. After talking our way past the guards standing watch near the entrance, we were escorted deeper into the tree itself, which turned out to be all but hollow on the inside.

  The dimensions of the space could not be overstated. An immense cavern, reaching heavenward through the trunk, as if some elephantine beast had gouged out its innards to crawl up to the crown.

  Incandescent gemstones set into the walls at regular intervals helped illuminate the space with pale light, too plentiful in number to be counted with any sense of accuracy. In the middle of it all hung an enormous wooden platform, suspended in the air by thick ropes stretching far up the trunk. It was easily big enough to carry both people, livestock and several wagons, and it dawned on me that this was likely how the citizens of Fogveil transported their paraphernalia and equipment from the city to the ground, and vice versa.

  The elevator was currently on a descent route towards the bottom, where a contingent of workers stood ready to receive it as it touched down. From what I could tell, it did not seem to be carrying a particularly heavy load. Just some crates and barrels, along with two individuals dressed in military garb.

  “How long until the next ascent?” Gareth asked as we approached the workers with our escort. A burly man who looked to be in his forties turned to us at the question, his face a withered slab of hard lines and leathery skin.

  “Not long. A runner-boy came a minute ago and told us to prepare a quick ascent for a member of the Warborn and his party. I’m guessing that’s you.”

  “Aye,” Gareth said. “That’s us. As you can see, we have wounded with us in need of care. A swift ascent would be much appreciated.”

  “Leave it to us, Major,” the man said, before shifting his attention back to the rapidly approaching elevator.

  Less than five minutes later, the platform had been cleared, and we were rising from the ground as it was pulled upwards by a complex system of pulleys and counterweights. It seemed oddly frivolous to use such a massive platform just to transport four people, but alas, the workers set to their task, with little in the way of comment.

  The ride itself was smooth but leisurely, giving me ample time to admire the scenery. For whilst our ascent found place within the confines of the tree, there were yet sights to be seen, as intricate carvings had been made into the tree's inner bark, carefully engraved in straight lines running between the gemstones.

  The carvings depicted scenes of battle, celebrations, and rituals. The art-style was simplistic, yet meticulously maintained, telling the story of Fogveil and its people over a tapestry so grand, I struggled to catch it all as we rose ever higher into the air.

  On the walls, I saw vast armies clashing upon battlefields littered with the bodies of the fallen. I saw mighty leaders rise and fall, as a nation gradually took shape around them. I saw famine, pestilence, drought and poverty. But I also saw prosperity, wealth, festivals and the slow-yet-steady growth of a city in the trees.

  Above all, I saw worship and reverence of a divine figure; a tall woman with long hair reaching down to her calves, offering the people guidance and succor in times of need. She was there right from the first, hovering above the battlefields, advising the great leaders of her nation, crying for the people lost to sickness and starvation. A constant presence in their lives, safeguarding the citizens of Fogveil and their budding home.

  “Gareth, sir…” I breathed, my eyes transfixed by the etchings. “Is this the story of your people?”

  “Part of it, aye,” he said, his ghost drifting in a lazy circle about his person. “It tells of the founding of Fogveil, and the blessings of the Mistmother.”

  “The woman with the long hair, yes?” I asked.

  “Indeed. Though precious few of us have ever laid eyes upon her visage, it is widely known that she assumes the form of a young maiden with flowing locks of raven hair. Not unlike your friend there, the Wielder.”

  He nodded to the sleeping form of Amelie resting on my back.

  I adjusted my grip on her legs, my mind abuzz with questions regarding the Mistmother, the Bonefeeder, and the Plaguestricken. Yet, the soft hum of the elevator and the rhythmic creaking of the ropes proved a comforting backdrop, dulling my curiosity beneath the veil of fatigue.

  As we neared the top, the platform slowed, and the etchings on the walls transitioned from scenes of struggle and growth to more tranquil depictions of daily life. Families gathered around tables laden with food, children climbing upon the branches of the trees, and the Mistmother, ever-present, her serene countenance a beacon of hope and stability.

  Finally, the elevator came to a halt at a broad landing bathed in sunlight. The canopy above was a riot of green, interspersed with the vibrant colors of blooming flowers and fruits. Its arms reached out to encompass all, sheltering the people of Fogveil beneath its great boughs.

  Around us, a city flourished, alive with the spirit of exuberance.

  Children played on hanging bridges, their laughter echoing far and wide as they swung their legs above the yawning abyss, without hint of fear. Their elders sat in shaded alcoves, sharing stories and anecdotes over hot meals and cool drinks. Soldiers patrolled the streets with smiles on their faces, as opposed to the rigid expressions I had oft seen men of their station adopt.

  And, speaking of the streets, these were not the usual roadways I had grown accustomed to seeing in the other towns me and Amelie had visited. No, these streets flowed in irregular patterns, looping and twisting as they curved around trees, wound their way between buildings and jumped across walkways. It seemed a hopeless layout, impossible to interpret for all but the most seasoned of tree-top dwellers, and yet, the people moved about with ease, navigating the passageways and platforms with a familiarity that spoke to generations worth of experience.

  The buildings themselves appeared as if they had grown organically from the colossal trunks, sculpted by the hands of the forest itself. Most of the homes seemed to be located along the edges of the platforms they were built upon, in order to make room for more communal spaces in the middle, such as markets, restaurants and shops. It was difficult to tell where one construction ended and another began. They all flowed seamlessly into one another, as if the entire city was not a collection of assorted homes, but rather one singular entity with openings in different places.

  It was broad and narrow, crooked and straight, horizontal and vertical, all at the same time.

  It was Fogveil, the most beautiful city I had ever seen.

  As we stepped off the elevator, a group of healers hurried to meet us, their faces etched with concern. They wore simple robes adorned with floral patterns, their hands gentle yet firm as they took Amelie from my arms and placed her on a stretcher made of woven vines.

  “This one needs immediate care," one of the healers said. “We’ll take her to the Medicinal Quarters right away.”

  I hesitated, glancing at Gareth, unsure if I should go with them or stay by his side. He gave me a nod of encouragement. "Go. Your friend needs you. In the meantime, I shall ensure that Gwyndolyn is cared for.”

  “Alright,” I said. “And, uhh… what happens after that?”

  He gave me a tepid smile in response.

  “Then I go before the Elders, to have my ears screamed off.”

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