Wenden Port

"Pretty reasonable."

Kraft felt his cousin really had some talent for being a bard in a tavern. He remembered the story he had heard from William with remarkable clarity, reasonably weaving in details he had heard about the sea and the Ice Plains, making it seem as though he had truly accompanied William on that journey across the Ice Plains.

Unfortunately, Kraft was the only listener on the road. In a tavern, a story containing all the hottest elements of the day—ocean voyages, exotic customs, and Church idiots—would surely have had the entire audience buying him drinks, especially if he artfully added some material about humanity's primal urges. He could have retold it for a month and still filled a special show.

But Cousin Ryan had not yet noticed this business opportunity. He pulled out his waterskin, took a huge gulp, and continued.

In the cold wind, Frank stood frozen in place. In an age with neither television nor Bear Grylls, few people besides the Ice Plains People probably knew that humans could defeat the wilderness with their bare hands.

Even many Ice Plains tribes that had gone generations without producing a priest would soon begin to doubt whether anyone could complete the ritual, until another peerless tough guy emerged to gather their simple faith once more.

But someone looked even worse than Frank: his attendant. Others might have thought Frank was about to give up, but he understood Frank. Silence did not necessarily mean he wanted to go home; it could also mean Frank was genuinely considering whether this was feasible.

Before coming here, the attendant had considered many terrible possibilities: miserable living conditions, extremely unfriendly locals, and how to build a Church from nothing. The worst of them was merely that Frank might imitate some of the hardcore madmen in Church history and build his own Church with his bare hands—then he could only see it through with him.

Reality was far more absurd than imagination. If Frank truly wanted to take part in this ritual, would he go himself, or would his attendant set out in his place? There was no essential difference between the two. It was simply a matter of taking his own life after Frank died, or freezing to death sooner.

"The Holy Scripture records that Saint John walked barefoot across heated iron plates without suffering so much as an injury. Then, to spread the Lord's voice, I too shall accept the Lord's trial." Frank raised his head and stared resolutely at the stone serving as the starting point. "So when can it begin?"

William froze. The sailors who had come with them froze. Even Bjorn was shocked. The Ice Plains People still unloading goods from the sledges looked utterly baffled; they did not understand Norse Language and had no idea what was happening here.

Before William could react, Bjorn swiftly dropped his casual smile, removed his fur hood, and fixed Frank with a serious gaze. After receiving an equally resolute look in return, he slowed his speech as if afraid Frank might not hear clearly, speaking each word in clear Norse Language. "This is not a joke."

Frank nodded.

William could clearly make out an expression of respect and solemnity on Bjorn's face, painted all over with mineral dyes—an expression he had never seen before. It frightened him enough that he did not dare speak. Bjorn adjusted his beard and reached his left hand toward the single-edged axe on his back. William almost thought he was going to use it to offer Frank as a blood sacrifice to the Stone God.

But Bjorn did not grasp the axe handle. The chipped axe blade sliced across his palm, and blood dripped from the wound, yet he seemed not to feel it. He raised his blood-soaked hand high, spread his arms, and roared at the distant mountains, "Helhes!"

Now the surrounding Ice Plains People understood. Indescribable expressions appeared on their faces as they dropped what they were holding without hesitation, not even noticing when an unsecured barrel rolled away.

"Helhes!" Every Ice Plains Person present let out a deafening roar. The tremendous cry opened every door in the settlement. Ice Plains People in different fur garments, men and women, young and old alike, set aside whatever they were doing and came this way, swiftly forming a great semicircle around them.

One Ice Plains man, as exceptionally tall as Bjorn, reached out and parted the crowd for an old man standing half a head taller behind him. William knew them. One was Bjorn's father, the chieftain of the entire tribe. The elderly man with gray hair and beard was the tribe's old priest—the one who had stood here thirty years ago.

The priest slowly walked up to Frank, who was surrounded by the crowd. He said nothing and did not question why Frank was nearly half a head shorter than himself. He merely drew a stone knife from the crude fur clothing, no finer than that worn by the other Ice Plains People.

Like Bjorn, he drew the stone knife across his left palm. The wound was deep, yet only a small amount of dark, viscous blood seeped from it. The old priest reached out and smeared a streak of blackish-red blood across Frank's face like war paint, while Frank struggled to remain standing. Then he turned to Bjorn.

"The old priest recognizes your courage, and we have informed the mountains of your arrival. Strip away everything external beneath the stone, and you may set out." Afraid Frank might still be uneasy, he added, "The warriors who will witness the ritual will be chosen shortly. Whether you succeed or fail, you need not worry about your reputation."

"Uh..." Kraft was completely speechless. "So did they at least collect the body over on the snowfields?"

"I have to say, he really was a true man." Ryan laughed with some malicious delight. "But you guessed wrong. When William and the others went looking for him the next day, they found that he was actually still alive."

"What?!"

"Not only was he alive, they found unconscious Frank in the snow a full five kilometers from the stone. When they found him, he looked like he had shrunk by an entire size, and his temperature was burning hot, as though all the fat in his body had been burned away overnight." Ryan rubbed his own face. His face was somewhat round, and it was hard to imagine what he would look like if it happened to him. "Anyway, he survived by some miracle. Bjorn was among the Ice Plains warriors responsible for witnessing the ritual. After mocking his god for being pathetic, they did not stop them."

"I declare that the biggest flaw in this story. What, was he rendering lard? Toss him into a pot and he shrinks?"

"But it really happened." Ryan shrugged, expressing his disdain for his ignorant cousin.

Kraft refused to accept that. "You probably heard William tell it while he was drunk. Do you have any proof?"

"I do. Doesn't the name Frank sound familiar? Think about it: who at Wenden Port Academy is named Frank?"

"Professor Frank from the Theology School? No way. The wrinkles on his face practically hang down. He has to be at least sixty, right?" Kraft did know the man. Apparently, Teacher Anderson had said they had a terrible relationship. Back at the Academy, Frank had often used the Theology School's influence, along with their natural incompatibility, to squeeze out Anderson and the others who liked researching Anomalous Phenomena.

The man did not much like outsiders setting foot through the Academy gates. He especially looked down on "country nobles" like the Wood Family, who had little culture. When Ryan and Kraft occasionally went to deliver letters to Anderson's acquaintances, they had to carefully avoid him.

Ryan let out a hiccuping laugh. "I bought William three bottles of liquor before he told me that embarrassing history. Even Teacher Anderson might not know. Those are not wrinkles at all. After he dried out and became skinny, his skin was just too loose. Otherwise, why do you think he still has golden hair at such an old age?"

"Anyway, we're almost at Wenden Port. You can find a Theology School student and ask when Frank came to the Academy. My guess is that he was too embarrassed to go home after becoming ugly, so he stayed in Wenden Port."

Thanks to the good weather, the two traveled much faster than they had on the way there. By the time the story had been told in fits and starts over more than two days, vague buildings had already appeared ahead, on a scale far exceeding the villages and towns where they had rested during the past two days. One tall, narrow structure stood out in particular: the Academy's Clock Tower. The Church had funded its construction for the Academy, so it naturally stood within the Theology School's grounds.

A breeze carrying a faint fishy smell, the soft trembling of bells. Kraft knew they had returned to Wenden Port, one of the few cities in the kingdom's northern region.