The wind wailed at the men who were huddled between an abysmal fire, its wood so recently wet with the snow of the mountain, and the small covered wagon they had used for meager shelter. Although the weather had shifted earlier midday, the cold of the storm never wore off. They piled their advantage to survive that cold on themselves and the work mule they intended to rest against. Layers of dyed wool, meant for the small village of Hono from Na’al, were more than just wares this night.
A dull orange glow reflected against the snow from the low-burning fire. It gave a ghastly visage to each of the travelers, with their eyes filled with the flame and darkness around their faces. As the smoke emptied into the air uselessly from the evergreen wood—wasted heat to burn out the damp—all three of them felt the pressure to close their eyes and drift off to forget this scene.
Two of them sat with the close familiarity of family: a rough, bearded man, and the other a somewhat younger man no less attempting to grow out his hair. They were dressed in the fur of the northern lands of Graus, the rustic brown of bear skin cut to fit a hooded coat.
Their companion wore an outfit unfamiliar to them, with a deep black cloak which covered him to his knees. Black was an unusual color to see in Graus since they had no natural sources for it in dyes. The stranger had insisted to join them though, and paid for one of their jackets to make the journey to Hono.
As they sat awake, the younger man, Jaren, spoke directly to the stranger.
“Tell us a story.”
“He don’t need to, Jaren, just think on one to y’self.” The older trader Jaspen spoke with a heavier accent, and though it came out stern the soft volume of his voice seemed more content to keep the peace of the night than to reprimand youthfulness.
“But why not...we always…” the young man started, but in a serious look from his elder he did not finish his complaint.
A long moment passed with the sound of popping wood filling the quiet.
“What story would I tell?” The question hung in the air, uttered from their stranger, the one who called himself Segrus.
The older trader exhaled a huff of steamed breath at his apprenticed youth, and then looked between him, Segrus, and the fire. When he agitated himself enough with his thoughts, he spoke in a louder voice in reply to Segrus.
“What he’s say’in is we’ve made a tradition whenever we’re caught out here. Trade some stories until we’re sure it won’t blizzard whilst we nod off. Ya don’t have to, it’s clear enough now.”
Segrus watched them carefully from within his cloak, and his gaze was returned until he turned to gaze over the fire.
“Fair enough,” he started. He looked around them, and seemed to consider something beyond the here and now.
“I have read of this mountain before I came to Na’al in some of the books made available to me by an acquaintance I have. I wondered at the time if it were true, and if I would ever see the place. I will admit that the interest in it returned to me when I heard of some need for me in Na’al.”
“What do you mean there’s a book?” Jaren interjected, but his elder hushed him immediately. Segrus continued without changing his posture.
“From the story, I recall there being a group of five explorers who were passing through this mountain range. If they had a goal in mind, or a place they were heading to, there was no mention of what it was. But their trek led them around here, and I believe they could see one of the peaks we saw earlier today.”
“Before they arrived, the local hunters who helped equip them told them to stay on the trail, stay their course through the woods. The snow could be blinding, and dangerous. In a moment they could become disoriented if their tracks disappeared under snowfall. They were warned that the wilderness here was not the same as elsewhere.”
“The explorers heeded the words as they marched deeper into the snow and further from civilization. They followed the trail given to them, being wary of how the landscape looked and the position of stars. No trouble came across their path the first few days.”
“One night, though, an eerie light shined forth from a peak more than a day’s journey away from them. It was red-hued, brighter than blood against the forming clouds. So attractive it was to them that they stayed a full day to debate a course to go there.”
“You see, there is a legend where I come from of a red magical power. Its source is so filled with energy that it pours out freely in all directions, and despite this cup being unable to fully capture that power, it never seems to run dry.”
“That Red Essence was known to these explorers, and the prospect of finding such a mythical item seemed to lie in this mysterious signal. When a second night of the red light occurred, they changed their goals to match their ambition and curiosity.”
Segrus stopped momentarily when a log slipped against another with a small cracking sound. He looked into the traders’ eyes to see their interest, but he did not keep their gaze to continue the tale. Clearing his throat, he then wetted his lips and spoke in a serious tone.
“They veered higher and higher on the mountain, and the light grew brighter each night. Excitement filled their steps to reach it faster. Yet impatience was not far behind, and the faster they pushed to climb the further away the peak seemed to be. Snow—rock—cold—hunger—an inescapable purpose bowled them over any obstacle.”
“The story, it seems, was passed down by those hunters and told again and again with different endings. Some would say the Red Essence was hidden there, and the explorers hid away the light until they could recover it with more supplies. The book also mentioned the possibility these men lost their lives to a guardian of sorts, as vicious as it was protective. It is perhaps a better way to have become part of a legend than what could have happened to them in this world.”
Jaren, unable to hold in his thoughts, aimed one more question to Segrus.
“I’ve never heard of this. What should we do if we see this light? Could be we’ve got a good chance ourselves.”
Segrus the Necromancer was not looking at the fire, but through it. His eyes saw what his companions could not. His eyes saw what was left of the souls of the dead. It was not more than a reflection, a remembrance of their life’s existence imprinted on objects, people, and places.
He saw spirits as they hovered nearby, grotesque skeletons with neither faces nor insides. They stood in the snow away from their camp, and acted with no motions. Segrus had begun to notice them at the boundary of this mountain, because the red of the bones stood out against the white snow.
In perfect, commanding voice, Segrus answered, “Stay the trail.”