Cold From The North, page 19
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
‘Crindasa. What in the name of the gods is going on?’ Danrin asked. He had made it into the room, and was waving his hands to fan the smoke away from him.
‘A slight... training accident,’ Crindasa said, joining Melcun and Danrin in wafting the smoke from the room. The vapours were coming from the smouldering remains of a bookshelf on the wall to the right of the door. The books encased in it were black.
The slow clinking shuffled closer until five men emerged at the top of the stairs and crowded in the doorway. Ogulf looked at the men as they shuffled forwards, gawking in confusion at the mess. Most were unbothered, while others looked oafish at best as they scanned wreckage of the room without real care or concern. They all held long spears, but these were more decorative than deadly. There was no urgency in their movements. Now Ogulf knew what Danrin meant about the complacency.
‘All of you, back to your stations,’ Danrin said to the men behind him. They obeyed with a sudden sense of haste. ‘The palace is no place for magic lessons, Crindasa,’ Danrin reprimanded his cousin when they were gone.
‘Are you all right?’ Ogulf said to Melcun. His friend’s eyes were wild and wide.
‘I’m fine,’ Melcun replied. His eyes seemed full of something, but Ogulf couldn’t tell whether it was terror, disbelief, excitement, or a mixture of all three.
‘I know that, Danrin. It’s not like I expected this to happen. It was a mistake, everything is fine.’
‘Everything is not fine. Half the windows on this wing of the palace are scattered across the gardens. My father will have to address the town about this.’
Crindasa looked at Danrin with a scowl that scrunched her eyebrows down towards her nose.
Ogulf thought they looked like a couple of bickering children and assumed this type of argument between the pair had taken place on more than one occasion when they were growing up.
‘Fine, I will go and explain this to Lord Hanrik myself.’ Crindasa marched away and Danrin followed without a look at anyone else, his eyes focused on the back of Crindasa’s head.
Scattered around the room were empty vases. The flowers they used to hold were also dotted around the room in jumbled piles of colour. A small puddle had formed at the bottom of the bookcase.
‘What in the name of all the gods happened?’ Ogulf asked.
‘Well, I am not quite sure if I’m honest,’ Melcun replied. He stopped fanning the smoke as it whittled down to no more than a few trails which floated their own way out the gaping hole. The look in Melcun’s eye was the same as before.
‘Okay, I’ll try again. How did the window get blown out?’
Melcun looked at the window, and Ogulf noticed the way that look in his eyes changed slightly as he took in the shattered wall and empty window frame in front of him. He no longer looked stunned – now worry stretched his eyes wide and pulled the creases from his forehead. Ogulf watched as Melcun gulped and sweat began to bead on his brow.
‘We were practicing Wield,’ Melcun said, once again as if Ogulf was just supposed to know what he was talking about.
Ogulf looked at his friend, his face scrunched and his nose wrinkled. ‘You’re going to have to remember I know nothing about this kind of thing, Melcun. What is Wield exactly?’
‘Oh, sorry. It’s when you craft your power in your hands and hold onto it, then you control it until you wish to use it,’ Melcun said. ‘Think of it as drawing an arrow in a longbow and waiting to fire.’
Ogulf understood the analogy, and as simple as drawing a bow was, he couldn’t imagine holding a spell or power was anywhere near as easy.
He looked around the room again, assessing the debris; a few paintings hung askew on the walls and there were large gaps present where others had fallen down. The squares and rectangles that they covered were a slightly different hue to the other areas. Above the charred bookshelf was a scorch mark that almost reached the ceiling. The room smelt like burnt bread.
‘So, you fired... by accident?’ Ogulf said.
‘No, I just lost control,’ Melcun replied. ‘Crindasa wanted to see the type of power I could Wield, and at first it was easy to keep hold of. She thought I would find it too difficult, but I got the hang of it fairly quickly, so Crindasa asked me to keep summoning the energy and it just kept coming and coming. She was staring at me – she looked amazed. I looked at her for too long and my focus broke; the fireball came flying out of my hands and into the bookshelf.’ Melcun looked at the bookshelf. His eyes lingered there as he evaluated the damage, seemingly taking in every splinter, crack, and shard. ‘I am never going to get this right, am I?’
‘You will. It’s only been two days. Some of these mages go to schools for years to hone their abilities – Crindasa herself studied at the Tawrawth for six years, Lord Hanrik told me that himself. Now she’s one of the best young mages in the realm. So just be patient,’ Ogulf said, knowing full well that patience was not a trait that Melcun was well versed in. ‘One piece of advice, though – I would be prepared to grovel a bit to Lord Hanrik; I can’t imagine he will be happy about this.’
‘I know, and I don’t want Crindasa to take the blame either. It wasn’t her fault,’ Melcun said.
Ogulf wanted to disagree but he stopped himself just in time. This had been Crindasa’s fault, and while she wouldn’t have meant for such an outcome, she should have done a better job of supervising Melcun – he was her student, after all. Melcun didn’t need to hear that right now, though, and Ogulf didn’t want to put him on a defensive footing before their trip.
‘I do have good news amongst all of this,’ Ogulf said, trying to change the subject. ‘Danrin managed to get Lord Hanrik to approve our journey, so we’re going to Esselonia tomorrow.’
Ogulf chose not to mention the note to Melcun at this time – mentioning it in the palace seemed reckless, so he would tell Melcun when they were on the ship instead.
‘Ah, good news indeed,’ Melcun said. ‘I would rather not spend too much time around Hanrik if I can’t help it after this.’ He motioned with open arms and glanced around the room.
Over the next hour or so, while the sun set beyond the empty window frame, the two friends attempted to fix as much of the damage in the room as they could. Crindasa came to check on Melcun and apologised to him, embarrassment written all over her face as she fumbled with her words. Before departing, Crindasa gave Melcun a leather-bound book, leaving it on the table in the room in front of him. Ogulf couldn’t see any markings on the book but the cover was dark enough that, at first, he mistook it for one of the books that had been burnt.
‘I heard you were leaving, but this should help. Read at least one Cast a night,’ Crindasa said. ‘We don’t want to focus too much on what you can already do, and you’ll have plenty of time to learn more on your journey, so I’ve marked the page of the first ability I want you to learn.’
She gave him a very awkward bow and an even more awkward smile, and left the room with a quick twist of her heels. Ogulf had only known the girl for a few days but he had never seen her manner change like this, she was flustered and let out an agitated breath as she made her way down the stairs. Perhaps Lord Hanrik had given her a dressing down over the damage, but Ogulf thought it was more likely that a bond of sorts was growing between Crindasa and Melcun and she was keen to help him understand his powers more before they had to part ways.
Eventually Danrin returned with some Luefmortian soldiers and a large, round-bellied man in elegant clothing. This man’s face was over-scored by wrinkles, hard lines caused by years of frowning ran across his forehead, and his eyes looked as joyless as the depths of the Banespit.
‘Master Drunos, this is the window in need of fixing.’
‘I can see that,’ the man replied, glancing around the room. His disgust was evident in the tight purse of his lips. ‘I shall arrange it, though it will be a hefty price to fix.’
‘Understood. Just let me know what you need,’ Danrin said. ‘Ogulf, Melcun, please come with me.’
As the three of them left the battered room, the large man gave a tut and shot a look full of loathing at Ogulf and his friend. This was the first experience of rudeness or disdain Ogulf had experienced since coming here. Melcun turned back to grab the book Crindasa had left for him and had to hurry to catch up.
‘Ignore Master Drunos,’ Danrin said when he was sure they were out of earshot. He must have heard the tut. ‘Most people do, he’s an exceptionally bad Shingally – gluttonous, hateful, greedy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be from the Wide Isles or another land of indulgence.’
Ogulf had never heard of the Wide Isles.
‘Did you seek us for a reason, Danrin?’ Melcun asked. His voice wavered slightly as if he thought it might involve an audience with Lord Hanrik.
‘Yes, but don’t worry too much, Melcun,’ Danrin said, clearly noticing the panic-stricken paleness of Melcun’s face. Ogulf couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Crindasa took the blame for the incident, and given that she is one of my father’s favourite nieces, that seemed to be enough discussion on the matter. That, and she promised not to do any further teachings with you or anyone else on palace grounds.’
‘Makes sense,’ Ogulf said.
‘The other reason is to ensure you’re prepared for your journey,’ Danrin said.
Ogulf followed as Danrin continued to lead them down from the ground floor of the palace to the basement. The walls down here were different. Gone was the warm marble and the stone carvings; they were replaced by brick, cold, and darkness. For the first time since passing the Trail, Ogulf felt himself shiver. He wasn’t fond of it.
The three men made their way to an open space that, in any other place in the world, could have been a dungeon. But here in Shingal, they wouldn’t have something like that under the grounds of a lord’s palace. Where Ogulf would have expected to see wall shackles and cages, there were storage barrels and crates, some filled with candles, others full to the brim with heavy blankets. On the other side, there were sacks of grain and huge, empty jugs. The cavernous space was lit by torches and a single firepit in the centre of the room.
‘This cellar was full before your people arrived. I am just glad all of the supplies went to good use, we normally have to discard them if they sit down here for too long.’ Danrin led the pair to a table near the back of the room where there were two packs laid out. ‘These should hold enough food to last you at least a week – it won’t be much, but if you ration it, it should keep you moving. Hopefully by then, you will have made some contact with Feda, and be in her good graces enough to earn a meal. Or at least in a cell in one of the citadels, eating scraps of stale bread,’ Danrin joked. Ogulf could tell from the delivery of this attempted jibe that Danrin wasn’t one to make jokes often. ‘There are also some other clothes and bed rolls in case you have to camp. You’ll also find some flint, and most importantly, some coins.’
‘Thank you, Danrin,’ Ogulf said. ‘We really appreciate this and all you’ve done for us so far.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Danrin said. ‘This seems like a time when we should all band together given your enemy now seems to be gearing up to attack us as well. So, if we can help find out why Feda Essel is the key to all of this, then we must lend a hand.’
All three men exchanged smiles. Then Ogulf remembered something, something he had to raise with Danrin. He bit his lip as he tried to find the right words; he needed to make sure whichever ones came out would not cause offence. The Fated Knight began to move towards the packs he’d organised for Ogulf and Melcun. He started testing the straps and patting them down.
‘Danrin,’ Ogulf said, and Danrin turned round to face him. ‘When your soldiers reacted to the incident earlier, something was amiss. There was no urgency. Even when it was clear that something serious was happening.’
Danrin sighed. ‘What are you trying to say, Ogulf?’
‘I’m just worried that if this army makes it this far south, and if they mean to attack Luefmort, then those men will not stand a chance, not like that,’ Ogulf said. ‘If that army can ravage Broadheim – a land of men and women raised being taught how to fight – that easily, then they will do the same, or worse, in a land built on peace with an army that rests on its laurels.’ Before Danrin could protest, Ogulf cut in again. ‘I know what you will say. You have the numbers. But one hundred soldiers with no real fight in them are not worth ten who have malevolent intentions. Sure, they have discipline, but a lot of the ones I saw today seem meek. And a meek man on a battlefield is as good as dead before the first blood spills,’ Ogulf continued. ‘I know I am not Shingally. I respect you and your people for the support you’ve given mine, but I felt the need to be honest with you.’
Danrin’s eyes fell to the floor as he nodded. ‘I know. By the gods, I know. This is the kind of thing that plagues my nightmares. I can be frank with both of you – since I’ve returned, I’ve been petrified. We are strong in numbers, but weak in just about everything else. My grandmother could best most of the men who watch our walls. Worse still, I have no confidence in them being able to protect my home, not without a new way, a way without peace at the heart but instead with peace as the goal. Peace requires strength, courage, and a will. Too long have the men who patrol Luefmort – gods, all of the empire – been untested. I need to make sure we’re prepared.’ He looked up from the floor at Ogulf. ‘I appreciate your honesty.’
‘Perhaps you could ask for my father’s help, Danrin,’ Ogulf said. ‘I’m sure him and some of his captains could lend a hand in sparring and the like, give your men some new types of opponents to fight.’
‘He was a warrior?’ Danrin asked.
‘Not in the traditional sense of the word, but you could say we’re all warriors in Broadheim, really. You’re born, you learn to fight, hunt, and fend for yourself, and then you’re left to find your path with those skills as a foundation should you need to call on them in life. And peace between countries doesn’t always mean there will be peace within those countries. So, we’ve had a few occasions where we had to fight, and my father was the best man we had,’ Ogulf said.
‘You and your people fought during the Summer of Rebellion?’ Danrin asked.
‘Yes,’ Ogulf said.
Though Ogulf had fought that summer, he did not consider himself a fighter on the same level as his father or Wildar. They’d had the advantage of experience, and while he was more than capable of fighting with an axe or a blade, his real skill in combat was his tactical mind. This was a trait ingrained in him by Wildar and his father, one that the two older men had drilled into him since he was a boy. ‘War is about strategy first, bloodshed later,’ they used to say, and Rowden was of a firm belief that the tactical mind Ogulf possessed was far superior to his own. His father always said Ogulf could have been the king’s own chieftain if he wanted. He had never wanted that though.
Rowden, on the other hand, was a warrior unlike any other in all of Keltbran, and some would argue, the whole of Broadheim. On the battlefield, he was unmatched when it came to sword fighting, and the tactics he employed could pick apart a force of vastly higher numbers with ease. He was always able to find a way to turn the tide in his favour.
Ogulf recalled the first time he saw his father fight. It had been over some words a man in Jargmire had uttered about Ogulf’s mother. She had recently passed and the man had mentioned something about her upbringing, something Ogulf never heard properly and his father would never repeat.
The problem was, this wasn’t just a man, this was an appointed member of the King’s Guard; a man of stature, title, and talent with a blade. Ogulf had only been twelve years old and was only allowed in the tavern that day because the owner knew he had nowhere else to go whilst Rowden drank his fill. The word the man said had been whispered, the only thing that suggested to Ogulf it had been a slight was the way life returned to Rowden’s eyes, life Ogulf hadn’t seen since before his mother died.
He calmly stood from his chair at the table, slowly moving his body so as not to touch the knight as he did. Without a word, he drew his sword and made his way outside. He didn’t even look at Ogulf as he did it, but the whole tavern followed the men into the rain, the innkeeper pleading with Rowden all the while not to fight the King’s protector, saying that Ogulf would be orphaned. It didn’t change Rowden’s decision.
As if at a tourney, both men lined up five paces apart and presented their blades to one another. Ogulf remembered the raindrops falling in the narrow street; it wasn’t cobbled, so the ground was soft and unsure. He worried for his father in that moment as he looked at him, but there was no fear in Rowden Harlsbane that day. Ogulf wondered if this was him giving up, broken by the loss of his wife and ready to meet her in the afterlife. But that wasn’t to be.
From the first action, Rowden was in control of his opponent, moving with a style about his blade that would have better fit the man in the carefully crafted armour. He spun away from swings, parried slashes, and outmatched the knight in a way that left the gathered crowd dumbfounded.
Before long, the knight was panting, his once shining silver armour now caked in mud from his falls into the ruined ground below him. He made one final flurry with his sword towards Rowden, hacking downwards, searching through the haze of the raindrops for a killing blow. With minimal effort, Rowden blocked the first three shots, and then, with a whipping motion of his sword hand, he disarmed the knight and gracefully swept his legs from under him, causing the knight to crash to the ground and sending muddy specks up towards Ogulf’s face.
‘I yield,’ the knight said, his hands open for Rowden and the waiting crowd to see. Ogulf couldn’t believe his father had not only disarmed but embarrassed a knight of the King’s Guard; they were supposed to be the most elite fighters in all of Broadheim, and Rowden Harlsbane had left one red-faced in a puddle of mud while drunk.
