Cold From The North, page 1
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
COLD FROM THE NORTH
An Onyxborn Chronicle
by
D.W. Ross
Copyright © 2020 D.W. Ross
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN - 9798555450845
Editing by Kathryn Farmer @ Twenty Six
Cover art by Cherie Chapman
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom
First printing December 2020
Published by D.W. Ross
Contact me at d.w.ross89@gmail.com
Website - www.swordscastleswords.com
For my wife - thank you for making sure I didn't give up.
Chapter 1
The mud was as hard as stone. Ogulf Harlsbane cursed as he tried in vain to break through the glistening top layer with his shovel. He looked along the field, where once there had been row upon row of carrots, cabbages and turnips. Now there was only barren, frozen soil.
He thrust the shovel down again, feeling his braid flip round and brush his face. The rest of his wavy locks followed, tickling at his sore skin.
His latest strike with the shovel proved just as futile as the one before it. Ogulf’s eyes wandered from the frustrating grey of the soil and scanned around him again. He could see his hometown, where he would live and die if the cold had its way.
Keltbran had always been cold, but this particular winter had lasted two whole years, completely shattering the traditional running of the four seasons as spring, summer or autumn had been nowhere to be seen for some time.
Ogulf and his people relied on hunting for survival, the deer and boar were harder to find now. And so he missed the hunt. Not so much because he missed the food but more that he missed the thrill of it. Out in the woods and lands that surrounded his hometown it was him against the elements, him against the game he hunted, and– most of all– him against himself. Now the elements always won, the cold subdued him and made the fight against himself even harder.
Life in Keltbran was simple – too simple, perhaps, for Ogulf. He missed the life he had become used to, one that didn't see him constrained by the invisible walls that wrapped the town that he called home; he missed scouring the land with Wildar, trading in the citadels, drinking the wines of foreign lands and occasionally fighting. The last three years had broadened his shoulders and toughened his skin, but if he had known it was to prepare him for this new frigid existence he found himself in, he would have set off for the Far Isles when he had the chance.
That was before the cold. Now he was just another citizen of Broadheim, trapped by the biting cold that was sucking the very life from the land that previously gave so much. In all of his twenty-three years he had never known such unfriendly, bitter weather as this. He would cast his mind back to the last real warmth he could remember, a time when his bones didn’t ache, and a time he took for granted.
‘Bastard,’ Ogulf said as the point of the shovel ricocheted off the solidified, sparkling earth. He may as well have been striking a stone. Beside him, offering Ogulf only his company, was his dear friend Melcun, who was blowing air into his cupped hands. Ogulf felt the fur from his cloak tickle the nape of his neck as a chilly gust of wind swept by. Melcun’s cropped hair was frozen at the tips. Cold vapours trailed up from every breath and the sun shone brightly overhead without giving off a hint of warmth, taunting them.
‘It’s useless. The old lot are going to have us here until we die,’ Melcun said, shivering as he spoke. ‘Hunger or the cold... which would you prefer to take you?’
‘That’s a horrible thought,’ Ogulf said with one final strike of the spade, he looked at Melcun. His friend’s handsome face and pointed features were brushed red and looked sore and they hadn't even been outside that long. Melcun’s vibrant grey eyes looked like flint next to the colour of his rosy skin. ‘Cold, because at least then I would be numb. Come on, let’s go back.’
They walked through the formerly lush fields, the ground crunched beneath their feet with every step they took towards Keltbran.
‘Can’t you do the fire thing?’ Ogulf asked Melcun. ‘Seems like it could be quite handy just now.’
‘If I could, I would. You know how it works as well as I do – plus imagine the look on the face of old Grolan if I were to magically produce fire from my hands,’ Melcun chuckled. ‘He’d put me to the rope before I could make any difference.’
Melcun had a point. Magic had disappeared in Broadheim years ago. Rarer still, there had never been anyone with magic abilities born among the people in Keltbran until Melcun came along. His magical talent was the ability to produce fire, though he never quite understood it or managed to control it despite a near constant barrage of questions about it from Ogulf. The ability came and went as it pleased, and Ogulf hated that it didn’t seem to work now, when it would be most advantageous. On the other hand, he was glad it didn’t; no mercy was shown to those who practiced magic in their country.
‘I know. I’m just getting desperate.’ Ogulf stopped short of his home and faced Melcun. ‘I thought it would be over by now. This has been well over a year.’
‘Closer to two,’ Melcun said, blowing into his hands again. ‘You must be itching to get away from here. Can’t remember you being here this long since we were just boys.’
‘Funny you should say that. Wildar was talking about leaving, saying he can get us on a boat at Port Saker and head for the Shingal before heading to Esselonia and the Far Isles and coming back. I was reluctant at first, but the idea is tempting. The only issue is he expects my father to be difficult. Can’t imagine he will be happy with his son and his chieftain leaving at a time like this.’ Ogulf hushed his tone slightly even though there was no one around them. ‘He wants to wait for word from the capital on what we should do next.’
‘Esselonia? Oh, not again,’ Melcun said and Ogulf looked at his friend just in time to see his eyes rolling. ‘He’s obsessed with that bloody island.’
‘You would be too if you knew more about it. The cold can’t touch Esselonia, it’s so far south that it is permanently basking in the warm glory of all the gods. Not a frostbitten finger or a pair of rosy red cheeks to be seen there,’ Ogulf said, reaching up to pinch Melcun’s skin just under the eye.
‘You would follow him to the ends of the earth, wouldn’t you?’ Melcun said.
‘Twice and back again.’
‘Rowden will never let you leave Keltbran,’ Melcun said, ‘You’re his heir, and at a time like this, he needs you more than ever.’ Ogulf felt a sour taste fill his mouth. He loved his father dearly, and he respected him as a leader and as a warrior, but Rowden Harlsbane had been so caught up in grief and responsibility for the last ten years that he had played little part in Ogulf’s journey from boy to man. Wildar had stepped into that role, ensuring Ogulf knew how to hunt, scout, fight, and be a man of Broadheim. ‘Has your father spoken to the council in Jargmire?’
‘All he gets is silence from the capital. The last rider he sent returned saying the gates were barred. Who bars the gates to their own people? Some of the travellers in the inn had a few stories – they say Jargmire and Tran are running out of provisions, haven’t got enough to share or even keep their own citizens properly fed,’ Ogulf said. ‘My father has all but accused them of abandonment.’
‘Officially?’ Melcun said.
‘Of course not, he’s not a fool.’
‘You think they’ll hunker down and wait until it passes?’ Melcun’s hands dropped.
‘Without official word it’s hard to know what they’ll do,’ Ogulf said. ‘Look around us, Melcun.’ He opened his arms and circled around. ‘Tran and Jargmire have closed their gates, we can’t rely on them for anything, and we don’t know how long this will last. We can’t make it over the Sea of Blades without a fleet,’ Ogulf said. ‘Soon this will all be just as barren as the Throws and I won’t wait here until it gets that bad.’
‘What would I do if you left?’
‘You would be coming with me.’
‘You expect Wildar to want the orphan boy on his journey?’
‘He was the one who told me to ask you,’ Ogulf said, turning to his friend to offer a reassuring smile. ‘Might be good for you to get out and see the world. Maybe even learn some more about whatever this talent of yours is.’ He motioned to his friend’s hands. ‘You’ll think about it?’
Melcun nodded and the two men wandered towards the border of Keltbran across the bitter, lifeless black dirt. The main road was all but deserted. In normal times, this road would have been bustling: people would be setting up carts, travellers would be using the road as a pass between the east and the west, most likely heading for Tran, Jargmire, or the coast; children would be playing, wives would be chattering and every fibre of the town would be alive.
Empty streets replaced that – gone was the life, now there was quiet. Smoke rose from each chimney as the people of Keltbran huddled in their homes trying to keep warm, many of them believing they could wait out the cold, some foolishly believing they would be saved or supported by the capital.
Ogulf pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his neck as they walked towards the sparring yard just past the main square. Every day since the cold had come, the House of the Guided had held a ceremony outside their temple, and today was no different. Ogulf presumed it was their way o
The temple was unlike any other structure in Keltbran. Four stairs led up from the street to a wide doorway, the bricks that held the sanctuary together painted were black, and a sharp spire rose from the thatched roof that towered over the town, coming to an acute point like an arrowhead.
Today as he passed, he pitied them and their ritual. Grolan, Keltbran’s resident priest stood above his followers at the top of the steps. The old man’s heavily lidded eyes were skyward, his frail arms shook slightly as they reached upwards to the Gods. In front of him were the acolytes of his faith, ten women of varying ages all mimicking his position, facing one another in rows just beyond the temple stairs. Their numbers had grown since the last time Ogulf noticed them.
‘Do you think the gods listen to them?’ Melcun whispered.
‘I hope so,’ Ogulf said.
The pair made their way past the tavern. The alley next to it reeked of stale piss like always. Soon the quiet was replaced by the sound of wooden swords colliding as they turned into the sparring yard.
Standing at the fence next to the pit was a burly man with shoulder length hair, his grey beard perfectly straight, flowing down to rest on his chest. Blue eyes of steel and promise sat above chiselled cheekbones, and below them shone an honest smile. His leathers were thick, the strands that bound them woven carefully to create a crossing pattern on each shoulder. He had shoulders so wide he looked like two men across, and a great, rounded gut thanks to his penchant for long mugs of ale. From his hip dangled a single golden hand axe, gleaming in the morning light. It was the most fearsome weapon Ogulf had ever seen.
The broad man was watching two younger men battle with training swords in the circular pit. The dull crack of the wooden weapons took Ogulf to his youth, to times spent under the same tutoring eyes of the man with the axe. A time he cherished.
‘Good, right, yes- that’s it,’ Wildar said. ‘Next time, step to the left and strike down at the knee joint to bring him down, then finish him. You’ll be a fighter in no time, lad.’
‘When can I get an axe like yours, Wildar?’ one of the boys said.
‘When you get a serious pouch of gold, young Crian,’ Wildar said with a slight chuckle, before turning to see Ogulf and Melcun approaching. ‘Now, same time tomorrow, lads, okay?’ The two young men exited the sparring square, smiling at Ogulf as they passed him. ‘Do you miss it?’ Wildar said.
‘Always,’ Ogulf said.
‘Well, the things you learnt in here made you the man you are today. We can only hope that the next few turn out to be as able as you, even if we’re not here to see it.’ Wildar turned to Melcun, ‘And you, will you be joining us?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ Melcun said, cracking his knuckles, a nervous trait Ogulf had observed in him for years.
‘Well, don’t take too long to decide, we need to be in Port Saker in a week. Runa won’t be joining us so it would be good to have some more familiar faces around.’
‘Runa is staying?’ Ogulf said, unable to hide the shock from his tone.
‘Yes. She’s not willing to leave Keltbran when it’s like this. She’s a good lass, too good. It might make it a bit easier for your father to support you going if he knows someone like her will be staying, though.’
Wildar had a point, but Ogulf knew it pained the Chieftain to leave Runa here – she was practically his daughter. They always journeyed together, the three of them. Her not being with them wouldn’t feel right, but if anyone could fill the void it would be Melcun.
‘I’ll speak with him tonight,’ Ogulf said.
Footsteps crunched from behind drawing Ogulf’s attention. Runa was walking down the narrow path, hugged by the climbing walls of the buildings that lined the way.
‘We were just speaking about you,’ Wildar said.
‘Good things, I hope?’ Runa said. Her smile was crooked, left that way by a scar she obtained when she fought alongside Ogulf and Wildar in the battles of the Summer of Rebellion. She was beautiful, Ogulf thought, the scar only made her more so; the way she wore it told you so much about her. Well, that and the sword she always carried on her hip. Auburn hair tied in tight braids sat like a crown on her head, and her heavy furs flowed free and long, hiding her body from the cold.
‘Always good things,’ Wildar said, smiling at the woman.
‘Are you here to spar, Runa?’ Ogulf said. ‘I could do with warming up.’
‘You haven’t beaten me since before the Rebellion.’
‘I guess I’ll have to stop letting you win.’
‘Ha, the gods know it’s me and my sword that leave you on your back in the dirt, you’re at my mercy when we’re in there,’ Runa said, flashing the wicked, pretty smile at Ogulf. ‘Actually, I was sent to fetch you; your father has received a scroll from the capital. He has requested all four captains and his chieftain to go to his home so he can update us all.’
‘Now?’ Ogulf said. Runa nodded. The smile Ogulf loved to see was nowhere to be found. Her eyes were serious now.
‘Very well, let’s be off then.’ Wildar said, walking towards Runa up the path.
‘Are you coming?’ Ogulf said, turning back briefly as he began to follow when he realised Melcun had stayed still. His short hair had begun to thaw since they left the fields; the ends of it danced in the wind.
‘I’m not a captain, and Prundan Marsk won’t want the pitied little orphan boy hanging around serious meetings. You go on ahead, I have some things I need to do anyway.’
Ogulf nodded and turned back to catch up with Wildar and Runa, his stomach tightening more and more with each step; word from the capital had never felt so crucial.
Chapter 2
The living quarters in the Harlsbane homestead were colder than ever before, the lack of cloud cover in the previous night’s sky meant for a night of shivering and a cold home in the morning. You would need ten fires to bring heat to this room.
The upholstery gave off a damp, musty smell that had grown more pungent since the last time Ogulf was in the house. As he walked through the open door of his father’s study, with Wildar and Runa in tow, he went straight to the fire pit and let the warmth take the stinging bite of outside out of his hands.
Ogulf’s father was sitting silently behind his table. Stress had turned most of his hair grey and his beard looked like a rough collection of dry straw. Ogulf couldn’t bear to look at his sunken eyes for too long; they were windows into Rowden’s grief and only caused pain whenever he lingered on them. Despite his weathered facial features, Rowden Harlsbane was still well-built, owing to his years of fighting for the King before Ogulf’s birth, the muscles he developed then had stayed with him through all the years since like they were some kind of reward for the harrowing experiences he had faced and would go on to endure. On his right shoulder, he wore a steel bracer. On the shoulder panel, there was a carving of a tall tree. It was the only thing he cherished.
In front of him, sprawled across the rough wooden top was a partially rolled scroll, a flattened piece of parchment, next to that a quill with wet ink on its tip and a glass of a dark brown liquid which Ogulf assumed was whisky. The sight of the whisky was enough to make Ogulf nervous; his father only drank it if the pressure and stress was getting too much. The whole way through the winter, the stopper had always been on his whisky bottle, the seal remaining tight and true, waiting to be opened in Rowden’s time of need. The fact he had opened it suggested that the contents of the letter from the capital were dire or worse.
In front of him, sitting slouched in the only other chair in the study, was Prundan Marsk, a Captain of Keltbran, and the man responsible for hunting and scouting. His skin was pockmarked and he wore a scowl like a badge of honour, only showing his malicious smile if he was mocking someone. If he hadn’t been from Keltbran, Ogulf would not have been fond of the man. In truth, he probably would have wanted to kill him for some of his views, most of which were centred around making Melcun’s life difficult.
