It became hard to keep track of time. Camilla trudged forward, through the snow, her wrists bound and attached by a rope to Gorn. The Norscan apparently needed neither sleep nor rest, though he periodically stopped to allow her to collapse for what felt like a few moments before he kicked her awake. Sometimes there would be a fire going and there would be some small badly burned creature in the flames. Camilla ate hungrily despite her revolution, trying to keep her strength up. Her heart ached for Cydric. There was no way to know if he even still lived. A glimmer of hope remained, perhaps the Nordlanders had prevailed, perhaps one of the maimed messangers had made it ashore and evaded the bulk of the stranded Norscans, but it seemed precious little to hold onto. Even if he knew of her, there was no way for him to find her across this barren waste, where the snow and wind devoured all sign of their passage.

After four such stops, she hesitated to call them days, the snow gave way increasingly to bare rock. A range of mountains rose in the distance and small streams flowed down from it, vanishing into sinkholes that Camilla imagined fell to the sea beneath the glacial ice. The sky above the mountains was lit by a couruscance of rainbow hewed light which seemed to pulse as though alive. The air warmed as well, astonishingly fast if she were any judge and a half day after leaving the snow fields she no longer needed the fur cloak that the reaver had given to her. Gorn himself spoke little answering most questions with little more than a grunt or a curse. He seemed to be growing apprehensive which could not have been a good sign.

Another day passed and they reached the foothills of the mountains. To Camilla’s surprise they came upon ruins nestled within the rocky bones of the mountain. That they were eleven was obvious but that elves had ever lived so close to the waste seemed impossible to believe. It wasn’t a large settlement, consisting of a few dozen lichen choked buildings and the stump of what had once been a tower, though time or some other calamity had long since toppled its smooth stone. 

“We will camp here,” Gorn declared and, to her surprise, drew a short steel knife and sliced the bonds from wrists. Blood flowed painfully back into her fingertips as she flexed them, nail beds pinkening even in the chill air.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?” she asked as the reaver began to pile rotten timber together for a fire. Gorn laughed a short bitter laugh and shook his head.

“If you were to run now, you would be a drooling spawn before you ever reached the sea,” he assured her and pointed to the brand on his head. The flesh around it had blackened and the veins that spread from it were dark and spidery.

“Get too far from me and you will lose your protection, if I die you will lose your protection, your only chance of reaching the Altar of Urken-sugah unchanged is with me,” The Norscan grated. A flash of insight stole over Camilla.“

Your absorbing the magic, taking the taint into yourself, aren’t you?” she blurted. The Norscan nodded as the small fire caught, kindling crackling around the large pieces of detritus.

“They Prince will reward me when I bring you to his altar,” Gorn said, his eyes hardening into something distant an inhuman.

“You will kneel before me and beg me for my favor,” the Norscan wen’t on, relish creeping into his voice. He licked his lips and his tongue seemed longer than she remembered, slithering out of his mouth like a questing snake. The fire grew purple and for a heartbeat Camilla thought she saw a figure in the flames.  She turned her eyes away trying not to think about it.

Camilla woke in the darkness. In the far distance something howled mournfully. To her suprise Gorn was slumped over, apparently asleep. As quietly as she could she came to her feet, uncertain of what she was going to do but certain she should be doing something. Unbidden, her eyes drifted to one of the building, a large oval shaped building flanked by crumbling columades.  There was something there, a glimmer of something. Camilla cast a look back at the fire and her sleeping jailer. Gorn hadn’t stirred. Carefully she picked her way over to the building and peered through the ruined archway. Inside as a vast hall, something about it filled her with a mix of excitement and trepidation.  With gentle footfalls she picked her way through the hall. Crumbled benches lay on both sides, leading up to a marble altar which was so coated with dust that she would never have picked out its purpose if the rest of the building wasn’t so clearly a temple.

 In her mind great statues flanked the altar and she could hear a distant and fey chanting.  The scent of blood and steel filled her nostrils as she stepped towards the altar and the chanting, music of a cold and deadly purity swelled in her mind. With a trembling hand she reached out toward the dust covered altar and brushed back an ancient and moth eaten piece of cloth. Beneath it a cruelty curved sword glinted. Its steel shimmered with intricately inlayed designs which faded along the length as though the steel itself were an unseen fog. Gold fillagree wrapped the handle and a small but perfectly cut stone of uncertain color. 

“Ranald’s mercy,” she breathed and picked up the sword, finding it to be perfectly balanced. The cold chanting faded as she lifted the blade and she found herself alone in the silent temple. Outside a creature howled, far closer than before and she heard a throaty war cry followed by the scrabbling of claws on stone.