Chapter 31 - Return of the Storm

They set out the next morning. Or rather, closer to midday. They had stayed up late talking in the tavern hall, and Kreft had only remembered sometime after two that they were children and should probably be asleep. He himself returned at dawn, reeking of alcohol and cheap perfume.
Arien, despite being short on sleep, managed to devour one breakfast, return upstairs for a nap, and come back down in time for another. By the time they finally climbed into the rented carriage, with Kreft reluctantly taking the reins, the sun was already high in the sky.
“Ugh, I could sleep some more. Arien, you really can’t drive?” the soldier asked, pain evident in his voice. “What kind of country bumpkin are you?”
“An educated country bumpkin,” Will laughed. “Look at his hands. Mine already look more peasant-like.”
“Hey! Everyone has their strengths! Mine is brains, not brawn!” Arien protested.
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have given most of your winnings to your sister yesterday!” Kreft grumbled. “Who’s ever heard of giving a girl that much money? And what for? She doesn’t even drink beer, and even if she did, with a face like that, anyone would be happy to buy her one.”
Arien only sighed. Kreft kept coming back to it whenever he could, as if the money had been his. Arien had little use for the coins right now anyway, while Sari was alone in Ribenne. She had been the first person in this world he had truly grown close to, and if those coins made her life even slightly safer, he wanted her to have them. She might lose her work, need to leave Ribenne in a hurry, or simply find herself in a situation where a few silver coins made all the difference.
The hardest part had been convincing her to accept. After lengthy negotiations, they had agreed to call it a long-term loan she would repay someday.
“I can’t wait to tell my dad about the duel,” Will said. “And then I’m going straight back to training.”
“Don’t forget about the assignments from Lady Velyn,” Arien said.
“Oh no! I totally forgot. Arien, will you do my math for me? Please, please, please.”
“I helped you once. Remember what happened?”
“You know I can’t lie. Not my fault she asked whether someone helped me.”
“There’s your answer.”
“I’ll do the ones I can now, and if I don’t understand something, you’ll explain it?”
“We can agree to that. I’ll take a nap now.”
“Can’t even drive…” He still heard Kreft mutter, but soon the steady rhythm of hooves and the gentle warmth of late summer lulled Arien to sleep.
He only woke when the wagon jolted sharply after hitting a deep rut.
“…if a Battle Mage of Level fifteen fought, who would win?”
“Will, there are no Battle Mages at such a low Level,” Kreft replied wearily.
“But what if there were?”
“They can’t be. By the time mages learn the basics, they’re already at least Level twenty.”
“But they can cast Fireball earlier, right?”
“They can, but that doesn’t make them Battle Mages.”
“Then what does?” Arien asked, sitting up and rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“I don’t know. Do I look like a mage? I just know that in the army, every Battle Mage I saw was at least Level twenty-five.”
“Who would win: a Level twenty-five Battle Mage or a speed-specialized Warrior?” Will persisted.
“Depends on a lot of factors, but probably the mage.”
“Why the mage?” Will asked indignantly. “You said it depends on a lot of factors.”
“Because mages can usually fry, skewer, or petrify a warrior before they even get close.”
“But what if—”
“Please, Will, my head’s about to explode,” the man groaned.
“Maybe you’d like a small cask of beer?” Arien suggested. “I just remembered my sister gave it to me for the road.”
“There’s beer in your basket? Why didn’t you say so earlier? Arien, my savior!” Kreft shouted, abruptly bringing the carriage to a halt.
Arien had intended to give it to him for free, but then he remembered Kreft grumbling about the money he had given Sari.
“I took it for my father, but seeing how much you’re suffering, I’m willing to sell it to you at a fair price,” he replied, trying to look as innocent as possible.
“Sell it? I thought we were friends,” Kreft stammered pitifully.

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“Of course we are. That’s why six silver coins is a very fair price.”
“Six silver? That’s daylight robbery! I could buy two casks for that in Three Meadows!”
“You’re right. We’ll arrive in a few hours anyway, then you can have a drink. Though apparently you can’t get this kind of beer in our tavern, so my father will probably be very pleased,” Arien said indifferently, leaning back against the side of the carriage and squinting at the sky. “Such beautiful weather today.”
“Four silver,” Kreft said, almost pleading.
“Five.”
“May pestilence take you. Four and a half. Plus I answer one of your System questions.”
“Deal,” Arien replied quickly.
Kreft sighed loudly, fished the coins from his pouch, and shot Arien an irritated look. But after breaking the seal on the small cask and taking a few deep swigs, he let out a sound of profound relief.
“Can I ask a question?” Arien asked eventually, when the cask was nearly empty.
“Yes, I already feel much better. Just remember, I’m not a scholar like Velyn or some nobleman.”
“I know. Tell me, what are the average and highest levels in the army, among craftsmen, mages, and Explorers? And what causes people to stop leveling up?”
“That’s two questions, but fine. This beer really is good. Listen, both of you. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough to have a rough idea. Most soldiers end up around level thirty,” Kreft said. “A little higher if they see real war or serve in an elite unit.”
“And craftsmen?” Arien asked.
“Usually a few levels lower. Unless they’re masters of their trade. The best ones are a different breed.”
“What about mages?”
Kreft took another drink. “The army mages I knew sometimes reached past forty. Most were common-born, though. Guild mages and noble brats supposedly looked down on them. As for Explorers, the range is enormous. Some are barely above craftsmen, while others are powerhouses above level one hundred.”
“Like Varen Golden Arrow?” Will interrupted excitedly. “They say he can hit a target from a mile away.”
“Yes, like Varen Golden Arrow. I saw him once. We were securing the area around a Portal his team was meant to clear. Every one of his companions was terrifying in their own way, but from Varen himself you could physically feel the power radiating off him. People at that level barely seem human anymore.
“As for your second question. At higher Levels, ordinary training stops being enough. If you want to keep advancing, sooner or later you need to kill enemies around your own Level or stronger. That’s why access to Portals is so jealously guarded by nations and factions, they offer both wealth and growth. Of course, only to those who survive.”
“One day I’ll enter a Portal for sure,” Will declared.
“Good luck, boy. Now give me some peace. I want to make up the time we’ve lost and reach the village before evening.”
They spent the next few hours with Will arguing about what Portals looked like inside and what one might find there. The young noble was convinced they transported people to a battlefield where, behind endless monster armies, treasure-filled chests waited to be claimed.
Arien, drawing on Earthly imagination, pictured underground labyrinths filled with traps and final bosses waiting to be defeated.
Kreft only smiled and shook his head whenever they asked for his opinion.
They smelled the smoke before they saw it. They were already riding through familiar hills when the wind carried the smell of burning wood and straw. A single fire was nothing unusual, so at first none of them paid much attention. Then they emerged from another grove and saw a dozen thin columns of smoke scattered across the horizon.
Kreft muttered a curse and snapped the reins, urging the aging chestnut forward. “Looks like whatever’s burning is already dying out,” he said. Against the setting sun, the columns were already thin, suggesting most of the fires had nearly burned themselves out.
Neither of them spoke. A dozen separate columns of smoke left little room for an innocent explanation.
They rode in silence until they reached Kreig’s farm. What remained was little more than a blackened heap of beams and ash. The barn had been reduced to a skeleton of charred posts, with thin wisps of smoke still curling from the ruins.
Goda’s was the same. Only a chimney rose from the ashes of the house. Widow Tylda’s stable had partially collapsed, and burned tools lay scattered across the yard. Jary’s homestead was still smoldering. Every farm they passed had been destroyed, with the remains of wagons, fences, and farming equipment scattered among the ruins. Crows hopped through the wreckage, pecking at things Arien did not want to identify.
They kept riding, and with every yard that brought them closer to Arien’s home, this thoughts became harder to control. He prayed to every god he could think of that his farm had been spared. It stood much closer to the village. Maybe whatever had happened had never reached it. Maybe everyone had seen the smoke and escaped in time.
Please… not again.
They crested the hill, and Arien saw what remained of his home. His heart began hammering so hard it hurt.
“Arien, breathe,” Kreft’s voice finally reached him. “Will, stay with him. Talk to him calmly. I’ll check the farm.”
Only the well and the hearth remained of his home. It was the same one Arien had stared into through the long winter months, now standing alone among the ruins.
“Hey, Arien, it’ll be okay. Your family probably saw the earlier fires and managed to escape. You’ll see. It’ll be fine,” Will tried to reassure him, though he himself was pale as a sheet and visibly trembling.
He remembered Terry’s evening stories, which used to carry him away to lands of adventure. Wod, always ruffling his hair and threatening to drag him out into the fields so he wouldn’t “blind people with how clean he looked.” Lisa, promising to find him the best wife in the village. Alia, whose shy glances and gentle touch held so much warmth. And Mari…
Had he brought this with him? Was disaster following him from one world into another?
Kreft climbed back onto the driver’s seat without meeting Arien’s gaze. After a long silence, he sighed.
“Boy… I’m afraid I don’t have good news. I found two bodies. I couldn’t tell who they were, and I don’t know if there are more beneath the rubble.”
Two bodies.
A soft knock at the door. Two police officers soaked by the rain, asking whether he was the son of Daniel and Sofia. Was anyone else home? Did he have siblings? Someone he could call? There had been an accident. His parents had died at the scene.
Rain against the windows. Thunder somewhere beyond them. His grandmother trying to comfort him while psychologists kept asking what he felt. Months before he stopped hearing the officer’s voice whenever someone knocked on the door.
They died. Again.
“No!” Will’s horrified cry snapped Arien back to the present. He had not even noticed when they reached the estate. Unlike the farms, parts of the walls and several sections of the buildings still stood, but little else had survived.
Kreft moved beside Will and covered the boy’s eyes, whispering something Arien could not hear.
That was when Arien saw the stake.
It was just a simple plank, probably torn from a fence, standing before the main entrance half-covered in soot and dark red stains. Impaled at the top was Sir Samwell’s head.
The Storm had returned.