Cold From The North, page 4
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
For such a slight woman, there was no man who would feel confident if they were to face her with a blade in hand, those were Rowden’s words. Ogulf wondered if his father had ever been faced by his mother wielding a weapon. The gods knew there would have been times he might have. Rowden once had a reputation for getting so inebriated that, when he returned home, he would wobble and fall into everything that could make a racket. Ogulf remembered being young and hearing pots clatter and plates shatter as his father returned from the inn. His mother would then storm from their bedchamber to meet him and ask what in the name of the gods did he think he was doing, and why was he making more noise than there was during the world’s creation at such a late hour. This would lead to grovelling from his father, then tempered footsteps from his mother, and finally, snoring as his father put his head down wherever he lay to sleep, banished from his own bed by his wife all in thanks to his stupidity.
Tying the knot tight and giving the strap a few tugs to make sure it was secure, he smiled and pictured his mother wearing it. This had been a long time ago, but the image of her in his mind was still clear.
As he walked along the frozen ground towards the tree, his eyes traced upwards from the roots, higher through the rigid bark and finally to the tallest tips of the highest branches. The tree had grown to be the largest anyone in Keltbran had ever seen, some even said it was among the largest in all of Broadheim. It shot from the ground over fifty feet high and grew quicker than any tree Ogulf had ever seen, dwarfing some of the oldest ones in Keltbran despite being much younger. Its long, smooth roots still seemed to suck plenty of life from the earth, and the tree looked healthy despite the lack of rain or real sun to nourish it. The cold had caused the branches and ends at the top of the tree to wither, but they did so in a way that still captured their grace.
Some people thought privately, and even whispered amongst themselves, that it would be great for firewood, especially with this weather, but no one was stupid enough to say such a thing in front of Rowden or Ogulf.
With the cold so prevalent now, many of the townspeople looked at the tree like it was a beacon of hope, saying while it was strong the people would be strong also. Standing in front of it, Ogulf felt panic flood him again; he didn’t want this to be the last time he sought the comfort of the spirit of his mother. Whenever he was troubled and needed to find his way, he spent time at his mother’s tree. He wasn’t the type to think that trees could talk to people, and it had been years since he truly sought counsel here or even sucked in the calming aroma from the bark. It was just that, when he did, he always seemed to find a solution when he needed it most, all just by sitting and resting his body and mind against the now familiar runs of its roots.
Time was short, so he focused on trying to find the solace he was looking for. As he always did when he came to the tree, he ran his hands down the rough edges of bark, breathed in its familiar scent, and began to think of his mother. Ogulf always chose to rest his back against the tree as if he was leaning on his mother like he had done when he was a child. He never spoke when he was here; he just sat in silence and tried his best to think of his mother.
This time, he was also trying to justify his want to leave. He was a fighter, a proud man, and to leave felt like cowardice. The tactician knew that the odds were against him, though. That staying was tantamount to giving up. For the first time since his first fight, he was faced with a confrontation he knew he couldn’t win. So, there was no other choice but to search for safety and then work out a new plan. The only issue he had was not knowing what that plan was. Usually, he had Wildar to rely on for his next steps or, at the very least, the directions of them. But now, all he knew was that they were headed South, and to get South they would have to make their way around a trail which had claimed the lives of so many men.
It was the same trail that Wildar had attempted before and turned back from. Something Wildar never did, but whatever he had experienced on that trail had been enough to make him vow to never try again.
Seeking the calm reassurance he always looked for from the tree, Ogulf closed his eyes and took a deep breath, adjusting his shoulders to find comfort as the freezing ground began to chill his backside.
His eyes opened as he felt something disrupting his peace. His father’s home was ten paces away, but it looked more like a mile, and the solid ground had begun to look more like flowing water. He tried to think of his mother, but he couldn’t clear his mind. A dull ache quickly spread to a sharp pain in his temples and his eyes burned, making them feel as if they were balls of fire embedded in his skull and cooking his brain like a roast hog. He tried to call out, but the words never came. The world in front of him disappeared into a black void of nothing, and then suddenly he could see again.
This world was different from his. He was seeing it, but he knew he was not there. He saw a huge mountain with a city built into its walls and sprawled all around it. A huge waterfall spewed out of the mountainside, landing in a pool near the city gate below and trickling through the city limits, giving life to a flowing river of winding blue.
He looked down to realise he was suspended in mid-air. He couldn’t see what was stopping him from falling.
By the time he looked back at the cavernous city, he noticed that from every opening, window, or balcony, flames crept out angrily as if they were trying to burn the rest of the world. The entire citadel was ablaze. The waterfall no longer produced water; pouring from the crevice now was a wash of crimson. Blood. The longer he stared at the blaze, the clearer the row of voices became inside his head.
‘Death comes for you with the might of fifty thousand swords and more. The power will leave no one but the wicked alive. The world will fall to eternal darkness if it is not stopped.’
The voice was female. It was filled with panic and urgency. ‘Do whatever you can. You must not let them have it,’ the voice continued, this time it sounded sterner. ‘Death is among you. They seek the one born to the call of the black gem. It is near you. They seek it. They seek the one. The one who lures them. They follow her power; they can sense it.’
The voice filled his whole mind, but from his right, he heard the mighty crash of wood being destroyed.
‘It must be stopped. Let the gods flight your feet to find your saviour. Be wary of even those closest to you, trust in your will. Only light can stop the Onyxborn and the cold from the north. See this, this death is what awaits if you do not hurry. Stones are cast and motion is underway, this is only the beginning, but you can stop it if you find haste.’ More crashes and then footsteps. Ogulf couldn’t take his eyes from the blaze of the citadel as he hung in the air. Suddenly, there was a gap in the blaze from a large opening.
From the smoke, an apparition flew towards him, going as fast as anything he had ever seen move. As it got closer to him, it shrieked. The noise was evil and thundered through Ogulf’s ears. They ached to the point he thought his head would explode. The apparition got close enough for Ogulf to be sure it was the human form of a woman wearing a headdress of spikes. The pain from the creature’s shriek became too much and Ogulf felt himself begin to fall.
He plummeted fast and felt the cool air rushing past him, causing his clothes to flap and his hair to wrap around his face. The shrieking sound began to dissipate. Ogulf couldn’t turn fast enough to see if the apparition was following him. His body spun violently as he dropped, and he noticed the blaze was spread right across the mountainous walls of the huge citadel. Outside the walls was a band of dark figures dressed in dark red robes, all watching the destruction unfold.
When he finally stabilised, he saw the ground rushing towards him. He felt his bones crack upon impact. The crushing feeling accompanied by a sickening pop and a chorus of snaps. With a whimper and a bloodcurdling cough, he was in the darkness once again.
Chapter 5
Ogulf’s eyes burned in the brightness. His back was freezing from where he lay, no longer leaning against his mother’s tree, but rather on the earth a few paces from its roots. The ground was solid, gritty, and uncomfortable. He groaned and noticed how the upper branches were hanging over him, peering over him, as if checking on his condition.
‘What are you doing down there?’ Melcun asked as he rushed towards Ogulf. ‘I’ve been looking for you. Everyone is in the square, they’re all ready to leave – there are hundreds of them,’ he said, helping Ogulf to his feet. Ogulf leaned closer to his friend as his legs began to come back to life, his mind racing in its search for answers as to what he had just experienced. ‘Far more than I thought there would be, that’s for sure.’
Ogulf felt slightly disoriented as he took his first few steps free from the support of Melcun’s arm. A wincing burn lingered in his temples. He dusted himself off as best he could and tucked his mother’s necklace under the collar of his shirt. Only half of Ogulf’s body seemed to be working, so Melcun grabbed his arm again, dragging him forward. Ogulf accepted the help and let his feet flop on the hard ground one after the other in a thudding, but oddly calming, cadence.
Ogulf started to remember parts of the vision he just had. He assumed he got overwhelmed and then he collapsed. That dream was the most vivid one he had ever experienced. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. His head was still throbbing as Melcun heaved him along, but his feet were beginning to feel more like they belonged to his body again.
The grogginess wore off as they rushed through his father’s home, Ogulf taking a second to glance at it for what he was sure would be the very last time. ‘How many people, Melcun?’ he asked.
‘At least eight hundred want to make the journey South,’ Melcun said. ‘Maybe more. Some of them seem to have taken a liking to your speech the other day.’
‘As good as that is, the Trail will be deadly with that amount of people trying to pass. I guess we need to make sure as many people get through as safely as possible.’ As they passed through the other side and out the door into the main street of Keltbran, Ogulf felt that ever more familiar feeling of his stomach turning upside down – the number of people waiting to depart was almost as many as when they celebrated a new year – far too many to make a pass around the Trail. This was a development that would undoubtedly complicate things.
One thing Ogulf noticed as they approached the gathered group was that the mood was different to before. The people who were willing to leave had an eagerness about them, one that was dashed with anxiety and impatience. They wanted to put as much land between them and the invading army as possible. Keltbran felt alive again, only now it was for all the wrong reasons.
The two made their way through the people to the main square where Rowden was waiting alongside Wildar and his other captains. As Ogulf approached, he thought he heard a mention of Runa’s name, though nothing specific made it through the collective murmurings of the crowd.
‘Ogulf, why were you lying in the dirt back there?’ Melcun asked.
‘I was sitting by my mother’s tree when everything just wen–’
‘–There he is. Ogulf! Come on, we have leave.’ It was Rowden who bellowed from the front of the crowd. ‘Grolan is trying to convince people to stay; we can’t linger.’ Ogulf followed his father’s gaze to see Grolan and his disciples on platforms above the crowd. Grolan was particularly animated in a way Ogulf had never seen before.
With the signal of a horn, the group began to move to the path that led south of Keltbran. Ogulf marched at the front with Wildar and Melcun, his father and Prundan just behind them.
On the outskirts of Keltbran, Ogulf noticed a familiar figure in the road ahead. Yadlin was standing there with a thick cloak on. The wise old man wore a pleasant smile as Ogulf approached.
‘You won’t come with us then?’ Ogulf asked the old man.
‘I doubt I would even make it to the Trail, never mind around it, my young friend,’ Yadlin replied with a chuckle. ‘Fear not, I won’t be staying in Keltbran.’
‘Then where will you go, Yadlin?’ Ogulf asked, stopping along with Melcun and Rowden as the rest of the group plodded past them. Ogulf noticed Wildar was still preoccupied by whatever it was that was plaguing him as he moved by, his shoulders were high and full of stress.
‘Of that I am unsure. I may make for Saker, and from there, try to find a boat to the Shingal and start a new life. Perhaps incorporate a vice or two here or there this time around,’ he said with a wicked smile.
Despite his position as a man of the gods, Yadlin had always hinted that he regretted not taking part in some of the frowned upon but pleasurable experiences the world had to offer. Rowden let out a hearty laugh at his comment while Ogulf looked at the ground.
‘If that’s the case, then I pray to the gods you get to enjoy your debauchery,’ Rowden said. ‘We will meet again, I feel it. Stay safe, Yadlin.’
The priest’s smile crept a little wider and he nodded at Rowden. ‘One day. Some place. Yes, you’re right,’ Yadlin replied. ‘Follow your will, all of you, for that is the true will of the gods. And know in your souls that the gods you and I follow would never want for a person to give up, so keep fighting, striving, and believing until your last breath. Only then can you overcome the darkness. And you–‘ He motioned to Ogulf. ‘–I was eager to see you at the helm, I have no doubt you will do great things, young man.’
Ogulf felt the corners of his mouth curl upwards in reaction to Yadlin’s words. It wasn’t forced; it was a sincere reaction to a sincere compliment. Power or influence were never accolades that Ogulf had ever sought, but a statement like this, coming from a man of the stature of Yadlin, was one of the greatest pieces of praise he had ever received.
Yadlin turned, placed his hands in the pockets of his hooded robe, and began to walk across a rock-peppered brush away from the path. He moved methodically as if every step had a purpose, eyes down and forward without so much as a glance at the people moving behind him. Rowden sighed and re-joined those walking, while Ogulf’s gaze lingered for some time on Yadlin as he walked off across the rugged field towards the treeline of the forest. He had wanted to ask the old priest about the vision he’d had, but that would have to wait until the next time they saw one another.
‘Let’s get moving, Ogulf,’ said Melcun, removing Ogulf from his daze. He turned to Melcun before stealing one glance back at Yadlin, who had disappeared past the boundary into the dark of the forest.
The beginnings of the journey south passed without much notice. Ogulf and Melcun were given the responsibility of making sure the pace was kept at the rear of the fleeing group. Prundan sent a group of his best scouts ahead to make sure the path they took was clear. He didn’t expect trouble, but there was no harm in employing some extra caution.
They passed a few abandoned villages between Keltbran and the Widow’s Trail. The citizens of those villages were the first to head for the citadels and they passed through Keltbran to get to them, telling stories of the cold and despair and how all of the fish in the Blades had died off.
Some of the fleeing townsfolk were naturally slower than others. As Ogulf grew frustrated at keeping the rear, he had an urge to push ahead, but his responsibility was clear, so he had to be as slow as the slowest man. He had seen snails move faster than some of these people as they trudged through the desolate frozen landscape. Before long, some became disheartened, and turned back towards Keltbran. At first, Ogulf and Melcun tried to stop them, but after the first few instances, realised their efforts were futile. The people had made their decisions to turn back, so they pressed ahead with those willing to do the same.
On the second day of their journey, the trekking band of townspeople trailed along a wide path which used to be used for transporting goods from the eastern shores to the citadels. It was a flat expanse of grey dirt which made Ogulf think of death. Broadheim was dead, there was no reason to stay if this was all that there was. The flat plain rose up to a small hill, and at the top of it, he finally got a glimpse of the Widow’s Trail. He had seen it before when he used this road, but never like this.
Do these invaders know that they are taking a land that is ripe only with despair? he thought as he let his eyes run up the dead crop lines to his right.
The Widow’s Trail was a formidable beacon of terror which people knew not to attempt. They looked at it as the journey to death itself, and so most people avoided it, instead seeking passage by ship if they had to journey to other parts of the Gelenea. The Trail was seen as a hopeless option, and now the bleakness of the mountain seemed to have enveloped the entire country. Everything looked like it had been kissed by death. Hopeless mud, hopeless people, and a hopeless land.
The path disappeared, going from clear and carved to lost in a grey stretch of dirt as Ogulf came over the brow of a hill. The people traversing down the other side had lost the uniform lines of their marching order and now looked like a disjointed swarm as they carefully placed their feet in the icy mud of the steep slopes in front of them.
‘I knew it would be bleak,’ Melcun said, placing his feet meticulously as he navigated the sharp side of the hill. ‘But I at least hoped we would be able to feel a bit of warmth by now. Wishful thinking is for Brait, I suppose.’
‘Hope is good. Hope only exists on the other side of that mountain.’
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Melcun said, stopping for a moment to squint at the mountain in the distance. Ogulf did the same as some of the slower travellers moved past them, stumbling on the uneven surface of the hillside.
Ogulf had never seen the Widow’s Trail this close. There were bigger mountains in Broadheim, that was for sure, but there were none quite as daunting as this one, which was their only viable path to safety.
The mountain looked steeper than anything he could comprehend. Somehow smooth and rugged at the same time. The peak climbed to a dizzying height before descending harshly to meet the rise of another smaller mountain behind it, and the land around it was sucked in at the base, making the flat path around it incredibly narrow. Waves crashed along what looked like a jagged bed of rocks where the mountain met the water. It was clear why people died trying to pass this mountain. Ogulf felt his stomach drop, and for a brief moment, he considered swimming across the Blades, feeling it might be less terrifying than the Trail.
