Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soaring over the town of Verenja, in the north west of the Western Sun Kingdom, if we peered in a certain house window, perhaps we might see an impatient wizard, tapping his fingers against a worktop, deep in thought. Surt. Young magician, ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

From his earliest memories he had been apprenticed to a hedge wizard in this small village in the northwest of the Kingdom studying magic. From simple spells to ignite a fire in a hearthplace, to drying charms for wet clothing and locator spells for lost or runaway slaves, Surt learnt all that was necessary to become a moderately successful wizard living a respectable life in a small town in the Kingdom.

Except he wanted more. When his old master, Dungurru, regaled him with stories of the mighty Insectoid Empire and their extraordinarily powerful magicks Surt was hooked. He wanted to explore the vast wastes where their crumbled cities lay open for those with a strong heart and magical talent could retrieve treasures beyond comparison.

So he drove himself as a youngster to work harder, master his magical ability faster and outstrip Dungurru. He knew that the old wizard watched him with interest and then began to realise that Surt wanted, no needed, more than this life could give him. The older man had no fear that he would be flung out of the small town and Surt would reign supreme. That could be the way of the harsh Kingdom of the Western Sun. Riches, but hard earned.

But not his apprentice. This wizard would seek his rewards in the wider world and Dungurru would help him achieve his ambitions. As a father would do for this son. Despite having no blood kinship he had looked after the lad turned young adult. Surt had always been small for his age and now that he was 19 years old, they both realised that his height and weight would be smaller than most native inhabitants of the Western Sun Kingdom. 

The younger wizard did not lack in strength. He had a wiry physicality which was allied with quick reflexes - both mental and physical - which meant he could hold his own in fist or knife fights. The older wizard had made sure that Surt could fight using non magical means, those that didn’t carry blades could just as easily die upon them.

Dungurru was half a head taller than Surt, making him average height for his people. He had shaved his head where Surt had let it grow the length of two finger joints away from his scalp. The older master had a bit more bulk, which was mainly age driven, but possessed the same lightning reflexes as his apprentice. It enhanced the sense of almost being a blood linked family. He admired the qualities in the foundling that had been left with him. His resilience and intelligence first and foremost, followed by his deep seated sense of loyalty to those who played fair with him.

Surt for his own part understood that Dungurru was almost perpetually well warded and prepared for a counterstrike should any wizard raise his hand against him. That was the nature of the harsh society of the Western Sun Kingdom. That was something he needed to practise and perfect if he was going to seek his own treasures. 

Dungurra watched the internal debate within the younger wizard’s demeanour during his teenage years and decided to help his young apprentices. He needed to leave to realise his dreams, but not go unprepared into the harsh world outside of the village. One late winter’s day Dungurru offered Surt the assistance which he so badly needed, “I will give you two of my lesser books. The Aranka-Gova and the Kilya-Dol and then you will be better prepared to leave this town. You may come back at any time.” Dungurru’s face creased into a fatherly smile, “That is unless you’re dead or have created a mighty existence elsewhere. I will give them to you tomorrow, and you will leave in the Spring. It’s time for you to see the world.”

Dungurru stared at him across the table, illuminated only by the firelight in the kitchen of their medium sized house. He could almost hear Surt’s thoughts. Weather magic and mildly offensive and defensive spells were in those books; the magic of an adventurer seeking something of value. Not enough in itself to be successful without help, mostly of the brute force variety. As his old master watched his consideration of the offer Surt’s pushed his awareness into the small house they lived in. The magic was enhanced by the inherent magic of the thick rug on the floor which his bare toes pressed into.

A rug woven from rare hairs of an elusive mountain goat, infused with the breath of three black cats and a sigil of an ancient dragon which had been designed and woven by Dungurru himself. It allowed both magic users the freedom to draw on their magic and amplify it with minimal effort. But nothing was taken without something being given. It was one of Surt’s job to expend a small amount of magical energy per day into the rug, to allow it to be drawn as a reserve of power when required.

Their shared home was a two storey building made from kiln fired clay bricks, giving it a muddy hue from the outside. A sturdy wooden door was set in the middle with windows either side. A small front room for receiving those asking for help, was on the left hand side as one entered. The front room on the right was Surt’s own bedroom, equipped with a small bed, cupboard desk and a bookshelf. That’s all Surt needed. The back section was divided into a kitchen area and a potions brewing room, divided by stairs to the first floor.

Upstairs was a second bedroom and a study. Both were accessible only by Dungurru and were heavily guarded by various interlocking spells. Set one off and a whole load of pain would be inflicted on the intruder by the others. Surt respected the distance needed by his master, and never attempted to breach the wards. With the money the older wizard had amassed they could have lived in a much grander house, but that would attract the attention of other poorer wizards who would seek to displace them. Time enough for luxurious living when Dungurru decided to retire and live out the rest of his days in relative peace.

The only sound in the kitchen was the crackling of logs in the hearth, as the fire split them asunder, turning wood into the energies of heat and light. Dungurru was patient. He had neither offered too much nor too little and Surt knew it. “Agreed,” came the reply so quiet he had barely heard it. Dungurru reached for a small knife and made a small cut on his palm, which Surt mirrored with his own knife.

They allowed a few drops of blood to splash and hiss over the fire as they spoke in unison, “So by our wills, let it be done.” The air shimmered slightly as the geas took effect on them. “Now, my boy,” said Dungurru in a more amiable fashion. “What shall we have for dinner?”

And so the next four months progressed, the old master sleeping on the floor above while Surt remained in the kitchen’s alcove. Reading, learning and experimenting with the spells in the two books. Dungurru largely left him to his own devices as the small, wiry man prepared to start out on his own journey. 

It was fair to say that Dungurru was conflicted over the next four months. He felt and understood Surt’s nature to find greatness for himself, he had done himself decades ago, and it was right to support him. The impending loss of a good apprentice and an almost son was painful to bear. But they were natives of the Western Sun Kingdom. Strong. Proud. He could and would bear it with strength.

The older wizard smiled wryly more than a few times over the winter when he realised how much extra work he would need to do with Surt gone. Perhaps it was time to take on another apprentice. That particular thought tired him out mentally as he recalled the sheer amount of effort that had gone in Surt’s training and he was now almost twenty years older than when Surt was first placed in his care.

They were halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox when Dungurru noticed a new surliness around his soon to be former apprentice. He approached the subject during their evening meal, “Surt, is something wrong? Something you can’t master?”

The smaller wizard snorted in derision, “I need to practise the fireball spell. I can’t do it here because it would scare the villagers and we’re too busy brewing potions and dealing with those who are sick.” 

Dungurru smiled, “About half a day’s walk to the south is a cliff face. It’s not that high and the stones are strong. Walk there and practise.” He gave his apprentice a wary look, “Just build it up incrementally. There is no need to go all out and have it explode in the palm of your hand before you have a chance to cast it.”

To prove his point the old master held up his right hand which had heavy scarring on it. “This isn’t just from potions and acids.” He sighed, “To know, to will, to dare and to keep silent. Every wizard struggles with at least one of those principles. For me, when I was younger, it was daring.” He chuckled quietly, “Too much daring.”

He almost black irises and pupils locked onto Surt, “For you… I could guess. But we’ll never know until you start on your journey. Have you determined what you seek?”

Surt flicked a look to the fire and dug his toes into the rug, “One of the magic books of the Insectoid Empire. The power contained within…would be more than anything that most could wield in this world of ours.”

“Is that what you’re after, Surt? The pursuit of power… and for what purpose?” 

The question of why wanted the power hit him hard. To answer honestly was what the man who had clothed, fed and taught him deserved. But then he had it. “I will remain silent on that matter,” he declared with more confidence than he felt.

Dungurru remained silent for a few seconds before he laughed softly. “It’s good to see that your mind remains agile. I know loosely what you’re after, but don’t tell me anymore. Tell me more of how you are mastering the two spellbooks.”

The next three weeks fell into a new pattern. Surt camped out overnight near the small cliff for two nights every week to practise his spell casting, effectively removing him from Dungurru’s home for short periods of time. The remaining days were spent building up the older wizard’s stock of potions, some for Surt and others so that Dungurru wouldn’t be overwhelmed with demand when Surt left.

Both men sniffed the air every morning and evening, feeling the coldness dissipate by tiny increments each day. Dungurru didn’t ask where Surt was going to travel next and how he would equip the expedition. The less he knew, the better it was for both of them.

The quiet rhythms of their lives were soon going to be disrupted and they held onto the illusory calm as much as possible. Their evenings had turned mainly into study sessions with Surt being quizzed about the spell books and his progress; more of that not Dungurru’s eyes flashed with pride at how fast his apprentice was mastering the books.

One particular evening when the chilly bite of winter had almost faded, Dungurru passed over a small, leather pouch which jingled. Surt looked at it with some suspicion as his old master smiled at him. “Take it, Surt. You’ve earned it. I know you have some meagre savings, but you need more. You can travel to villages that don’t have wizards to earn some coin, but you will spend years doing that save enough to equip an expedition to the Insectoid Empire. It’s yours, my son.”

Surt blinked back tears as Dungurru’s acknowledgement of their status finally hit home. He dug his toes into the magical carpet and reached over to take the pouch from Dungurru. “Now,” continued the older wizard before Surt could thank him. “What shall we have for dinner tonight?” Surt didn’t miss the silvery sheen in the older man’s eyes either.

Two days later, it was finally time. Nothing could hold him back. He dressed quickly, double checked the pack of clothing with two small pots for wild cooking and headed into the kitchen. Dungurru was waiting for him and wordlessly shoved a large meal of scrambled eggs, sausage and tomatoes in front of him. The old mentor muttered something about sorting out his water canteen as he suspiciously rubbed at his eyes.

Surt sat down, rubbed his toes in the carpet for what he suspected would be the last time and drew a small portion of magic into himself. He busied himself eating while Dungurru stalked around the small kitchen talking to himself, checking and rechecking what his apprentice needed. Today was going to be difficult for both of them.

Eventually, the departure couldn’t be put off any longer and Surt allowed his old master to check his clothing and boots one last time before he handed him his backpack which contained his two books, plenty of coins and food along with a collection of small knives and a short staff. 

Everyone in the Kingdom of the Western Sun could fight. It was a martial society where the Council of High Generals reigned supreme. With his typically wiry haired, hawk nosed and dark skinned appearance it was unlikely he would be harassed within the borders of the Kingdom. But not impossible. Dungurru had made sure Surt was as well prepared as it could be.

He pulled the younger man into a rough hug behind the front door, “Go and do what you need to do. But always remember that there is a home for you here. Always.” Surt looked at the pain that the impending separation was causing to his old mentor and hugged him back, “Thank you for everything. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

Dungurru gave him a gruff laugh, “That’s all we can ask of ourselves. Take care of yourself my son.”

Surt nodded, opened the door and stepped outside. 

On the day of his departure, the air had turned slightly warmer again and Surt was ready. 

Thus began a journey to the Insectoid Kingdom to gain one of their books of power.

Chapter Text

Three months later, Surt sat upstairs in a tavern in the southern town of Huus-ka, in the Kingdom of the Western Sun. Waiting. Just waiting. The journey there could best be described as relatively uneventful. At least for the standards of the Western Sun Kingdom. A few commissions by the various hetmen of four villages to hunt down runaway slaves provided the most amount of gold. 

This was something which troubled Surt, but time and time again he had pushed away. His Kingdom was rich. Built on the backs of slaves that toiled to retrieve the precious ores and stones that were shipped eastwards towards lands that paid handsomely for it. In the end Surt adopted the pragmatic mantra of I didn’t make this world, I just try to live in it.

He cast the spells based on auras and items that the runaway slaves had touched and directed the villagers to where the spell had located them. Then he sat back with a meal and waited for the slaves to be returned, before taking his money. Always he had refused to look the re-captured in their eyes.

Doing weather magic to ensure crops which were under or over watered was easier and it helped his control over the elements in small areas. He was far from being able to command thunderstorms over cities, but this micro working of the macro felt good. Surt felt something grow inside of him every time he performed magic.

One of the last pieces of advice that Dungurru had given him was not to rely on the magic rug or any other item, especially when travelling. Build your magical core. See it as increasing the level to which you can expand the volume and strength of your magic. You know this. Now it is time to. Become a travelling fortress of magic.

That advice, allied with Surt’s burning ambition to obtain one of the Thri-Kreen Books of Magic, made him push his abilities hard. Not so hard that he would exhaust himself and become a target which couldn’t mount a decent defence. But like a warrior exercising his muscles and battle skills. Indeed, the mirror image was becoming increasingly accurate as his mind and body ached from the use of magic in an independent environment.

Three months of pushing himself as he headed southwards, moving carefully from village to village, rarely spending the night in the wild. What pulled him in that direction he couldn’t put a name to, but he had long been trained to accept that going against instinct was akin to throwing a good meal out into the street when you didn’t know where the next one was coming from. Or worse. In the magical world it was like putting a blade against your own throat and asking an enemy to slash you.

So he pushed on southwards, performing petty magics so he didn’t deplete his dried food and gold anymore than absolutely required. And also to exercise and build his strength.

Surt smiled ruefully as he looked out of the window towards the dusty plain leading to the wall which represented the southern boundary of the kingdom. The room itself was spacious, at least twice the size of his old bedroom in Dungurru’s home. A canopied double bed was set against the middle of the back wall, opposite the door. The canopies were a faded green velvet which had seen better days given the frayed golden threads on the hemlines of the cloth.

The mattress itself seemed to have its straw refilled more regularly as it wasn’t too lumpy the blankets were also clean and comfortable. All in all it was worth spending some extra gold on while Surt waited for the right person to walk through the door. The smell of the burning wood of the main fire in the common room pervaded everywhere in the building. It was a comfort to the wizard as it reminded him of his time with Dungurru. The magic carpet to give and receive magical energy was a missing component but he could live with that for the time being.

The tavern room below him was half full, with around fifty patrons in varying states of sobriety. There was an occasional shout of laughter from a few of the drunker ones, but always a steady murmur of conversation between the customers as they gossiped amongst themselves.

Which brought him back to his aloneness in this room. It was necessary, but not easy. He had told the tavern owner that he was interviewing for the right companions to make a hazardous journey where potentially great riches would be available to all. He paid for the largest room for a month, all in advance, and advised him that he wouldn’t be socialising much. 

The portly innkeeper had the look of ex-Army. Blocky with a bit more surplus fat around the middle than he would have had during his service days. Both men were bald and dark, but that’s where the physical similarities ended. Where the tavern owner, Hoseb-Ka, was tall and well built Surt’s height was smaller than average and he seemed to be scrawny. Surt’s facial features were finely chiselled with a hawk nose and prominent high cheekbones, while Hoseb-Ka had flatter features and a broader now. Surt’s baldness had come from the razor in his pack, while the innkeeper’s seemed to be a function of age.

The innkeeper cast a practised eye over the potential guest and instantly recognised that despite Surt looking small and inoffensive, he was actually deadly. The instinct of an old warrior guiding the innkeeper. The impetuous and impulsive tended to die young.

They spat in the palms of their hands and agreed to the deal. Surt grinned wryly to himself as he ascended the stairs to the left of the common room, which turned 90 degrees to the right so you could walk along the width of the main room and observe almost everyone there. Then another set of steps, this time in a spiral took him to the best room. Then the waiting began as word had been sent out when he had left his home village of where he would be and when in an approximate timeline.

Three weeks after he had taken up residence Surt was ready to pull his non-existent hair out of his scalp. 

Thieves, morons, no hopers, last chancers were mainly the characters that walked through the door. More than few prostitutes as well, hoping to be his distraction and amusement on the journey. He declined that group, with the most respect out of all of those that had visited him. They were simply deadly with a short knife in a cramped space. He was, however, inclined to spend some of his coin on their services within his suite.

It was mid-afternoon when Hoseb-Ka knocked at his door with their agreed signal. Three quick taps then two slow knocks.

“Come in!” called Surt. The tavern owner found the small, black wizard standing by the window looking out to the plains where the Troll Wars had been fought. Where now a wall guarded the boundary of the two nations. Hoseb-Ka took in the loose cream linen trousers with matching jerkin and bare feet. Surt looked relaxed but he could feel the frustration coming off him in waves.

He began a little tentatively, “Another to see you; and …  if you’ll accept my opinion?”

Surt turned to see the ex soldier standing respectfully awaiting permission, “Yes, noble tavern keeper?”

“I think he might be the one. He has the look of eagles.” Surt nodded in acceptance of the opinion backed up by the ancient phrase. He turned his head back to the window and the plain beyond feeling Hoseb-Ka’s retreat from the room via his ward magic as the older man moved noiselessly through his own building. Surt took a deep breath and then went to sit at the desk in the middle of the room and waited.

Within a few seconds the door opened marginally. But nothing else. It inched open slightly more. Surt was intrigued. Whoever this was, they were seeking to set off any traps, magical or mundane, before they entered the room. This was the first time this had happened. Without meaning too he leant forward, elbows on the desks, chin on the back of clasped hands.

This behaviour continued until the door was fully opened, with nobody in the doorframe. “You may come in,” commanded Surt in a deep voice. “There are no traps.”

There was a deep chested chuckle. One which sent shivers down Surt’s spine as a disembodied voice floated into the room. “I’ve heard that one before, little wizard. And I’m still here to tell the tale.”

“What can I say that will let you trust me that you can come in?” Surt tried and failed to keep the curiosity from his voice.

“That’ll do,” came the deep voice as a warrior walked into the room. Simply the biggest man that Surt had ever seen came into the room. He had expected him to amble in like a bear or stomp in without grace. That didn’t happen. He walked in, perfectly balanced, making almost no noise and stopped in front of the desk. He was so large that he blotted out of the light from the doorway behind.

“You would be Surt. I am Jormungand. I am called the Serpent.”

~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~

Jormungand slowly sipped a large tankard of ale which Hoseb-Ka had brought for him after Surt had given a brief history of his journeys over the years. “So,” he began, “You’ve spent the last few years searching for more and more artefacts and spell books to give you more magical power. And now you’re aiming for an ancient tome from a long dead empire in a deserted wasteland filled with who knows what?”

Surt leant back and sipped his own clay mug of water, “Yes. That’s the summary.” He kept a beady eye on the warrior in front of him. Two baldrics criss crossed Jormungand’s enormous leather armoured torso, each with several knives of different shapes. A long sword hung on his left hip, with a shorter parrying weapon on his right hip. 

Jormungand’s black boots came up to mid calf and were definitely well soled and well heeled. This was not a poor man scrapping around for guard duty on slave caravans or the merchants of rare materials that were shipped eastwards. No, this was a warrior at or close to the height of his powers and was obviously looking for something more than average.

He was bigger than Hoseb-Ka, with handsome facial features on his almost jet black face. Oddly his ears had no lobes and were tipped a bit higher than most humans. Potential non-human ancestor somewhere? His eyes were as dark as Surt’s and the innkeepers, standard for the Western Sun Kingdom. Surt had never seen hands that large and powerful before, and he suspected that they could snap a man’s neck if needed. Similar to Surt it appeared that he shaved his head and it made the picture that the two of them travelling together would present a very particular challenge to anyone blocking their way. Well, any human at least.

Jormungand watched Surt’s examination of his person and allowed himself a small smirk before taking on a more serious visage, “And the particular artefact that this …. expedition seeks is?”

Surt grimaced at the direct question, his irritation rose higher as Jormungand chuckled at his reaction. The small, black wizard steadied himself. There were times when it was necessary to obfuscate and obscure and there were times to tell the truth. Well, at least some of it. This was one of those times.

“This book is…. unique, because it contains long lost spells from the Empire, spells and abilities that most civilisations haven't been able to replicate yet. Most are poison spells but some are enormously destructive like a meteor swarm, where you can literally call down flaming rocks from the sky onto a city. Others allow me to cast a maddening darkness which is connected to the void and mimics the chittering of insects. The effect on the human mind is quite…. profound and elongated.” 

Jormungand lapsed into silence and looked out of the window. Eventually he turned back to Surt, “A man could set himself up as a ruler of a kingdom with such power. Money, women… or men… and power. Real power.”

Surt shrugged, “One could, if that was important to the wielder of the power.” At this Jormungand put down his tankard and peered closely at Surt, trying to see something which wasn’t being shown. Surt’s true motivations. He relaxed and put on a smile, “Well, at least you promise a good adventure!” 

Surt sat up at the booming voice of the Serpent and squinted at him, “Does that mean you actually want to come on this journey?” He was a little surprised that such a high level outline would attract such a quick assessment, but then this warrior had probably seen more than Surt could imagine.

“What’s the pay? Daily rate, share of the loot?” asked Jormungand as he discarded Surt’s question as irrelevant. Surt controlled his reaction of feeling something click right, “I pay for the transportation animals, their fodder and our travelling expenses like beds at inns. Also our provisions. You get to keep whatever treasures you find along the way.” He raised his hand to forestall Jormungand’s huge grin. “I get first choice if I need to replenish coins depending on how low my funds are running.”

It was Surt’s time to grin demonically. “Don’t worry, mighty Serpent. You’ll get plenty of riches if all goes well and…. You do your job! Which is to deal with any enemies with your blades. Don’t worry, I won’t hold back shooting off offensive spells as well. Together we’ll make a great team.”

Surt pulled a piece of parchment from the thin drawer under the surface of the desk, “Sign here…or make your mark and we have a deal.” Jormungand pulled the parchment over and stared at the chicken scratch writing and paled. Dealing with wizards, especially power hungry ones meant that a warrior would encounter unexpected items. Surt certainly seemed a better sort, using Jormungand’s well honed ability to form an accurate first impression. But one shouldn’t assume too much. “Uhh…what skin made this parchment?” he asked quietly.

The smile that Surt sent back sent shivers down his spine, "Just someone that no longer had a use for it." Someone. Not something. The huge warrior suppressed an internal shudder and stilled himself for a few seconds. Then Jormungand reached for the quill on the side of the desk and dropped his eyes to the writing. He quickly sketched out a symbol and handed it back to the wizard. 

Surt looked down at it. A snake biting its own tail. 

Perfect.

Chapter Text

The air in Kaia's shop hung thick and heavy, a pungent blend of cured leather, exotic spices, and the sharp tang of dried meat. Surt wrinkled his nose, but his eyes gleamed with determination. This was it – the final outfitting before venturing into the uncharted depths beyond the Never Ending Forest of the Lost. He’d pored over ancient texts, deciphered cryptic maps, and finally, he believed he knew where the remnants of the Insectoid Empire lay. Now, he just needed the gear to get there.

"These water skins seem a bit...thin, wouldn't you say?" Surt tapped a finger against the worn leather, his voice laced with feigned concern. "I'd hate for our water to leak out in the middle of the Never Ending Forest."

Kaia, a woman built like an oak tree and with eyes as sharp as flint, scoffed. "Thin? These are the finest water skins in Huus-ka! Made from the hides of mountain goats that graze on the highest peaks. They'll hold water even in the hottest desert."

Surt raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Perhaps, but I'm not convinced. I'll offer you half your asking price."

Beside him, Jormungand leaned against a wall, arms crossed, a flicker of amusement playing on his dark features. He was a mountain of a man, a walking arsenal of blades and muscle. Surt had hired him for protection, and so far, the warrior had been a silent, watchful presence.

"Just get what we need, Surt," Jormungand rumbled, his voice a low growl. "I'm not getting paid to stand around all day."

Surt ignored him, his focus entirely on Kaia. He used every trick he knew – charm, veiled threats, and a subtle application of detection magic – to whittle down the prices. He pointed out flaws in saddles, questioned the quality of rope, and haggled over every last coin. He knew their lives might depend on the quality of their gear, and he wasn't about to be cheated.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they emerged from the shop, two pack horses laden with supplies. Surt wiped his brow, feeling drained but satisfied.

"I can't believe how much work that was!" he exclaimed, turning to Jormungand. "She was trying to rip me off at every turn. And you just stood there!"

Jormungand shrugged. "You hired me to protect you from bandits and monsters, not to haggle over prices. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"Enjoying myself? I was stressed! Every coin counts, you know. We're not exactly swimming in gold."

"Relax, little wizard. We'll find plenty of treasure in the Never Ending Forest. Besides, you did well. I saw her face when you pointed out the flaw in that saddle. She knew she couldn't fool you."

They returned to the inn, their steps heavy with the weight of their supplies. Hoseb-Ka, the ex-army innkeeper, met them at the door, his face etched with worry.

"Surt, Jormungand! The City Watch is on their way. They say you're accused of stealing from Kaia's shop."

The realisation hit Surt like a punch to the gut. "That conniving witch! She's trying to cheat us out of our purchases!"

Jormungand threw back his head and laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed through the inn. "Now this is what I was hired to do! Grab your clothes, Surt. Meet me in the stables. We're leaving."

Surt, recognizing the danger of the situation and trusting Jormungand's expertise, didn't hesitate. He raced to his room, grabbing his spell books, a few essential items, and changing into more practical travel clothes. He met Jormungand in the stables, where their horses were already saddled and ready to go.

Jormungand led them through the city streets, his movements fluid and silent despite his size. Dusk was settling, casting long shadows and blurring the edges of the buildings. The city was bustling with activity, providing cover for their escape.

The tension mounted as they approached the city gates. They waited patiently, blending in with the crowd of merchants, travellers, and laborers. Jormungand's senses were on high alert, scanning the faces around them for any sign of the City Watch.

Finally, the last caravan of the day began to leave the city. As the gates swung open, Jormungand gave Surt a subtle nod. They spurred their horses forward, riding quickly past the caravan before the City Watch could react.

"Ride!" Jormungand barked, his voice barely audible above the din of the city. "Don't look back!"

Surt didn't need to be told twice. He urged his horse onward, his heart pounding in his chest. As they cleared the gates, he glanced back and saw the City Watch scrambling to organize a pursuit.

They were fugitives now, their journey made even more dangerous. But as they rode into the gathering darkness, Surt felt a surge of adrenaline. The adventure had truly begun. And with Jormungand by his side, he knew they had a fighting chance.

~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~

Three days into the mountains, Jormungand led the way, his senses on high alert. The path was treacherous, a winding ribbon of loose scree and jagged rocks. He scanned the trail ahead, searching for signs of ambush or danger. He also glanced back frequently, ensuring their tracks were as concealed as possible.

"Hold up," he called, reining in his horse.

Surt, riding behind him, sighed audibly. "Another stop? We just rested an hour ago."

Jormungand ignored the wizard's impatience. "Horses need regular rest and water, especially in this terrain. We rotate the riders and the baggage to distribute the load evenly. It's simple logistics, Surt." He dismounted and began checking the horses' hooves for stones.

Surt remained on his horse, his expression petulant. "We could be much further along if we didn't keep stopping."

Jormungand straightened up, his gaze unwavering. "The alternative is to push the horses too hard, have them collapse, and abandon all the gear we bought. Which, in turn, would mean our mission is a failure. Your choice, wizard."

Surt's face flushed. He knew Jormungand was right. He might be a skilled wizard, but he was woefully ignorant of the practicalities of wilderness travel. "Fine," he muttered, dismounting reluctantly. "But let's not make this a habit."

Jormungand simply nodded, his expression unreadable. He knew Surt was learning, albeit slowly.

As dusk settled, they found a small, sheltered clearing and made camp. Jormungand efficiently watered and hobbled the horses, ensuring they wouldn't stray during the night. He then carefully strung tripwires around the perimeter, using small bells to provide an early warning of intruders.

Surt, meanwhile, began chanting in a low voice, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. A faint shimmer appeared around the camp, barely visible in the fading light.

"What's that?" Jormungand asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Could that spell accidentally hurt us?"

Surt chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Don't worry, mighty warrior. The spell doesn't harm. But it will give any intruder a nasty surprise. Let's just say they'll regret crossing my magical wards."

Jormungand was intrigued. He'd seen magic before, but Surt's spells were different, subtle and unpredictable. He wanted to ask more, but he sensed that Surt wasn't in the mood for questions. He trusted the wizard's abilities, but he also knew that magic could be a dangerous and unpredictable force.

"I'll take first watch," Surt offered, settling down near the fire. "You get some sleep."

Jormungand nodded, appreciating the gesture. He knew Surt was still adjusting to the demands of the journey, and the offer of first watch was a sign that he was starting to take responsibility. He closed his eyes, his senses still alert, and drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~

He was awakened by a terrible scream, a high-pitched wail of pain and terror that cut through the night. Jormungand instantly grabbed his sword, his heart pounding in his chest. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, scanning the darkness for the source of the sound.

Surt was laughing, a gleeful, almost manic sound. "If you were frightened, Jormungand, then the group of thieves that crossed my magical wards pissed themselves."

Even as Surt spoke, Jormungand heard the sounds of movement in the darkness – the rustling of bushes, the snapping of twigs, the heavy breathing of men. The thieves were rushing the camp, their fear overridden by desperation.

Jormungand grinned, a predatory expression that transformed his face. "Looks like I'm getting paid after all." He hefted his sword, eager to meet the approaching thieves. The night had just got interesting.

The darkness erupted with chaos. Two of the thieves, their forms barely visible in the starlight, stumbled headlong into Jormungand's tripwires. The small bells attached to the wires jingled frantically, a discordant symphony of alarm. The thieves cursed, their momentum lost as they tangled in the thin cords. They were momentarily disoriented, easy targets.

But Jormungand wasn't waiting for them to recover. He moved with a speed that belied his size, a blur of steel and muscle. He closed the distance to the first thief in two strides, his sword a silver arc in the night. The thief barely had time to raise his own weapon before Jormungand's blade found its mark, slicing through the air and burying itself deep in the thief's chest. The man gasped, his eyes widening in shock, before collapsing to the ground.

The second thief, still struggling with the tripwires, fared no better. Jormungand spun, his sword a whirlwind of death, and decapitated the man with a single, brutal stroke. The thief's head bounced on the rocky ground, the body collapsing in a heap beside it.

The entire exchange took less than five seconds. Jormungand stood over the fallen thieves, his sword dripping with blood, his expression grim.

Even as Jormungand dealt with the tripped thieves, the remaining bandits charged into the camp, their faces contorted with a mixture of fear and desperation. But they were met with a fiery barrage.

Surt, his eyes glowing with arcane energy, unleashed a volley of fireballs. The balls of flame streaked through the air, unerringly targeting the advancing thieves. The bandits screamed as the fireballs struck, their clothes igniting, their skin blistering. They stumbled and fell, writhing in agony.

The remaining thieves, witnessing the fate of their comrades, broke and fled, their courage shattered by the sudden, overwhelming attack. They scrambled back into the darkness, their screams echoing through the mountains.

Jormungand watched them go, his sword still raised, his senses alert for any sign of a counterattack. But the thieves were gone, their fear driving them into a panicked retreat.

Satisfied that the threat was over, Jormungand sheathed his sword and began a careful perimeter check. He examined the tripwires, ensuring they were still intact and properly positioned. He then dragged the dead bodies downwind from the horses, knowing the scent of blood could spook the animals. Finally, he reset the tripwires, preparing for any further intrusions.

Surt, meanwhile, was busy with his own preparations. He extinguished the flames that still flickered on the bodies of the fallen thieves and began re-weaving his magical wards, reinforcing the perimeter with arcane energy.

As they worked, Jormungand turned to Surt, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "That screaming spell was… ingenious. And your aim with those fireballs was impressive."

Surt chuckled, a hint of pride in his voice. "Thank you, Jormungand. It's a dangerous world out here. Skill at arms and skill at magic need to work symbiotically to keep ourselves safe in the wilder lands."

He paused, his expression becoming more serious. "We need to rely on each other, Jormungand. You protect me with your strength and skill, and I'll protect us with my magic. Together, we're a force to be reckoned with. Almost symbiotic."

Jormungand nodded, his gaze unwavering. He understood the truth in Surt's words. They were an unlikely pair, a warrior and a wizard, but they were bound together by a common goal and a shared need for survival. And in this dangerous world, that bond might be the only thing that kept them alive.

~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~

Four uneventful days later, the descent from the mountains into the Desert of Souls proved to be treacherous – a seemingly endless winding path of loose scree and crumbling rock. Jormungand led the way, his boots finding purchase on the precarious trail. Surt followed behind, his face dusty and drawn from the days of travel.

Finally, they reached the edge of the mountains, a natural precipice that offered a panoramic view of the landscape below. Jormungand stopped, drawing in a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. He had expected a desert – a sea of sand, perhaps, or a barren wasteland of rock and scrub. But what lay before him was something… else.

"Well," Jormungand said, his voice tinged with surprise. "That's not exactly what I was expecting."

Surt squinted, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light. "What is it? Some kind of… forest?"

Jormungand shook his head, his gaze sweeping across the vista. "Not a forest, Surt. A petrified forest."

As far as the eye could see, the landscape was covered in trees. But these were not living trees, swaying in the wind and teeming with life. These were trees of stone, frozen in time, their branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal arms. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the petrified wood, creating an eerie and surreal effect.

"I've seen deserts of sand, deserts of rock, even deserts of ice," Jormungand mused, his voice filled with a sense of wonder. "But I've never seen anything like this. A forest turned to stone… it's… breathtaking."

He paused, a hint of awe in his voice. "It's beautiful, in a strange, unsettling way. Like a graveyard of giants."

Surt remained unimpressed. "It's just… rocks," he said dismissively. "Let's just get through it. I sense a powerful magical presence here. I don't like it."

Jormungand glanced at Surt, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Even you're spooked, eh, wizard? I thought you were immune to such things."

Surt scowled. "Magic is one thing. This… feels different. Ancient. Malevolent."

Jormungand nodded, his expression becoming more serious. He could feel it too, a subtle undercurrent of unease that permeated the air. This was no ordinary desert. This was something… more.

He took one last look at the petrified forest, his mind filled with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. He knew that this place held secrets, ancient and powerful secrets. And he knew that they were about to enter a realm where the boundaries between the living and the dead were blurred, where the past was as real as the present.

"Alright," Jormungand said, turning to Surt. "Let's go. But we tread carefully. This place… it feels like it's watching us."

He started down the path, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew that the journey ahead would be fraught with danger. But he also knew that they had no choice. They had to cross the Desert of Souls, no matter the cost. And as he descended into the petrified forest, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were entering a realm from which they might never return.

~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~

Surt stood before the largest petrified tree they had yet encountered, a monolith of stone that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner darkness. Its branches, thick as a man's torso, reached out like grasping claws. The air around it crackled with an almost palpable energy. Jormungand felt a cold dread seep into his bones, a primal fear he hadn't experienced since facing down a pack of ravenous shadow wolves in the Blighted Marshes.

"Surt," Jormungand rumbled, his voice low and urgent. "This feels wrong. Let's just find another way."

Surt ignored him, his gaze fixed on the petrified tree. His face was pale, his eyes burning with an almost feverish intensity. He raised his hands, palms open, as if offering himself to the ancient entity.

"Spirits of the forest," Surt called out, his voice echoing eerily through the silent trees. "I seek your aid. I offer you a bargain. Guide us through this desert, and I will help you find peace."

Jormungand stepped forward, grabbing Surt's arm. "Don't do this! You don't know what you're dealing with! These things… they're not to be trusted!"

Surt shook off Jormungand's grip, his eyes never leaving the tree. "I know what I'm doing, Jormungand. Trust me. We need their help. If we don’t get help, then we’ll be the next souls that haunt this place. I may not have been here before, but I have dealt with this kind of situation when training with my old master, Dungurru. Be patient, Loyal Serpent."

A silence descended, heavier than before. The shadows seemed to deepen, swirling around the base of the tree like grasping hands. Then, a voice echoed through the forest, ancient and mournful, seemingly coming from the tree itself. It was a voice that scraped against the soul, a sound that spoke of endless sorrow and unimaginable loss.

"We accept your offer…" the voice rasped, each word a shard of ice against Jormungand's heart. "But there is a price…"

Surt flinched, but he didn't back down. "What is the price?"

The voice lingered, a chilling whisper that seemed to crawl inside Jormungand's mind. "A memory… a piece of your soul…"

Jormungand gasped, a wave of nausea washing over him. He knew, instinctively, that this was a terrible mistake. He reached out to pull Surt away, but it was too late.

"I accept," Surt said, his voice barely a whisper.

A wave of energy pulsed from the tree, washing over Surt. He cried out, a sharp, agonising sound that echoed through the petrified forest. Jormungand watched in horror as Surt's face contorted in pain, his eyes widening in terror. Then, just as suddenly, it was over.

Surt stood motionless, his face blank, his eyes empty. He blinked, as if waking from a dream.

"What… what happened?" he asked, his voice distant and confused.

Jormungand grabbed Surt by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. "What did you give them? What did they take?"

Surt frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I… I don't remember. There was something… important… but it's gone. I can't grasp it."

A sudden gust of wind swept through the forest, rustling through the petrified branches. The shadows shifted, revealing a path leading deeper into the desert.

"That way," Surt said, his voice flat and emotionless. "They want us to go that way."

Jormungand stared at Surt, his heart filled with dread. He didn't know what Surt had lost, but he knew it was something precious. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that his employer had made a terrible mistake.

As they walked down the path, deeper into the Desert of Souls, Jormungand couldn't shake the feeling that they were being led into a trap. And he feared that the price they had already paid was only the beginning. The forest seemed to watch them go, its petrified trees standing as silent witnesses to their folly. Jormungand knew, with a growing sense of despair, that they had traded a piece of their souls for a false hope. And he had no idea how Surt would ever get it back.

And what kind of man would that make him now?