Cold From The North, page 2
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
‘You’re looking a bit podgy there, Wildar. You’ve been managing to get more of that ale, I see.’ Prundan said. His tone was jovial but there was a seriousness to his question, as there always was.
‘I am not sure what you mean,’ Wildar replied confidently. He glanced down at his gut, which was more round than usual. ‘Ale, and for that matter, any other fermented spirits, work wonders in keeping some of the cold away. You should try it, Prundan; you’re looking a bit skinny.’
‘Easier for me to hide when I’m this size,’ Prundan said. ‘I could spot you a mile off, and probably hit you with an arrow from the same distance, with that gut.’
‘Feel free to pour a whisky for yourselves,’ Rowden said, disregarding what Prundan and Wildar were speaking about. Ogulf, Runa, and Wildar perched where they could. ‘The North Hold has fallen.’ Silence followed, lingering long enough to make Ogulf’s skin crawl.
‘What do you mean fallen?’ Prundan asked Rowden, sitting up from his slouched position. His trademark scowl had broken to reveal genuine worry.
‘A swarm of fighting men are making their way south from beyond the Chasm in the Throws. The fact they took the North Hold rather than just passing through, out of its reach, to raid tells us everything we need to know about their intentions. Either they see us weak or they’re also running from the cold and want our fortresses to shelter themselves.’
The flames in the firepit crackled and jumped as Rowden moved from his seat behind the table and threw some dry logs onto the pile. Ashes shot up from the flames as the fresh fuel popped to life.
‘How do we know this?’ Ogulf asked.
‘A letter from the king himself. His advisors expect the horde to move south towards Tran and then on to Jargmire.’
‘They’ll be crushed on the first day of the siege if they do that. The prince commands a force of ten thousand men at Tran, and Jargmire is impenetrable, how would a horde of raiders ever scale those walls? And if, by some miracle, they did, they’d soon be slaughtered and flung into the moat to rot in the hot springs.’
‘The king believes this army moving south dwarfs our numbers. If the scouting reports are true, they took the North Hold, slaughtered everyone stationed there, and are in the process of moving over fifty thousand men further into Broadheim.’
‘Reports can be inaccurate,’ Wildar said.
‘It’s all we have to go by. If they have taken the North Hold and they keep moving south, they could be at the walls of the capital within a week.’
‘A horde of raiders wouldn’t come south in those numbers. Gods, there can’t be that many raiders in The Throws,’ Wildar said.
‘What are you saying, chieftain?’ Prundan turned to ask.
‘An invasion?’ Ogulf interjected.
‘I can’t see it being anything else. And, if it is, then we’re being attacked by Visser.’
‘Ha, the Old North?’ Prundan said, ‘Rising from the ashes of their fallen empire to come and attack us? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘It’s the only thing that makes sense,’ Ogulf said.
‘None of this makes sense,’ said Runa.
‘So, what are we to do?’ Ogulf asked.
‘The letter says we’re to wait on further reports from the king. He will be deciding whether or not he needs to call his banners,’ Wildar said, stroking his beard.
‘The old fool will be reluctant to overreact after doing so during the Rebellion. Won’t want to piss off the rich earls if he doesn’t have to,’ Prundan said.
‘Seems more reasonable to do it now. With that many men, this won’t be easy to overcome. He should be calling the banners now and meeting them in the field,’ Ogulf said.
‘That’s easy for you to say. Might be the case, too, if you had accepted the post as his advisor. You could have had a knighthood, but instead, you chose to stay here. The gods probably sent the cold our way as thanks for your stupidity,’ Prundan said. ‘Never in my life have I heard of a man turning down a knighthood, and then we have Ogulf Harlsbane, the man too proud to serve his king.’
‘Enough,’ Wildar said. Ogulf would have given anything for Prundan to continue; the man had goaded Ogulf like this before, one time it would be too much and Ogulf would reach his limit. But not today. He had his own reasons for turning down the knighthood, and that was all that mattered. ‘Rowden, what will we do?’
‘Wait on the word from the king. If he calls the banners, we will answer,’ Rowden said.
‘And if he doesn’t?’ Runa asked.
‘Then we wait here until we’re instructed otherwise.’
‘Supposing this army takes the capital and comes further south, what would we do then?’ Ogulf asked. When he looked at his father, he saw the muscles around the earl’s jaw flex.
‘That won’t happen. The capital will not fall to a horde.’
Ogulf appreciated his father’s optimism but his brain worked differently; the king was clearly worried, and if the numbers were to be believed, then this would not be the kind of attack that could be quashed and forgotten about so easily.
‘I will call for you all tomorrow so that we can start making arrangements,’ Rowden said. ‘That will be all for now.’
With a scrape of wood against the stone floor, Prundan pushed his chair back and walked out of the study. Ogulf turned to do the same with Wildar beside him and Runa behind him. He pulled his furs tighter around his neck as he prepared to venture out into the freezing streets once more.
‘Well, I guess our trip is on hold for now,’ Wildar said.
‘I would have to agree with you,’ Ogulf said. The sharp, biting wind caught at the back of his throat, causing him to cough as he wandered out onto the bleak streets of his hometown.
Chapter 3
Ogulf rose the next morning, and as usual, he felt stiff from the cold. Even under multiple blankets, the chill managed to seep through and plunge into his bones, making them throb in a way that was now far too familiar for his liking. There was no doubt that it was getting brisker by the week. He thought about Jargmire and Tran and how helpless the people there must feel. Would they even know an army was coming their way? The walls would surely keep them out, though, Ogulf thought.
The citadels wouldn’t fall. They couldn’t fall. Tran commanded the biggest force in the whole country, and Jargmire was the most fortified city in all of Broadheim; they would suppress the attacking forces and restore order to the North Hold.
Ogulf made his way outside and began walking down the main stretch of road in Keltbran. He was to meet Wildar in his home, where they would discuss the trip they had planned. If he had any luck, he would also see Runa there. He was keen to know her feelings now that she had had time to sleep on yesterday’s revelations, and he hoped she would be pleased to hear that Wildar and Ogulf planned to stay a little longer.
Runa was five years older than Ogulf and had always been like a sister to him and Melcun.
She was most unlike the other warriors of the clan. She was hardy, determined, strong, and most of all, reliable. She had come from the city of Shingal to Broadheim when she was just a girl. Almost fifteen years had passed since then. Her father was an emissary for the Kingdom of Shingal and he’d frequented Keltbran to discuss trade relations at a time when the town produced enough crops to barter with. A sickness took him during a spell in Keltbran, leaving Runa orphaned in a foreign land. She was well liked by the people of Keltbran, especially Wildar. He took Runa in when she was twelve. Her family in Shingal agreed that she could stay for the winter that year, but she never ended up leaving, even when men came to collect her and take her to her homeland. She refused to leave Wildar or her friends, and eventually, her wishes were respected by her family.
As Ogulf walked on, he noticed a man coming out of Wildar’s home, a man he had never seen before. He was smaller than Ogulf, a muscular shape sculpted his thick furs, and he walked fast and light across Ogulf’s path and into one of the side streets that wound its way towards the outskirts of Keltbran. The furs he wore were black, as was the large hood that hid most of his face. His mouth and stubble-coated chin were the only visible features jutting out from the shadow of his dark hood. The man wore only one glove. A leather one on his right hand. His left palm jutted from his sleeve and on his wrist was an angry red wound.
Ogulf started and hurried off towards Wildar’s home. As he pushed the door open, he was met by Wildar immediately in front of him, and the two men clashed shoulders. ‘I suppose you should come in, then,’ Wildar said, a vein in his forehead bulging, suggested his annoyance.
‘Who was that that just left?’
‘A messenger, bringing word of a death in the family,’ Wildar said, moving sideways to let Ogulf into his home. It was only slightly smaller than Ogulf’s own home, but Wildar’s abode was much better suited to Ogulf’s liking; it was practical, and because of its size, it was much easier to keep warm. The comforting warmth of the place took over Ogulf’s body and he felt the same calm he always did when he entered.
‘Someone on the Paleways?’ Ogulf asked.
‘No, more distant than that. A relative of mine died in Esselonia,’ Wildar said. Ogulf watched the chieftain as his shoulders slumped and his voice went flat, almost monotone.
‘I had no idea you had family over there.’
‘Haven’t seen them for decades, but we were close at a time, so it still stings to know they’re not with us anymore,’ Wildar said. The life had gone from his eyes; they were dull, and he kept blinking to try and suppress the tears that were building up behind them. ‘Anyway, I sent a letter back to my family there, offering condolences. Hopefully, we can get moving once this army is defeated at the capital and I can pay my respects in person.’
‘I was hoping I would catch Runa this morning as well,’ Ogulf said, keen to take Wildar’s lead and change the subject to save the chieftain from becoming more upset.
‘She’s in the sparring yard with two of her underlings. I think she wants to make sure they’re ready if the banners are called,’ Wildar said with a sigh. He walked over to a hanging pot and poured tea into two delicate cups with markings around the rim, handing one to Ogulf. He looked into the cup as steam flowed up from his tea, taking a deep breath in through his nose and basking in the aroma of the drink. ‘I do hope she’s able to fight like she used to. She’s not been tested since the rebellion, and she’s lucky she made it out alive with just that scar as a reminder.’ Wildar sighed, then he took a deep breath as he began to stir the tea. He looked like he was trying to stay busy.
‘She will be fine, Wildar. You’ve taught her well,’ Ogulf said, trying to reassure the chieftain. ‘And, if I know Runa, she will be as ready as anyone else to fight if she has to.’
The large man gave Ogulf a strained smile and sipped his tea. As Ogulf sipped the warm tea, the brittle chill in his bones he had since waking seemed to dissipate slightly as the hot liquid flowed down the back of his throat. Ogulf allowed himself to be comforted by it for only a moment before pushing the pleasant sensations aside.
‘If the banners are called, do you think we can win?’ Ogulf said, noticing the older man’s jaw tense slightly. He knew Wildar liked a straightforward question as much as he did, so he chose not to creep around the subject.
‘I’m not sure. I would think we’ve got a good chance, but this far away from it all it would be hard to say.’ Something about Wildar’s eyes told Ogulf that he was too distracted for real conversation.
‘You’re right, here’s hoping the king does his best and we get to go back to our travels and get away from this cold,’ Ogulf said.
‘If only it were that simple. The journey is going to be a bit more complicated now, and I don’t mean because of the invasion.’
‘What are you talking about, Wildar?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Finally, Ogulf felt like he was getting somewhere but just then, he heard a loud thud, followed by the screeching of a door hinge as someone burst into Wildar’s home. The hot air was cruelly sucked from the space and was replaced by the cutting breeze of cool air, and the tranquillity of Wildar’s humble dwelling was gone. It was Melcun. His hair looked like a bird’s nest and he was panting, trying to catch his breath.
‘With me, now.’
Each heavy step Ogulf took crunched on the glistening path as he ran. He was still trailing behind Melcun, heading north through the streets of Keltbran. Whatever commotion had sent Melcun sprinting for Wildar’s was great enough to draw people away from their hearths and out into the bitter streets. Ogulf tried to pay them no mind as he ran to the main square. He was now only a few steps behind Melcun, but Wildar had fallen slightly behind, unable to keep up with the sprint pace of his younger companions. Ogulf noticed a group huddled around something in the square. Men and women tiptoed to see more, and the ones closest to the middle of the group gasped or covered their mouths.
As they reached the square, Ogulf noticed there was a gap in the group near the communal well, the contents of which had long since frozen. On the edges of the group, a citizen was trying to calm a saddled horse as it reared violently back onto its hind legs. Ogulf knew the horse did not belong to the man trying to subdue it. The steed was huge. It’s perfectly kept mane was matted with a spattering of dried blood, and its harness was fashioned from hardened leather with well-polished fastenings and sturdy bronze stirrups. No one in Keltbran had a horse like it; this animal was owned by someone wealthy.
Moving forward, Ogulf gently pushed through the crowds of people and found his father crouched next to a young man, whose eyes were glazed but whose lips were moving. Ogulf moved closer, noticing the man’s blood-stained clothes. There were dried red flecks on his pink cheeks, and his jaw was puffy.
‘What happened? Were you injured on the road?’ Rowden asked the young man. He was motionless other than shivering and Rowden supported the wounded man’s head with his hand.
‘Ja ... Jarg ... Jargmi–’ The man’s words were faint.
‘You came from Jargmire. What happened?’
‘Jargmire has ... fallen,’ he said.
‘Fallen?’ Rowden asked. ‘Impossible. The invaders have taken Jargmire?’
The young man’s eyes came alive at the last word. He gave a brief nod. ‘They slau- slaughtered ever- everyone.’ The vigour in his eyes started to fade again. ‘You ... must …‘ Rowden listened closer as the man faded, as did Ogulf. ‘... Run.’ The last part was said like a whisper. There was a slight commotion as Wildar pushed through the crowd, breathing heavily. As the man’s body went limp, Ogulf noticed there was a large gash on the back of his head where Rowden’s hand had been.
A chattering grew behind Ogulf as the people gathered realised the young man was dead. Ogulf rose as the murmuring grew to a panic. He felt his chest start to tingle and not because of the cold. Jargmire had fallen. Quickly. The North Hold had fallen only a few days before. Jargmire couldn’t have fallen. Not that fast. Its walls could hold a siege at bay for years.
Ogulf’s usually undisturbed inner peace was now completely at odds with something he hadn’t felt in years–complete and utter terror. Over and over in his head, he played out the worst possible scenario; he saw Jargmire in his mind, and it was burning. He couldn’t shake the sight. He knew it wasn’t real, but he felt it, so much so that he could swear his cheeks began to get warmer when he thought about it. The sounds of the people’s panic were drowned out, replaced by the heavy thuds of his own heartbeat inside his ears.
Aggressively, his father had risen and was making his way to the House of the Guided. Ogulf stumbled to his feet and pushed through the crowd to follow. The people seemed to part for Rowden like water, but as they turned to see where the earl was headed, they blocked Ogulf’s path, meaning he had to wade through limbs as if they were a heavy current pushing against him.
He finally managed to push through the multitude of bodies and saw his father climbing the steps to enter the House of the Guided. Shivers crawled up Ogulf’s spine as Rowden disappeared into the dark mouth of the doorway. Black smoke rose from a single chimney which jutted out of the intimidating, cone-shaped roof. From the outside, this did not look like a place where those closest to the gods would choose to live or worship; it looked more like something out of a nightmare. Ogulf took the stairs at a rapid clip and followed his father into the temple.
Ogulf knew from experience that, just beyond the door to the House of the Guided, was a tunnel which led down to their main lair. It was vast and cavernous. In the past, the path to the room had been illuminated by glowing plants draped along the walls. They were called Sanlarta roots. In the two years since the ice had taken hold, roots like that had become hard to find, so now the open space just beyond the door and the tunnel were in almost complete darkness, lit only by the flickering glow of a few dying candles.
‘No, you should not come down here, Ogulf.’ Rowden stopped as the door shut. ‘Wait outside, this is no place for you.’
‘I’m going with you. They need to understand how bad this is, and you know how difficult they can be.’
Rowden flexed his hand and then stroked his beard. ‘Fine, come with me.’ They made their way down a winding tunnel which went on for much longer than Ogulf remembered. Roots sprang from the wall where the illuminating plants once hung. They were withered and dead now, and the ends of the branches did not produce light. The stale air made Ogulf feel like he was surrounded by something thick and sinister.
As the father and son continued, a slightly brighter light flickered ahead of them. When they reached the end of the tunnel, they were met with a wide room, vastly different to how Ogulf remembered it. Before, this place had been a shrine to the gods, full of light and life, whereas now it was dark and stank of old, dead leaves. The effigies of the gods were hidden in the shadows of the sparsely lit room.
