106. Winter Wonderland

  When Serac had lent a hand to smiting Mulaharta, she couldn’t have known that she’d be helping to restore Rotgard to its pre-‘withering’ glory. Neither did she know it’d bring back one of the Realm’s most treasured traditions.

  What Laceration Gorge was to Naraka, the Netherpool was to Pretjord—meaning it was quite literally the lowest point of the Realm. In a word, it was a circular ‘basin’ that wrapped all around the Roots of the Realmtree, collecting the entirety of the river water that drained into it.

  As a certain frog lady had once explained, the withering of the Roots had also caused the Netherpool to dry up, making it unreachable from land. Over the last two months, it too had seen a dramatic return to form, much like the rest of Rotgard. The basin had refilled, and the ‘pool level’ had risen enough to touch the shore. Pretjordians could once again swim, forage, or harvest resources from one of the most unique ecosystems in all the land.

  However, the restoration had also coincided with the changing of the seasons. This time of the year, there wasn’t much swimming, foraging, nor harvesting to be done in the Netherpool. No, because the whole thing had frozen solid, chilled and stilled by the wintry winds.

  But the Yakshas wouldn’t be much of water sprites if they’d let a little ice stop them from making use of their largest body of water. Thus arose the (normally) annual tradition of the Realmhunt, a festival of sorts where Yakshas from all over the Realmtree gathered for some communal ice fishing.

  Presently, Serac stared out in awe from one of the many root-beaches that dotted the circumference of the shore. She was warm and dry in her newly reconstituted clothes, and flanked on either side by Zacko and Petter—her ‘teammates’ for the day’s events.

  “Wowww!” she exclaimed with unchecked astonishment. “Everything’s so… flat!”

  Indeed, that was what struck her most about the vast winter wonderland before her. Other than the odd plateau or two, it was exceedingly rare to find completely level footing upon the slopes of Mount Meru, yet here was one solid sheet of ice that stretched as far and wide as the eye could see.

  Until this moment, Serac realized, she’d never seen anything that resembled ‘the ends of the earth’. But this certainly came close. The horizon in the unseen distance presented as a gradual blurring of seafoam sky into steel-blue ice. From where Serac stood, it was impossible to tell what lay beyond the horizon, if anything at all.

  “What happens if we, you know, slide off the Netherpool?” this from Zacko, voicing the exact same question on Serac’s mind.

  “No one knows for sure, Mr Zacko,” Petter answered cheerily, defaulting to the nickname he’d been getting used to for the last two months, “and that’s because no one who’s ‘tried’ it has ever come back to tell the tale.”

  Serac shuddered at the thought, then asked in her inside voice: Trippy? Any ideas?

  “Every Realm is a little different, but simple logic dictates that you would fall.”

  A lethal fall, you reckon?

  “Oh, most definitely. But that’s assuming there’s anything for you to land on.”

  Serac shuddered some more, pondering all the various unpleasant ways an unkillable Wayfarer could meet her demise.

  “Well, whatever the case might be, at least this proves that the world is flat,” Zacko suddenly said with a smirk, as if he’d thought up a brilliant joke. “Did you know that in Manesfera, there are wackos who believe the world is round? Can you even imagine? Wish I could take a picture of this and show them.”

  “Take a picture, Mr Zacko? Don’t you mean draw?”

  “I meant what I said, Pete,” Zacko said good-naturedly, giving the shorter mackerel man a pat on the back. “Let’s just say there are things in this afterlife that are even more magical than your matchsticks.”

  Now that Team Serac had gotten a lay of the land, it was time to scout out their opponents. To that end, the trio waded into the icy arena: Zacko with performative nonchalance, Petter with an unbound, almost childish joy—and Serac with a healthy dose of caution.

  A cobbler at the Rotgard Market had fitted the Wayfarers with their very own pairs of ice cleats. Even so, Serac couldn’t be too sure that her hydrophobic self wouldn’t fall straight through the ice and into the watery abyss. She first tiptoed, then stomped, followed by several jumps. Each time, she found the footing to be as solid and immovable as packed soil.

  Satisfied and relieved, Serac allowed herself to look up and take in the surroundings. She found herself in the midst of a modest gathering of sorts, composed mostly of faces she recognized.

  There was the cobbler himself, an enterprising clownfish who’d already laid out his wares on a mat, no doubt hoping to price-gouge anyone who might’ve forgotten their cleats. A pufferfish—the clothier responsible for both Wayfarers’ new outfits—sat in a circle with several other gossiping women. At their center was a small hole in the ice, through which a fishing line had been fed, but the women looked much more interested in each other’s company. Yakshas all around had set out chairs, tables, tents, and even grills and pots (careful not to melt the ice!), giving the whole place a lively, social atmosphere.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  According to Petter, the hour was still early enough that those present would be mostly Rotgardians who had the least distance to travel. Later in the day, they could expect to be joined by Stamgardians and eventually the royal retinue from Krongard. And once King Tyr himself arrived, the main event—the competition—could begin in earnest. Speaking of…

  “Do you still have the you-know-what on you, Miss Serac?” Petter turned and asked in a low voice.

  “Yup, I’ve got it right here,” Serac answered, much louder. She patted a noticeable swelling around her waist pocket, where she’d stowed away the so-called ‘legendary lure’ Petter had spent all night working on. “The, uh, [Frost-kree-whatchamacallit]?”

  “Shh! Shh!” Petter shushed her in a hurry, somehow managing to be louder still. “Don’t let anyone hear that we’ve got the Frostkrillbane! My dad told me stories about the last time someone managed to bring that to the Realmhunt, and let me tell you, things got ugly in a hurry.”

  “That bad? People take this thing real serious, huh?”

  “You bet, Miss! The Frostkrill is only the biggest Wildspawn a Pretjordian Wayfarer could hope to smite. Sure, I suppose most of it would turn to Souldust, but even the residues that get stuck on the insides of its carapace could feed a whole town for months. And of course the carapace itself! The most durable yet supple material you’ve ever seen. If I’m not mistaken, members of the Kronvakt still wear armor crafted from the last time a Frost—”

  “You’re still on about that, Stammer Boy?” this from the clownfish cobbler, never one to miss a chance to rib the Stamgard-born mackerel. “What, you think your team’s gonna be the one to smite the Frostkrill? No offense to Serac and Zacarias, but what makes you think you could compete with the King’s men? Besides, we don’t know if the thing will even show up—or if it’s even reincarnated yet.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, Mr Cobbler,” Petter said with a polite yet confident smile. “I’ve got a good feeling that this year is the year. What with that long break we had in the middle, the Frostkrill has had plenty of time, not only to reincarnate, but to grow fat enough to be worth the price of admission. As for our team, in fact, I do like our chances. After all, we’ve got a secret wea—”

  “I’ma stop you right there, big guy,” Zacko cut in, pulling Petter away from the cobbler and other prying ears. “How about you follow your own advice, hm?”

  Serac watched the interaction like a fond parent, smiling from ear to ear. What a difference two months made! The once timid Petter was a man reborn, now that he’d taken his talents down the Tree to Rotgard, where he’d become something of a local mascot.

  It didn’t escape Serac’s notice that, for an Anchored soul, Petter seemed to know a lot about Wayfaring—in some ways, perhaps even more than her. She knew it was a topic that excited the mackerel man, and he must’ve done plenty of his own research—perhaps even dreamed of becoming a Wayfarer himself, though he’d never admit to it.

  Come on, Pathsight, why do you gotta be stingy like that? Serac mused. I’m sure Petey would make a great Wayfarer if given the chance. Although… I have to admit I’m pretty glad to have him as a personal chef!

  With that, Team Serac resumed their scouting trek. And it didn’t take long for something else to grab a hell bumpkin’s attention.

  “What’s happening there?” Serac blurted, pointing to a strange and wonderful scene just ahead.

  A group of about a dozen Yakshas—most of them children or at least visibly younger than Petter—glided on ice in a seemingly haphazard fashion. Their movements were smooth, fluid, and speedy, so much so that Serac even wondered if there might be magic involved. They each held a wooden stick in their gloved hands, with which they poked at not only each other but also something on the frozen surface.

  “Iskolle,” Petter replied in a hushed voice, looking just as fascinated by the display as the outrealmer beside him. “You see that coaster they’re all chasing around? The object of the game is to hit it into the opponent’s net. Oh, and the reason they move like that is because they’re all wearing skates instead of cleats.”

  “Coaster?” Serac parroted, latching onto the one piece of jargon she did recognize. “Is that the same ‘coaster’ as with those sturgeon boys?”

  “That’s it,” Petter nodded, beaming, “though I think their disc might be a lot bigger than this one. And a lot more magical. I did hear the Tomasen twins were two of the best Iskolle players Rotgard had ever seen. Shame there’s nowhere for them to play in Stamgard.”

  Serac’s attention snapped back onto the children’s game. Looking closer, she could see that the sticks had small attachments at their ends that did make them look a little like ‘oars’. And the children’s boots all had blades on their soles, which left thin, continuous imprints upon the ice. These must be the ‘skates’ Petter had mentioned.

  Yet, as absolutely delighted as Serac was by this game of Iskolle, the reminder of the Tomasen twins’ existence put her in a sour mood. So, it was with an odd sort of half-smile-half-grimace that she followed the pinging of a coaster all over the ice, the sight of children crashing bodily into each other, and the chaotic sound of their shouts, roars, and laughter.

  At some point, one of the players skated himself off the field of play, evidently to catch a breather. He noticed Serac’s gawking (she’d made no effort to hide it!), then paused for a moment before holding out his stick.

  “Wanna play?”

  Did she ever! Yet, now that the opportunity presented itself, she suddenly caught a case of the shyness.

  “Oh, I don’t know if I—” she stammered, sounding a little like the Petter Svensen of two months ago. “This is only my first—you see, I’ve never—”

  “Give it try, Rakshasa. Maybe I join too.”

  Serac swiveled to the familiar, surprisingly gentle voice, faster than an Iskolle player could complete a crossover. There, towering over her with his cold, impassive glare stood one of the sturgeon twins. And she didn’t need the help of Pathsight to know which one.

  “You!” she seethed at Lars Tomasen, eyes narrowed in open hostility. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here!”

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