Cold From The North, page 8
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
Ogulf had all but forgotten the dangling man until he caught glimpses of his armour jutting out from behind Wildar’s shape. Wildar was still clinging on. He had tried to wrestle the red soldier off of his leg, but it was not working, and now only the tips of three of his fingers were clinging to the edge. Wildar looked up at Ogulf, his eyes protruding slightly from their sockets as he fought to hold himself up.
‘Get it to Feda. The axe, get it to her. She will know what to do. She can stop the prophecy,’ Wildar said through gritted teeth as his grip fell to just the top knuckles of two fingers.
‘No, hold on, Wildar,’ Ogulf said, not paying attention to what the old chieftain said. He just wanted to help him to safety. ‘Reach out, take my hand.’
‘Gods be with you, Ogulf,’ Wildar said. ‘Gods be with all of us.’
Ogulf’s hand was outstretched towards Wildar, his weight being supported by Melcun, whose body was half-draped over the edge of the pit.
Then Wildar’s grip gave in, plunging him into the Banespit. Ogulf cried out as he watched Wildar’s body falling. It was eventually swallowed by the darkness of the deep cavern. Body all but limp, Ogulf made no attempt to stop Melcun from hoisting him over the edge with the help of a few others. Shock took over every fibre of his body. He began to pant and grew breathless as his mind became clouded with panic. He was still clutching Wildar’s axe when he felt a slap on his face to bring him back to reality.
‘Come on,’ Melcun said, pulling Ogulf to his feet. ‘We need to get to the forest.’ As they both rose, arrows began whirring past them from the other side of the bridge, thudding into the trees around them, miraculously, none hit their mark as Ogulf, Melcun, and a few others hurried down the hill and into the forest.
Everything flew past Ogulf in a blur. Hope obviously doesn’t bring clarity, he thought as he sprinted. He wasn’t sure who was in control of his body, but it certainly wasn’t him. His legs moved him swiftly towards safety, the will of each movement entirely their own.
As he slowed and the panting intensified, Ogulf realised that, even in the weak light of dusk, there was colour all around him in this forest; the trees were green with life and leaves, the ground was firm and forgiving to run on, birds chirped nearby, and even the wind had softened to a calming rustle. They came to a halt as Melcun called out into the darkness.
‘Ogulf’s group returns!‘ Melcun shouted. Ogulf tried to normalise his breathing but his chest opened and closed rapidly. He could hear his own helpless gasps for air, like he was choking on something, but his throat was clear. After a few deep breaths, he dropped to one knee near a small fire, the warmth of which calmed him. He let his eyes wander and found a number of lit fire pits around the forest, their bright light casting the people around them into shadow. One familiar shape was advancing towards him quickly, and even from the outline, Ogulf could tell it was his father.
With a wail, Ogulf fell to his knees, still clutching the golden weapon that Wildar had passed him. As he cried and his father embraced him, Ogulf’s thoughts ran uncontrolled. If this was what life looked like in a place of hope and safety, he would take the cold and have Wildar back instead.
The shock of it all became too much. Breathing hard but unable to take in any oxygen, Ogulf’s body fell limply into Rowden’s arms.
Chapter 9
A racket of warring voices woke Ogulf. Their tones were loud and angry. Rolling over to see where the noise was coming from caused a harsh pain to flow through his side. It felt like his ribs were being pried apart. He vaguely remembered thudding into the edge of the Banespit when he leapt as the bridge fell, but until now, he hadn’t given the pain a single thought. That wasn’t the only part of him that ached; his feet were raw and stinging, his knees were skinned bloody, and the gash in his shoulder caused him to feel every single beat of his heart. He looked down at the improvised bandage Wildar had fashioned. It had stayed in place, but it was now caked in dark, dried blood.
The voices he could hear were coming from close by. He focused on a group of silhouettes to his left, standing around a fire. They were moving aggressively in a dance of puffed chests and pointed fingers, the shadows keeping their faces hidden.
Inching to his feet with a wince for every moved muscle, the memories started flooding back. Wildar had fallen into the Banespit, so he was gone. He had asked Ogulf to seek a woman named Feda. Wildar believed that Feda could stop a prophecy and he was to give her an axe. Wildar’s axe. His mind was fighting a losing battle as he tried to push away the pain while moving forward to the arguing group. He kicked something with his second step. Looking down, Wildar’s axe was placed next to his. The thing had always been an item of amazement for Ogulf, something he stared at with wonder, and now it was there, in the dirt beside his own axe. It was lifeless without Wildar. Just an axe. And it couldn’t be his; he was to take it to Feda. Who in the gods is Feda? Ogulf thought.
The maze of his mind was twisting and turning through memories at breakneck speed when he remembered something else: the fireball which had destroyed the bridge. Melcun had helped him over the edge. The fireball. Melcun.
‘You’re a sorcerer!’ Prundan’s gravelly shouts stood out among the dark figures. As Ogulf squinted, the silhouettes became blurry shapes, and then clear human outlines. Someone was holding Prundan back. A few paces in front of Prundan, another man was being held back. The setting came to full clarity as Ogulf noticed more people beginning to congregate around the argument. He took timid steps forward, closer to the feuding captains.
‘I am not!’ Melcun said, trying to push toward Prundan while Rowden held him back by the arms. Prundan, on the other side, was being subdued by Evy, the blacksmith. Despite their grievances, and the obvious commotion, Ogulf was relieved to see those familiar faces alive and well.
‘Shooting balls of fire from your hands tells me a different story. Enchanter!’ Prundan said, and he spat a ball of green grog at Melcun’s feet.
‘I did what I had to do,’ Melcun said. ‘Those bastards were about to kill Ogulf and Wildar.’
‘And yet your magic seemed to do the trick for them,’ Prundan said. ‘Wildar’s body is lost in the Banespit because of you. Rowden, he is cut from Cormag. He will be the end of us all.’
A jibe like that stung Ogulf worse than his injuries, and it hadn’t even been aimed at him. To liken someone to Cormag was the only thing worse than calling someone a Brait’s fool. Cormag was the god of all things dark, who had swept the old world away with a deadly plague of evil sorcery before the gods of the new ways confined him to The Pastures of Agony for all eternity. They had then gone on to create the known world, or so the story went.
For years, people in Broadheim who had been suspected of having the ability to use magic had been shunned and told they were descended from Cormag himself, treated as a class below the lowest of the low. Magic and the arcane was not the way of the people of Broadheim - it was a power that should’ve been reserved only for the gods, not passed on to lesser beings who didn’t know how to control it. Sometimes shunning only involved tuts, cautious glances, and the occasional beatings, but other times it meant banishment from the country on pain of death. Those lucky enough to hide their abilities usually fled before they could be banished, typically heading for places where prowess with magic was welcomed – places like the Shingally Empire or the fabled Islands of Brantaga in the far south. Melcun had never expressed an interest in doing this, though, much to Ogulf’s relief. Instead, he’d kept his powers concealed for as long as he could, fearing that he would be sent away if anyone caught him.
Only now it wasn’t a simple slip up that had exposed his abilities. A small spark or setting fire to a pile of wood could be explained but he had thrown a huge fireball across a fifty-foot bridge, completely destroying the supposedly eternal structure in the process.
Not to mention, Melcun had also inadvertently caused the death of the chieftain of his people. There’s no explaining this one, Ogulf thought. It is what it is.
‘You meant to kill Wildar, didn’t ya?‘ Prundan said accusingly. Melcun stopped trying to push past Rowden. His shoulders hunched forward, and his chest deflated; it was like Prundan’s words were an arrow that had struck right through Melcun’s heart. Prundan shook Evy’s restraining grasp from his shoulders as he stopped pushing forward, clearly noticing his words had taken the fight out of Melcun. ‘For all we know, he’s a spy for these bastards in red,’ Prundan said to the people of Keltbran, who had gathered round to watch this exchange. He spread his arms out wide as if to welcome their thoughts.
Ogulf was incensed as he watched Prundan rile up the crowd. Melcun would never do anything like this to harm any of his people, and certainly not Wildar.
With all of his strength, he pushed the grogginess in his gut aside and lunged from the shadows of the gathered crowd towards Prundan, hitting him with a closed fist in the temple. When Ogulf’s hand connected, he wondered where the strength for such a blow had come from, then he immediately added aching knuckles to the growing list of things causing him pain. He watched Prundan fall to the floor after the blindside strike as Melcun and Rowden rushed forwards to stop him from attempting another attack. Their hands closed around his upper arms and Ogulf let them hold on to him; he had no desire to throw any more punches.
The rabble went silent, waiting for Ogulf to speak. ‘He saved us, you fool,’ Ogulf shouted at the downed man. People in the gathered crowd began to gasp and mutter. ‘If he hadn’t done that, Wildar and I both would have perished, and there is no way of telling what those bastards would have done if they made it over that bridge.’ Prundan looked up at Ogulf with malice. ‘There could have been hundreds more of them right behind us. They would have slaughtered us. You should be grateful, because magic or not, Melcun saved us.’
Ogulf stopped pushing towards Prundan and turned away from the group. Prundan rose from the floor and dusted himself off before disappearing into the shadows in the opposite direction, uttering curses.
Rowden and Melcun walked behind Ogulf as he meandered away from the crowd. He swore under his breath at the pain in his ribs. He placed his hand on the trunk of a tree and hunched over; the pain had become unbearable all of a sudden. Ogulf was doubled over, staring at the odd angle the tree shadows created as the bright half-moon illuminated the skies when he heard their two sets of footsteps approaching through the undergrowth behind him.
‘You’ve complicated things, Ogulf,’ Rowden said. ‘And you, using magic?’ Melcun raised his hands as if he were trying to protest the statement. ‘No. Let me finish,’ Rowden shot back with authority. ‘I am thankful. You saved my son. You did what you thought was best. But only a Brait’s fool would do such a thing.’
Melcun looked at the dirt but let a scowl take over his face. Before he could respond, Rowden cut him off. ‘Now there are people, your own people, who will want you dead if they think like Prundan does – and the gods know that some of them do. I’ll do what I can to put them at ease, but no one from Broadheim will be comfortable with having a mage in their ranks. Even–’ Rowden raised his hand as Melcun tried to interrupt him again. ‘–Even if your actions did save lives.
‘Now, from where I stand, I see this as an advantage. I’ve known you were – capable, shall we say? – for years. Wildar and I watched from the window of my home while you showed Ogulf how you could spark a fire with your bare hands when you were ten years old, Melcun. How have you kept such a power hidden from everyone else until now?’
Ogulf remembered the very day his father spoke of; it had been only the third or fourth time Melcun had used his abilities in front of Ogulf. Instead of responding straight away, Melcun paused. He was likely waiting for Rowden to start talking again, but Rowden didn’t say another word. Ogulf looked at his friend as he let out a long sigh. Ogulf always knew that this moment would come, and given the circumstances, it was actually a blessing that Melcun’s powers came to light when they did. A further blessing was the sheer force he’d managed to produce; anything less would have been pointless. Ogulf only wished that Wildar had survived, then this wouldn’t be anywhere near as severe as it had been.
Again, a wave of nausea crawled over Ogulf like a spider as he remembered that Wildar was dead. Every time he tried to process the loss, something else demanded his attention. First it had been the argument, then the punch, always the pain, and now this. He could mourn later, for now he had to get his mind right and ensure Melcun was safe.
‘Rowden, it- this- whatever I call it, it has never been like this before now,’ Melcun said. ‘The further south we get, the stronger I can feel it becoming. It’s like there is something inside me storing energy or something.’ Melcun let out a short breath through puffed cheeks. ‘Before, I had to pull so much energy from myself just to create a spark, whereas now–‘ He looked at his open hand, which began to pulse with an orange glow. ‘–Now, I can call upon it whenever I want. And by the gods, it scares me.’
Ogulf’s eyes were wide as Melcun’s hand glowed. The area immediately surrounding them got warmer, there was no doubt in Ogulf’s mind that the heat was radiating from Melcun’s palm. Just as a small flame flickered to life, hovered, and morphed into a ball over Melcun’s palm, he quickly closed his hand into a tight fist, causing the glow, the fire, and the heat to disappear.
‘I can feel myself getting stronger, but I’m not even doing anything, Rowden,’ Melcun said, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. ‘I don’t want this. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s a burden. I only meant to protect my friends.’ The tears began to flow as Melcun opened up. ‘Wildar … I didn’t mean for him to die. I tried to save them, both of them. The ones chasing them were so close to them and I didn’t know what else to do, all I could do was ... try.’ He broke down and the rest of his words fell into a whimper as the sobs took hold.
Rowden embraced Melcun and Ogulf let himself slide to the floor, down the trunk of a tree. The uneven bark massaged his back as he lowered himself, causing the kind of pain that relieves tension. He let himself enjoy the sensation for a brief moment.
Melcun’s weeping was loud enough to drown out most of the other sounds. The wind didn’t howl here, it just lightly swept by, soothing the burning of Ogulf’s skin. With the trunk of the tree propping him up, Ogulf let out a deep breath, one he felt like he had been holding in since before he’d first stepped out onto the Widow’s Trail. The South was meant to be where hope was – it was meant to be prosperous – but such things seemed another world away from where he sat. They weren’t even a mile past the Banespit and this was already proving to be a Brait’s quest, which along with a number of other events in the last day, wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when they’d all set off from Keltbran what seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Chapter 10
When Ogulf awoke the following morning, he was still perched against the same tree, only now he was covered by a heavy blanket. There was a cold breeze in the air, but it was not the type that sapped your energy, not the type he was used to, it just felt like a natural morning breeze – one that, on any normal day, would be refreshing to wake to. The crisp fresh air was thick with the scents of the forest. Some rays of sunshine penetrated through the ceiling of the trees. Ogulf let his fingers trail through their beams of light, the warm sensation right next to the cold as the shadow created a line in his palm.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, a slight smile curled onto his face as he felt the type of comfort that had long become a memory to him – waking up and not being cold, sources of warmth that were not just fires, the scents and sounds of life.
He looked around and saw most of his belongings nearby. The only thing he couldn’t see was Wildar’s axe. His untroubled aura was disrupted as he scurried around the tree trunk, ignoring the aches from his battered body as he hunted desperately for the axe.
‘Looking for this?‘ Rowden asked as he extended Wildar’s golden axe towards Ogulf. ‘Thought I would keep it safe for you. Some weapon that is, sharp as the teeth of the demon gods. Wildar would have wanted you to have it.’ Ogulf took the axe from his father. ‘I’ll take my blanket back when you’re finished with it, but I felt you would be in more need of it than me after what you came up against. How are you feeling?’
‘Sore.’ Ogulf tried to stand, his eyes shut tight and his free hand clutching his ribs. ‘Everywhere is sore. How did you get on?’
‘Better than I expected; we only lost five people near the peak,’ Rowden said. ‘The ledge, you know the one I mean, it was bloody terrifying, part of the rock gave way underneath me and I swear by the gods I heard them calling me to the afterlife,’ Rowden said in a precise way without much emotion, except when explaining his own near-death experience.
‘We saw the bodies. We lost some there as well, not sure how many we lost between that ledge and the arrows.’
‘Aye, those who made it back have been sure to tell all who will listen about the arrows. Saying you conducted yourself well,’ Rowden said as he rolled up the blanket Ogulf handed him. ‘I’m glad you’re okay, my lad. I can’t be sure how I would have reacted in that situation, but I don’t think it would have been the way you did.’
‘Wildar–’ Ogulf began, hoping to tell his father what Wildar had said.
‘–Is gone Ogulf,’ Rowden said, cutting him off. ‘We’ve been taught since birth that death is not the end, so treat the passing of these people just like any other, Wildar included. Now is not the time to mourn – we’re not safe yet. There will be plenty of time to sink some ales and drown every sorrow you’ve ever had when we get to Luefmort. I just hope the gods have favoured Runa on her journey. Thankfully, there are no signs to say she didn’t make it this far, and that gives me hope.’
That word again, hope. All people seemed to be doing right now was chasing an aspiration that might as well have been a mirage for all its substance, and Ogulf was sick of it. He wanted something more, something he could feel, something that would satisfy him enough to keep him from this constant yearning.
