Cold From The North, page 9
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
Rowden turned and walked back towards a large portion of the group who had gathered near a large, central firepit about twenty paces away. Between them and Ogulf was the open dirt of the forest, sprawling trees with trunks of different widths all with white flowers sprouted around them, and the slumbering bodies of those people who were still enjoying a sleep without trembling.
Those near him looked broken but not defeated. Most organised their things or ate, but they all had the same sorrow filled expression in their eyes. Others wept openly, cursing the gods for taking their loved ones.
The Keltbran were strong people, but an incident like this could shatter anyone’s resolve. No one would question their heart or bravery after what they had been through and who they had lost, so the people were given their chance to weep without judgement or disturbance.
Around the central firepit, there were several different groups all huddled and talking separately. Prundan stood at the centre of one of the groups. He tucked his chin into his neck and covered his mouth as he spoke to those around him. Ogulf sheathed Wildar’s axe in his belt opposite his own, which hung ready on his left hip. It was too valuable to lie in the Banespit for all eternity, so he decided to give it to Runa; if anyone deserved it, it was her.
As Ogulf made his way closer to what had become the central gathering point, he noticed his father was now perched beside Melcun on a fallen branch, blanket still tucked untidily under his arm. Ogulf watched as his friend’s eyes darted nervously around, lingering a split second longer on Prundan and his inaudible council than they had on anyone else. Ogulf knew Prundan would be speculating about Melcun; he would be rallying people to his way of thinking and most likely pointing out that their own earl didn’t seem to have a problem with the fact they had a sorcerer in their ranks. Ogulf could only hope those listening were sympathetic and smart enough to know that now was not the time for a banishment or a one-sided trial in a forest. As he got closer to Prundan’s group, Ogulf noticed the angry red mark on the side of Prundan’s head where he had punched him. Prundan met Ogulf’s gaze, and he sneered and spat at the floor as Ogulf passed. Ogulf gave a slight, mocking smile and continued towards his father and Melcun on the fallen log.
‘Melcun was just telling me about how Wildar fell,’ Rowden said as Ogulf took a seat across from them. Melcun poked at a small fire smouldering in the ground between them, causing the smell of charred wood to fill the air. ‘Trust that old sod to leave us now, eh?’ the earl said jokingly with a sniff. ‘I reckon he would have made it if it wasn’t for that bastard who grabbed him. Sure, he was slow in his old age, but he was strong as an ox. Melcun said he spoke to you before he fell, what did he say?’
Rowden looked devastated as he continued speaking about Wildar. He sniffed back hard, the snot gargling in his throat. The only time Ogulf had seen his father like this was when his mother had died, and even then, just a moment before now, Rowden had seemed fine when he spoke with Ogulf on his own. The joking comments were a shield to help him protect himself against his real hurt, which Ogulf knew was brewing like a storm inside him. This was a different tactic for Rowden to employ; usually, he had enough to keep his mind occupied, but in the calming quiet of the forest, the death of his chieftain was the only thing that really seemed to matter.
Ogulf looked over at Prundan’s group again. They were still talking in their huddle. He moved closer to Rowden and Melcun and leaned in to create a huddle of his own, and even then, he glanced each way before he began to speak.
‘He said that we had to find a woman named Feda. He said she would need the axe so that she could stop a prophecy and save us all.’
Even saying it out loud made Ogulf feel ridiculous, it made no sense, but then nothing had made sense for the last two years – the cold, the invasion, having to seek refuge in another country, dreams of a mountainous citadel on fire, Wildar dying – so this new development was not any more bizarre than what had already transpired. But it was not clear how this could be achieved. For starters, Ogulf wasn’t sure who Feda was, how she would be able to save them, or how Wildar’s axe could stop a prophecy. And this presented another question which Ogulf found himself pondering as he sat there by the fire: save us from what exactly? He wondered if he had heard Wildar wrong. Perhaps he had said a different name or that she could do something else. He ran through the memory in his mind again and again and every time it was the same. Take the axe to Feda. She can stop the prophecy. She can save us.
Rowden and Melcun exchanged glances, both looking as puzzled as each other and about as confused as Ogulf felt. Ogulf made a point of studying both men’s reactions when he mentioned the name Feda, but neither man gave him even the slightest indication that they recognised it.
‘I don’t know anyone by that name, never heard Wildar speaking of anyone by it either. And what in the name of all gods did he mean about the axe and the prophecy?’ Rowden said, glancing back at his son. Melcun shrugged his shoulders towards Ogulf.
‘I don’t have any idea. Could it be the same thing Yadlin spoke about before we left, the Onyx prophecy?’
‘I don’t know. But we need to find out.’
‘Perhaps Runa will know, she was as close to Wildar as anyone,’ Melcun said, then he looked at the smouldering ashes of the fire, his complexion went pale, and the stick in his hand fell to the ground. ‘Who is going to tell Runa what happened?’
‘Don’t worry, I will tell her,’ Rowden said. ‘And I will explain everything.’ He looked at Melcun. ‘Everything. You need not worry; she will understand that you did what you had to do to protect your friends, and by the gods, Runa herself will say she would have done the same thing.’
Melcun nodded and Ogulf gave his father a slight smile. He wouldn’t wish such a task on anyone, but there was no better candidate for it than Rowden; he had a way with words that helped drain the tension or anger from even the most explosive of situations. Rowden returned the smile but followed it with an index finger pointed first at Ogulf and then at Melcun, and his look turned to a stern one.
‘You both listen to me. What Wildar said is not something that we are going to understand any time soon. Right now, we must focus on the last part of our journey, whether that’s settling near the border or getting to Luefmort. It will do no one any good if we let this play on our minds, so until we get somewhere that we can talk about this and make some sense of it, we shall not discuss it outside the three of us, understood? Especially with how Prundan is handling himself.’
Both younger men nodded in agreement, then an awkward silence lingered between them all until Melcun asked, ‘Couldn’t you just remove Prundan as a captain?’
‘That wouldn’t be wise. Those loyal to him would not be best pleased, and like it or not, they make up a good chunk of our numbers right now, and we cannot afford to splinter more than we already have,’ Rowden said. ‘And for all his faults, you would be hard pressed to find a man who knows the wilds better than him. He’s not quite your ally right now, Melcun, that I understand, but he is closer to a friend than an enemy. You are both Keltbran.’
Rowden had not spoken like this in years. It calmed Ogulf to hear his father’s tone change. He had always known what to say, and he saw sense where others failed to – it was one of the long list of traits that Ogulf felt led his father to founding Keltbran in the first place, and becoming the only leader their people had ever known. That part of him had died when Ogulf’s mother died, but it seemed to be coming back now, right when they needed it most.
‘At last count there are just over five hundred who made it around the Trail. We expected heavy losses on the peak, but the attack has caused the number of dead to soar,’ Rowden said. ‘We need to press ahead as one, and when we get to Luefmort, we can regroup and make decisions about what we do next.’
‘That’s just over half,’ Melcun said, astounded.
‘So, we won’t settle near the South Hold?’ Ogulf asked.
‘No, we make for the Shingal. At least there we might have some form of safety to allow us to regroup properly. If they’ll have us.’
Rowden smiled sympathetically at the two younger men and rose to leave his perch – there was nothing else that needed saying. Ogulf looked around the forest and at the Keltbran scattered across the area. Prundan was nowhere to be seen.
‘Thank you,’ Ogulf said.
‘What?’ Melcun said.
‘Thank you. For saving me.’
‘I killed Wildar in the process, Ogulf,’ Melcun said, confusion contorting his face. ‘You shouldn’t be thanking me.’
‘You saved me, Melcun. Did you expect me not to thank you for that? I know you didn’t mean to harm Wildar. But my father is right, we need to move forward. I need you and you need to be strong,’ Ogulf said. He reached out to touch Melcun’s shoulder. ‘We need to stay strong. Prundan can have his theories, but the truth is, you did what you had to do, and that is all that matters.’ Melcun looked up at Ogulf. ‘Wildar would say the same thing. And if we’re both being honest, I am basically the only friend you have now,’ Ogulf finished, trying to tease Melcun. He stood and put his hand out to help Melcun up from the log. Melcun stood tall with Ogulf’s help and gave him a smirk. ‘Now, let’s get ready to leave. The South Hold isn’t far from here.’
***
Within the hour, the group had organised themselves to leave the forest and make for Luefmort. They were aided by the faint remainder of what appeared to be an old road. It was uneven, sloped to one side, and was full of holes which were as wide and as deep as two large buckets, but it at least gave them a sense of direction. The divots carved into the ground were the kind that would render a cart and its wheels useless within minutes of a journey starting. On either side were the remnants of an old stone wall. The rocks that made up the wall created a collection of various shades of grey which were the only neutral colours in sight amid the canvas of greens, browns, yellows, and occasional blues in the fields around them.
By mid-afternoon they had made it to the South Hold, and upon inspection from the road, they could tell it was abandoned. It had two great towers which rose symmetrically from a bold keep in between. The battlements wrapped around them in a perfect square and looked almost small when compared to the towers and the keep.
‘If it were manned there would be a Broadheim flag flying. Those are the rules. Always have been.’ Cohl, the butcher, said to Ogulf and Melcun as they walked together.
‘Deserters?’ Melcun asked.
‘Or they all died from being cut off. Their job is to protect our southern border. They were under order not to leave the Hold so maybe the hunger got them.’
‘Surely there is enough to live off around here, though. Plenty for hunting,’ Ogulf suggested. He scanned their surroundings; the scenery around them was vibrant. It was a different world to the one he left – it reminded him of how things used to be. ‘Or they could have sought some help from the Shingal?’
‘Aye, that’s true. But I can’t see the protectors of a proud nation seeking help from their neighbour, although … that is exactly what we’re doing,’ Cohl said. Ogulf took this as a jibe at his father, something Cohl would never dare say in Rowden’s presence. ‘Maybe they deserted after all. Either way, it does not fill me with much hope if that bloody horde gets any further south. Nothing now between here and the Shingal to slow them.’
Ogulf knew Cohl was right. If the invading army got any further south, either by the Trail or by the sea, then there was nothing stopping them occupying all of Broadheim. In Ogulf’s opinion, the country was already lost, given that all of the Holds, Jargmire, Tran, and Port Saker had been sacked.
‘Do you think they know there is nothing down here?’ Cohl said. He spun in a circle as he walked, eyeing the sky and the fields as he did so. ‘Well, I hope they feel like fools when they bask in the glory of the empty soil they’ve taken, and I hope the cold back home turns their balls to ice. We’ll get Broadheim back one day, won’t we?’
Ogulf thought it best not to respond, and let the crunch of their steps in the muck and on the stone fill the silence instead.
No effort was made to inspect the South Hold. Instead, Rowden made the decision that the group would press forward to the Shingally border and to Luefmort without stopping for the day – a conclusion which drew ire from Prundan.
Cohl continued to walk with Ogulf and Melcun as they trotted along the potholed path. He was a sturdy young man, his hair was fair and always cropped short, a rare style to behold in Broadheim. His gut was round but solid, and a blonde beard sat on his youthful cheeks. His eyes were always open, like he never blinked. On a scabbard on his back, his sword rocked slightly from side to side, the sheath too wide for the blade. Like always, his parrying knife was in a leather-wrapped sheath on his hip. It was his prized possession.
Ogulf enjoyed the silence among the trees as they walked. He had nothing to say, and the walk was pleasant enough to keep his senses occupied and divert his attention from the throbbing intrusion of all of the questions he sought the answers to. Answers cannot be rushed, he told himself, remembering one of Yadlin’s prized sayings.
The sun was not taunting him on this side of the Trail; now, even as it began to lower, it still kept the air warm and the skies bright. Ogulf felt that, with each step away from the Widow’s Trail, the spirits in the group were lifted, and people even smiled as they walked, letting their eyes wander across the endless fields of life around them. Eventually Cohl broke the silence with a chuckle.
‘So, Melcun, a fireball?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ Melcun said.
Ogulf wanted to interject and warn the butcher off, but before he could, Cohl spoke again.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. These old sods might be fearful, but this could be helpful,’ Cohl said.
‘This could get me killed, Cohl,’ Melcun said.
‘Maybe. But not if you’re willing to use it to protect yourself,’ Cohl said, tapping his temple, his eyes wide and mischievous.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Melcun asked.
‘Well, if you’re too thick to understand, Melcun, what I mean is, if we are attacked again, you can use your powers to protect us. Even with the great military mind of Ogulf here, there is no doubt such an ability could be advantageous.’ The butcher cleared his throat. ‘I see your swords, spears, and bows, oh villainous challengers, and I shall raise ye one fireball!’ Cohl said this in a ridiculous accent, and Ogulf’s ribs ached as he laughed. ‘No more problems. Only fear. The good kind of fear at that, the fear that makes you untouchable.’
Melcun opened up his strides and walked faster away from Ogulf and Cohl.
‘I think he’s still a bit down about what happened at the bridge yesterday,’ Ogulf said.
‘Makes sense, poor lad. I was only trying to cheer him up some. I wasn’t joking around for most of what I said, though; powers like that at a time like this, they could make all the difference.’
Ogulf nodded. The butcher had a point.
The part of the road they found themselves on now was closely wrapped on either side by high, overgrown hedges, the leaves and branches of which poked out from the main body of the hedge in an uneven sprawl of joints that caused the growths to bend and twist under their weight. Ogulf was staring at their haunting shapes; the way the branches turned and bent reminded him of the broken bodies on the mountainside. Just as the visions of the dead began to push through, Ogulf heard something coming from the road ahead. The unmistakable sound of a rider on horseback coming closer at speed, the thumping of hooves against dry dirt, was a noise Ogulf would recognise quicker than even the most popular of tavern songs. From his position he knew that, if he heard it, those nearer the front of the group would have heard it also – especially Prundan.
He looked up to see those in front of him scattering into the heavy bushes and the clearing to conceal themselves. Ogulf and those around him followed suit and he landed with a thud in the dry dirt, just about managing to pull himself into a shaded part of the brush. The sounds of riders on horseback speeding towards them from the other direction on the road grew louder; they were heading straight at the group from Keltbran. Ogulf had heard of the bandits who supposedly roamed here, and he felt his heart begin to pulse in the familiar way it always did before a fight as his hand edged towards his axe.
Chapter 11
There were three riders all donned in heavy armour. At first, Ogulf was alarmed when he saw the cut of the thick, steel plate coverings, but when he saw the emblem emblazoned on their chests, the tightness in his chest calmed slightly. The emblem was one of the most well known in all the world: a hawk with wings outspread, reaching from one shoulder to the other, clutching a crown in its sharp, bronze talons. These were not bandits or enemies; they were knights of the Shingally Empire.
‘Rowden Harlsbane,’ the front rider called out. Ogulf suddenly felt cold at the unexpected mention of his father’s name. ‘We mean you no harm. We have been sent to escort you to Luefmort.’
No one moved from the brush. It didn’t appear that the riders had spotted any of their hiding places at the side of the road. The rider knew they had been there seconds ago, that much was clear given the way he studied the plumes of dust left in the wake of their movement, but he couldn’t actually lay eyes on any of them. It showed, at least, that the Keltbran could still do things the old way if they had to. Hiding in plain sight was something his people were good at, ingrained through years of practice and tutelage from Wildar, Prundan, and Rowden. Ogulf remembered one of Wildar’s rules to live by, one that helped him on more than one occasion during the Summer of Rebellion. Wildar would say, they can’t fight what they can’t see. Those were words all of the Keltbran lived by.
